Like sand in an hourglass ...

A New Year, A Year New

2012-01-12T00:23:00.000-08:00

I am a big fan of New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. I find those to be very optimistic and hopeful days, a time to reflect on what you've accomplished and what you've learned, and a chance to set new goals for your life. For the past few years I have been working on setting specific goals and taking intentional action to make my goals become my reality. It's a struggle because I'm changing a lifetime of habits, but I can tell you, it's real and it works.

This year, 2012, I declare to "take care of me." It sounds so silly, but seriously, it's not silly at all. I'm a single working-outside-the-home mom who has put her children first, most of the time, for the past nine years. As a result, I am tired, overweight, uninspired and unmotivated. Prior to my "divorced" status, those adjectives would not have been used to describe me; I was motivated, productive, creative, and alive. These days, those "negative" judge-y words are the first words that come to my mind.  Don't get me wrong: I have always been one of those people who believes, sincerely, that when you choose to have children, you choose to set aside your own personal desires in favor of the wants and needs of your children ... for a very long time. I still feel that way, and I have no regrets and no resentment that I chose to try to live by that belief. But here's the thing ... at some point, there is room in one's day to practice some self care. My children are in first and fourth grade. They are not babies and they do not need me to do everything for them. In fact, I would be doing them a disservice if I continued to do everything for them. They need to learn to care for themselves in a basic way ... make some simple meals, take care of personal hygiene, get their school work done, etc. Believe me, they will continue to allow me to do everything if I take the bait ... but I'm trying to raise good citizens.

Here's my problem: I took the put-the-kids-first idea too far.  I didn't just put them first, I completely ignored my self. I stopped considering how I look or feel or what I want for myself. Before I knew it, nine years went by. So this year, with the help of my coach, I have declared that I will "take care of me." So what does that mean and how am I going to do this? Let me 'splain.

I am tired, so one of the first things I have done is to make sleep, rest and relaxation a priority. I have pledged to get 7 hours of sleep each night. It sounds simple, but since I have not had "regular" 7 hour stretches of sleep in about ten years, it's significant. I turn off the TV at 11:00 and sleep until 6:00. During the week. On school/work nights. It's a start.

I am overweight. Seriously overweight. I have re-pledged my commitment to Weight Watchers - a fabulous program if you follow it - and I am walking on my lunch hour. I'm fortunate that so far my weight has not created other health issues, but that is only temporary, I'm sure. So, this is the year where I will lose the weight I have slowly and gradually gained over the past 15 years. I may not lose it all, but I will lose at least half of it. I pledge.

I have stopped caring about my appearance. I use "I'm too tired" or 'I don't have time" as my excuses, but the truth is, I got lazy.  So in 2012 I am going to rediscover a great haircut, makeup, good skin care habits, and clothes that accentuate the positive and eliminate (to the extent possible) the negative. By the summer I will be back in the habit of "getting ready" before I leave the house, as opposed to my I'm-clean-and-my-clothes-are-clean-so-what-more-do-you-want attitude. I pledge.

My home environment is disheveled and disorganized. I've never been a neat freak, but I usually kept a pretty clean house. Not so for the past few years. I have developed a very strong aversion to cleaning. My house is not rat- or bug-infested by any stretch of the imagination, and we are not candidates for Hoarders: Buried Alive, BUT my house is regularly a mess and regularly in a state of disarray. I've had enough, so it's time to clear out and clean out.

It's a year of "new" for me ... new attitude, new appearance, new environment. What about you?? What does this year hold in store for you?

A Picture (Ornament) Says A Thousand Words

2011-12-24T17:15:00.000-08:00

When Sweetie was an infant at his first Christmas, I did what many parents do and had professional holiday pictures taken of him. He couldn't even sit up yet, so I had the laying-down-on-the-fuzzy [blanket/rug/bean bag] photo done with him in his white turtleneck and red Christmas tartan overalls snuggling with a teddy bear in a big red bow. It was challenging to get a decent picture; he was really sleepy and I really wanted one of him awake. It took a few tries ... I would give him his pacifier to settle him down, and the sucking would make him drowsy, then I would reach over to take the pacifier out and get out of the frame quickly, while the photographer snapped furiously before the squawking began. Ultimately we got a cute picture ... but he definitely looks sleepy. Every time I look at that picture I remember that day and smile.

Also like many parents, especially with my first child, I bought a gazillion prints in all sizes. Seriously, my child is the most beautiful child in the world and everyone else loves him as much as I do, right? Of COURSE they want their very own 8 x 10 for the wall, 5 x 7 for the desk, and a wallet to show off to friends.  The Ex and I combined have a small family, so I always had way too many pictures left over. While trying to come up with ideas of what to do with some of the extras, I decided to put one in an empty picture frame ornament someone had given me. I didn't know it at the time, but a new tradition started that very day.

When I unpacked my ornaments the next year, I looked at that picture ornament of my 3-month old son and smiled. "Awwww, look how cute and little he was. I remember that day."  And then I looked at my then-15 month old son who was "helping" me decorate by shoving tissue paper in his mouth, emptying boxes of decorations, and tugging on strands of lights. I was amazed at how different he looked. I thought it would be fun to make a picture ornament of him at 15 months, and then compare those first two years with what he would look like at 27 months the following year. So I did, and I've done it every year.

When Stinker was born, things changed a little. I was much busier when the second one came along ... I was chasing a 2 year old, working full-time, and when Christmas rolled around, I was going through a divorce. I didn't have as many professional pictures taken of Stinker when he was a baby because of the craziness that was my life, and I certainly didn't buy as many, but I was determined to keep the tradition going.  As I scoured the few pictures that I had (in comparison to Sweetie's pictures at his first Christmas), I was challenged to find one that was appropriate for an ornament. I simply didn't have as many to choose from; I didn't take as many, and by then everything had gone digital so I didn't have paper photos laying around.  Most shots were in close up. When I was looking through my cache of "leftover" professional photos for a cute picture of Stinker, I stumbled across a wallet-sized picture of both boys at Sweetie's third birthday. They were both wearing Hawaiin shirts and denim shorts and they looked so cute, so I decided to put that one in a frame ornament, too.  A new tradition was born.

Now, every year, I add 3 new ornaments to my collection: one of Sweetie, one of Stinker, and one of the two of them together. I have pictures of them at a character breakfast at Disneyland, in Halloween costumes, and in professional portrait poses. I have school pictures, soccer pictures, and candid photos. As I type this, I have 21 ornament frames (not counting the ones they have made for me over the years) hanging on my tree. And the candidates for this year's new ornaments have been selected ...

On this eve of Christmas, it warms my heart to sit in the quiet, look at my tree, and enjoy all of those smiling pictures of my children looking back at me. Peace on Earth. God bless us every one.

Pretend Polygamy Can Lead To Pretend Divorce

2011-12-05T23:30:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I posted about the benefits of pretend polygamy. Basically, it's the idea that you could have multiple spouses that serve multiple purposes and you don't have any of the real-life moral, legal or emotional problems. It would be ideal. You can read my original post on pretend polygamy here.

Unfortunately, even fantasies can be flawed and can disappoint. One of my pretend husbands was Ashton Kutcher. I pretend married him for a variety of reasons, one of which was that he was my "fun" spouse. As it turns out, Ashton committed the one cardinal sin of pretend husbands: he demonstrated he is human and destroyed my the fantasy. It's time for a pretend divorce.

Having a hole in my pretend repertoire of relationships got me thinking. Who should take his place? I wanted someone about the same age (because all of my other pretend husbands are around my age - I need some younger blood!), and a hot body is kind of a prerequisite if we're talking about fantasy. Duh - Ryan Reynolds. So I have decided to replace the disappointing Ashton with the smokin' hot Ryan:

Ryan, sweet Ryan, will you please, with cherries on top, marry me?

I, Wendy, take you Ryan Reynolds, to be my pretend husband,
To have and to hold from this day forward, in my fantasies,
Only for better, never for worse, for richer and poorer,
In sickness and in health, to love and support by seeing all of your movies,
Until my disinterest do we part.

Ryan will play the role of my boy toy to do with as I please. He will love and honor me, for as long as I want. 'Nuff said.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year?

2011-12-04T19:07:00.000-08:00

Do you remember that Andy Williams song? I can't remember what it's called, but it's on one of the Christmas albums, probably from the 70s. My mother used to play the Andy Williams albums while she was decorating the house for Christmas, and we used to watch all of the Christmas specials. I think he's got a regular show in Branson. I should try to go see him before he dies. Anyway, this phrase is on my mind for a number of reasons, mostly because Christmas carols are playing all around me, and that inevitably triggers my Andy Williams Christmas memories. And this song always pops into my head. But truthfully, this ISN'T the most wonderful time of the year for me. At least not any more.

My kids are still little, so I still get to you enjoy the marvel and magic of the season through my children's eyes, and for that I am grateful. It definitely makes me warm and fuzzy, and I can physically feel my heart warm up. But this is a hard time of year for me when I am away from my children and alone with my thoughts. The Ex and I split six years ago now, and I've recovered from just about everything ... except the holidays. I don't decorate the house like I used to because I am just too tired to do it all myself, especially working full-time and having the children at least 80% of the time. It's a lot of work! I went from real trees to an artificial tree because it is too hard for me to go get a real tree, get it home and put it up ... by myself. We haven't had lights on the outside of our house in six years. I don't bake like I used to because there is no one around to eat it.  I still decorate, just not as much. I still put up a tree. I still bake and decorate cookies.  I've done my best ... I even go so far as to invite him and his son from his first marriage to my home on Christmas morning to watch the children open their presents from Santa. He accepts my invitation each year... except the one year he had a live-in girlfriend and I told him she was not invited.

It's during this time of year that my residual anger about my divorce resurfaces. I blame the Ex that our children do not have the kinds of Christmases I had as a kid. I blame the Ex that we don't have a bunch of "family" celebrations and parties. I blame the Ex that I don't look forward to Christmas morning anymore.  I blame the Ex that I am left alone on Christmas Day. Though I have my children on Christmas morning - something most divorced parents do not have on alternating years - I don't get to relax and enjoy it. Instead, I have to be ready to receive as a guest the one person who makes me the most uncomfortable and the two people who hold my kids' interest more than I do. I have to sit and watch as my children forget that I am there because they are so thrilled to see their daddy and their big brother. I barely have time to help get their toys out of the twist ties and screws before they are getting dressed and heading off with daddy to his family's celebration, and they don't even say goodbye. And then I am left all alone with a mess and my thoughts.

This year I've decided to take back my Christmas morning. I expressly told him he is not invited to come over for Santa presents.  He didn't question it because he thinks he knows why I've done it. He doesn't. I want to lounge around in my pajamas, drinking coffee and watching my kids open their presents. I want to have a pleasant breakfast. I want to have them show me how everything works. In short, I want to feel INCLUDED in Christmas morning. Is it selfish? Probably. But I've been a Christmas martyr for six years now. He stooped to having the kids ask me if he could come over so I was truthful with them. I told them I feel left out when daddy is there because they forget about me and it makes me sad. Sweetie asked me if am "jealous" of daddy. I don't think "jealous" is the right word, but maybe it is. But I told him I AM jealous because I love them so much and I want to have fun with them on Christmas morning. The Ex will come and take them at 11:00 as he does every year. They will spend the day with their daddy, their brother, their grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins as they do every year. He will keep them for however many days he wants to keep them after Christmas, as he does every year. They will be with him when the new year starts, as they are every year.

I'm determined to get my "most wonderful time of the year" back!

Camping - and Caving? - or Bust!

2011-10-16T20:33:00.000-07:00

I am a big believer that every kid should go camping, and they should go as often as a family can manage. I have two little boys, and I think it doubly important that they learn how to pitch a tent, start a campfire, make do with minimal tools, and prepare their own food. The bonus is the lessons learned about the environment and leaving no footprint when you leave.

The Ex wasn't, and isn't, a big camper. So that leaves it up to me. I like to camp, but I don't love it, and as I age, I like it less and less. However, we camped a lot as a kid so I've acquired pretty good skills that I can pass on to my boys. As a single woman, I have to be careful where I go, and I have to do most of the work because the kids are so young still, but I do it ... at least once a year.

This year we were supposed to go camping over Labor Day weekend. I picked a place not too far from home, near my in-laws, so that I would feel secure if anything went wrong. That trip got cancelled because of Sweetie's unexpected ER/hospital adventure, so we rescheduled for this past weekend. I picked a different place, further south, for fear that the nights would be too cold. I had never heard of it before, but it was near a small town I've heard of and near some caverns and state parks. What could go wrong, right? Read on.

First, on the way down on Friday night, after about an hour, I realized that the only shoes I packed were the flip flops on my feet. Not good. Then, as we were out in the middle of nowhere working our way toward the isolated small town near the campground, Sweetie had a bathroom emergency. We're talking one of those "I have to go right NOW!" emergencies. And we were literally in the middle of nowhere ... no gas stations, no small markets, no nothing. And it was number 2, so it wasn't like I could just pull over and let him pee on the side of the road. So we finally reached an intersection where two highways met, and I saw a veterinary clinic. It was a long shot, given it was 6:00 on a Friday night, but I had to try. No one there. But there was a house in the back, so I ran back and knocked. A frail old woman opened the door, and I'm sure she thought I was some kind of crazy as I stood there saying, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I know this is a strange request, but I have a 9-year-old boy who REALLY needs a toilet. Can he use yours?" She stood there a minute, feeling (understandably) nervous about all of this, so I said, "Look, you don't know me, and I'm sure it's very odd to have some strange woman knock on your door, so if you're not comfortable, we'll just be on our way." She said, "What do you have in your hand?" I looked down and I was holding my keys, covered in a closed fist. Strike one against me. I dangled them and just smiled awkwardly and said, "Old habit. I never leave my keys in the car if my kids are in there." She stood there looking at me for a few more seconds, and I could tell she was weighing her options in her head. She wanted to be nice, but damn, you just can't trust people these days. Finally she said, "where is he?" and I explained he was in the car down the driveway just out of her sight, and I would run and drive the car up so she could see him. She said, "that's okay, just let him come in." So I waved to Sweetie, who jumped out of the car and ran as fast as his legs would take him, yelling "thank you so much" as she pointed him down the hall to the bathroom. I stayed outside with Stinker, just chit-chatting, and I could see her visibly relax when she realized we really were just there to use the toilet. Finally Sweetie emerged, put his hands in the prayer position, bowed to her and said, "I can't thank you enough." After a few more profuse thank yous and sorry-to-bother-yous, we were on our way.

We finally got to the campsite and it was really eerie, especially since it was now dark. There was hardly anyone there, at least as far as we could tell. I forgot my reserved site number, and there was no ranger at the gate and no list posted. I sort of remembered the campground map in my head so we decided to drive around and see if I could figure it out, hoping maybe a number would jump out at me once I saw it in relation to other landmarks on the map. We saw a deer, and a dead rattlesnake in the road, and two young guys walking along the road, but that was it. As I drove around, I did not see a single tent, but saw motorhomes, pop-up trailers and boats. And a camp host, who frankly looked like a meth addict (at least from a distance). I was not comfortable, so I told the boys we would stay in a motel, and come back the next day to get everything sorted out.

We drove to the little town (Angels Camp, CA) and stopped at the first little motel we could see. She had a room available ... yay for us! The phone was an old-fashioned push button phone ... not even a Slimline from the 1980s! The ceilings had popcorn on them and a "country kitchen" themed wallpaper border around the whole room. The carpet was so stained I told the boys to keep their socks on and to walk as little as possible. They were happy to comply so long as they could jump on the beds (an indulgence I only allow when we are on vacation and on the ground floor). Unfortunately, the guy in the room next door looked like an unsub character on Criminal Minds. So we brought in our suitcase and an ice chest, had some food, watched a little TV, and went to bed.

The next morning we went first to the local Rite Aid to find me some closed-toe shoes. $4 faux keds. Not the most impressive shoe, but better than a flip flop for protection. Then we went to the campground and spoke with the ranger. He had my reservation and sent me to my site, warning me about "all of the rattlesnakes and tarantulas" around because the water level of the reservoir had been so high they had sought refuge at higher ground. WHAT?? Then I saw another deer ... and a hawk floating over the reservoir ...

In the daylight the campground looked a lot less ominous. It was clean, and there were more people there than we thought. Our site was definitely not suited for us ... it was too close to the water, had steep hills, and really didn't have a spot for a tent. We drove around and found some other sites, and then went back to the ranger to change our reservation. Then we went back to the motel to get the rest of our things and check out. We were finally settled with camp set up at about 1:30 on Saturday afternoon. There wasn't a ton for the kids to do (we aren't really water people, and there didn't appear to be a swimming/wading location anyway) so before I know it they were complaining about being hot. Seriously? So we hopped back in the truck, drove the 12 miles to a different small town (Murphys, CA), and played at a park - in the creek - for a couple of hours. Back at the campsite, they played, they rode their scooters, we had dinner, we roasted marshamallows, and then went to bed. It was early, so we played an animal game I created, and finally we all nodded off.

And then the wind began to blow. And blow. And blow. It woke me at 2:30 because the tent was flapping and the trees were rustling. Then Sweetie awoke with a start, and was scared. I finally got him settled, and then Stinker woke up, too. Two hours later, the boys were back to sleep, the wind had settled, and I was finally able to go back to sleep.

We woke to clouds and a breeze. The campsite was in pretty good shape, considering the fierce winds the night before. It was early, and we appeared to be the only ones up. Have you ever tried to keep little boys quiet when they are out in the wilderness with sticks to joust with, bugs to kill, trucks to push, scooters to ride, and imaginary wars to wage? Impossible. I built a fire, but it was so windy that I burned through my firewood really quickly without any real benefit from the heat. A waste of energy and wood, basically.

So by about 10:30 we were packed up and ready to go. We were near Moaning Cavern Park, which is someplace I have always wanted to go. It's a natural cave that you can descend on a guided tour, though at the time I had no idea how deep. Once we were there I found out it is 234 stairs to a depth of 165 feet. The cavern goes down to 410 feet but they don't take tours down there ... seeing as how there is no oxygen and stuff! Sweetie and Stinker are chickens, afraid of their own shadows half the time, so I bribed them: Do this tour with me, and make it all the way through without major drama, and I will buy you these ridiculously overpriced toy miner's helmets with halogen lights. Deal! Or so I thought.

The first 100 feet is down a very steep set of stairs. It's lit, and there are handrails throughout, but the stairs are narrow and they are definitely steep. We got to the bottom - to the platform - and they lost their marbles. We were supposed to descend another 65 feet down a spiral staircase but they wanted nothing to do with it. They were crying - literally - and Sweetie was adamant that he was NOT going any further and if we did, he was NOT going to wait for us. He was going back up and that was all there was to it. No amount of coaxing could convince them, and they happily gave up their potential miner's helmets if I would just take them back up. So up we went ... and I never got to hear the cavern moan. I also never got to see it in all its glory ... the chamber that we were descending is the largest natural cave on the west coast, and it is so large the Statue of Liberty could fit inside it. And I didn't get to see it from the bottom up. I. Was. So. Mad. And the boys did NOT get their stupid miner's helmets (despite their begging and pleading "but we tried." Stupid everyone-gets-a-trophy-just-for-participating world!) I did buy little miner's helmet keychains as incentive to get them to try again. (I know, I'm such a softie!)

After I sat and sulked for a little while (and they played in a water sluice for pretend gold panning), and had a cold drink, I decided that we were going to go in a cave that day if it killed me. I don't know why I got so obsessed, but I did. After speaking with some other folks who seemed to be "in the know," I decided we would go to Mercer Cavern, which is in Murphys. After we drove the narrow, beaten road to the cavern, I discovered we were given bad information ... Mercer is WORSE than Moaning. The descent is 420 stairs, nearly straight down. Um, no. We had a picnic lunch on the grounds and got back in the car. Much to the boys' chagrin, more caverns awaited us if we just took the long road home, and I was bound and determined to do just that!

We drove about an hour to California Cavern. Everyone swore this one was great ... basically flat, well lit, not scary at all. We walked into the gift store and gosh darn it if those miner's hats weren't there, tempting my children again. I spoke with the guide, who assured me that the boys would love it. They just had a third grade class through there last week, after all. With the same bribe in place, and the kind words of an old miner-looking guy, we decided we would try again.

I'm happy to report that California Cavern is a really GREAT thing to do with kids. It's a guided tour, and the trail follows the natural contours of the cave. It averages about 61 degrees inside, so we had on long pants and long sleeves, along with the mandatory hard hat. We did some ducking, and some squeezing through narrow passageways, but we never ascended or descended more than about ten steps. We learned about the discovery of the cavern (and later a secret chamber hidden for twenty years!), how the miners used it (dancing! church services! council meetings!), how they lit their way (an ingenious early version of a flashlight), how the stalgmites and stalagtites form (and I can now tell you the difference between the two), and the boys did not even realize that the tour took an hour and twenty minutes! They loved it. Sweetie has decided that he wants to go in more caverns, so long as he doesn't have to go DOWN until he's a lot older.

They now have their miner's hats. There's another "flat" cavern we intend to visit. And I am going to find some adult companion to go spelunking with me at Moaning and Mercer one of these days. And when I go back to Moaning and Mercer, I will NOT go camping first.

What Is It With Me and Pumpkins?

2011-10-13T15:54:00.000-07:00

I like pumpkins. I know I mentioned that I like foods made with pumpkin, no surprise there, and frankly, a love of pumpkin flavored-goodies is fairly common. I mean the orange gourds themselves. I find them fascinating. There are hundreds of different types of pumpkins, and every one is as fascinating as the rest. Where I live, we have an annual Giant Pumpkin Festival, where growers from all over the state come and have their big boys weighed. This year's winner broke a State record ... 1,675 pounds (or something like that). That's HUGE! The same guy entered another pumpkin in a different contest a couple of weeks later ... and broke his own record with a 1,704 behemoth. Read an article about the big winner here. I find it interesting how he grows them, and all of the love and care he has to give them to get them to grow so big. And read to the end to see how much prize money he's won this year. Not too shabby for a hobby.

As for me, I cannot explain why I like pumpkins. I just do. Maybe it stems from Cinderella and her pumpkin carriage ...

So THAT'S What Harvest Means?

2011-10-12T14:49:00.000-07:00

Fall is my favorite time of year. I love the browns and greens and yellows and oranges that scream from the trees. I love that the days are still gorgeous and sunny but the nights and mornings are cool. I love all things pumpkin ... pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, pumpkin cookies. I troll social and recreation websites looking for harvest festivals and pumpkin farms. I love that farms all over the place are bursting with fresh produce, and I can get some wonderful ears of corn. When I stop to take a breath on a fall day, I find myself putting my face up towards the sun, closing my eyes, putting my head back and sighing a big, fat, happy sigh. We've been to two harvest festivals and have purchased pumpkins from a farm already. Fall makes me want to clean out my garage and my closets. I want to organize my house and cook hearty meals for my children. I want my house to smell like grapes and cinnamon and pumpkin. [[I won't even mention my Halloween glee ... that's for another time.]]

I've been thinking about fall and the harvest. Why is it that I feel at my best in the fall, when most of the rest of the world feels their best in the spring? Feeling great in spring makes sense to me ... everything is coming alive after sleeping all winter, baby animals are born, flowers bloom. Fall is the opposite ... plants are dying and trees are going dormant, animals are getting ready for hibernation, people are gathering supplies for the long cold winter. I looked up "harvest" in my Synonym Finder. As a noun, harvest means the crop, the product, the yield, the output. Clearly, I love "harvest" if I get all excited about pumpkins and corn. As a verb, "harvest" means to reap, to gather, to collect, to acquire, to secure. I like to do those things, too ... but it seems like I do the exact opposite in the fall; I clean things out and throw things away. And then I thought, maybe I like to clean and organize because I'm getting ready for the reaping, gathering, collecting, acquiring, and securing. So then I wondered ... what is it that I, a suburban working single mother, expect to reap, gather, collect, acquire or secure in the coming months? Duh. ALL THE STUFF I LOVE! Time with my kids, as it gets dark early, too cold to play outside, and sports and activities take a break. Candy at Halloween. Food at Thanksgiving. Gifts at Christmas. A fresh start at New Year's Day.

Harvest has a new meaning for me, Synonym Finder be damned. For me, harvest is the beginning of a time of gluttony for me!! It's the hap-, happiest time of the year ...

Don't Try It Topless

2011-09-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

Today's post is just a short little ditty from my crazy life ...

The boys were at their dad's house and I was home alone. It was a Saturday night, and I had a wild hair to clean, sort, organize, etc. As I cleared the debris that accumulates by living a busy life, I found myself going in and out of the garage. What to do with this stack of magazines? Oh, I'll put them in the recycling bin in the garage. You get the picture ... out, in, out, in. Until that one time ... when the door locked behind me. Yep, I locked myself out of my house. What's the big deal, you say? People lock themselves out all the time. That's right, but because my life is my crazy life, that "normal" thing couldn't happen to me. Let me 'splain ...

While I was in this cleaning/sorting/organizing frenzy, I got hot. Really hot. So I took off my shirt and was working in my jogging bra and a pair of shorts. I was home alone, my garage was closed, what's the big deal, right? Well, when I went into the garage and the door locked behind me, I didn't have a shirt on. Yep, I locked myself out of my house ... without a shirt on.

I couldn't figure out what to do. No phone, no keys ... no shirt! I pondered and pondered and pondered ... what to do? Just as I was about to suck it up, open the garage, and knock on doors with no shirt on (gasp!), I saw a basket where I keep clothes that need to go to the drycleaner, the tailor, etc. I had just gone to the drycleaner so it was mostly empty, but there at the bottom, all by itself, was a brown velvet "fancy" shirt that had a big hole in the side. I put it on, opened the garage, and headed out onto the street to go borrow someone's phone.

Huh. That's weird. Did you know that people don't answer their doors at night? I knocked on three neighbors' doors before I got one to come to the door and ask "who is it?" This was a neighbor I didn't really know, so I had to introduce myself, explain my dilemma, and ask to use his phone. Thank God I had given my mother a spare house key, and thank God she lives so close. I woke her, rousted her out of bed, and begged her to come and bring me her spare key, which she did. That night my neighbor and my mother were heroes.

Moral of the story: No matter the situation, do not step outside your house without your top on.

Ten Years Later ...

2011-09-11T23:01:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe it's been ten years since That Horrible Day. It was one of those defining moments ... for individuals, for families, for communities, for companies, and for our nation. Every one who was old enough to remember it, remembers exactly where they were, exactly what they were doing, and exactly what they felt. I feel so blessed that I did not know anyone who perished on That Horrible Day, but I cannot hear the stories of the survivors and the surviving families without feeling all of that emotion.

My "where were you" story is not very exciting. I woke up around 6:30 a.m. PST like I did every day. I turned on the morning news like I did every day. I got up to go to the bathroom like I did every day. I got in the shower like I did every day. When I dried off and then walked into my bedroom to select my clothes for the day, I heard the commentator say one of the towers of the World Trade Center was on fire. I looked up at the television, and I could see the smoke pouring out of the building. I remember thinking that it must have been a bomb because it looked like an entire corner had been blown up. And then I heard them say that a plane had crashed into the building. I wondered what happened ... did the pilot have a heart attack? did the plane have mechanical problems? what on earth was a plane doing so close to the skyscrapers in New York? I had no idea, as I stood there watching the billowing smoke, of the horror the news reporters were about to explain.

I started to go about my business, when I heard one of the commentators say officials were reporting that someone had intentionally crashed into the building. What? Why would someone do that? I stopped to listen more. As I heard them giving minute by minute updates, it happened. The second plane appeared from behind the buildings, banked a turn, and then crashed into the other tower. I could not believe my eyes. I cried out "Oh my God." I stood there with my mouth hanging open, riveted to the TV. I can't remember if I called anyone. I can't remember if my husband was there. It was like everything around me turned fuzzy and my entire focus was on that TV. I could not pull myself away. Eventually I did, and I went to work.

By the time I got to the office, more information had been revealed. A plane crashed into the Pentagon. A plane crashed in Pennsylvania. Terrorists. I remember everyone talking about how many other planes there might be. I live in Sacramento ... was San Francisco a target? What about Los Angeles? Were we in danger? Were we going to be hearing about plane crashes all day? Who would do this? I was standing in my supervisor's office when a coworker came in and said the towers had collapsed. "Imploded" was the word she used. She was late to work because her brother was an airline pilot who flew the same route as Flight 93 and she had waited until she heard whether he was the pilot or not. We left my supervisor's office and wandered over to her desk. We sat, and we cried small, subtle tears, and she shared how relieved she was that her brother was not the pilot. I went back to my office, shut my door, put the "do not disturb" on my phone, and turned on a radio. I sobbed. I don't remember anything else about the day. Literally, I do not remember anything else.

That Christmas it seemed like everyone talked about That Horrible Day in their holiday greetings. People were still missing. People were still mourning. Everyone was afraid. I remember reading a poignant letter from a childhood friend who described how she and her then 4-year old son spent much of That Horrible Day re-gluing broken pieces onto a cherished treasure box, and she felt like that was what we were going to have to do as a nation ... and though we could pick up the pieces of what was once cherished, and glue it back together, what we rebuilt would never be the same as the original.  I think everyone knew that we as a nation would never be the same and that the canvas of the world was forever altered.

That New Year's Eve I learned I was pregnant with Sweetie. His original due date was September 11, 2002. I agonized over whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, I liked the idea of a new life, a new beginning, and a happy occasion occurring to soften the pain we would all feel when we reached the first anniversary of That Horrible Day. On the other hand, I did not like the idea of my child's birthday always being overshadowed by what we all knew would be yearly memorials, tributes, and relived memories of That Horrible Day. (BTW - Sweetie wasn't born on September 11.)

I have been so disheartened by the delay in getting the people who did this. It seemed like all of our intelligence information led to dead ends, while Osama bin Laden smugly released videos, continued to make threats, continued to recruit and train, and was allowed to go on with his life when almost 3,000 innocent Americans had their lives taken away without justification, and thousands of families were forever changes. And in the meantime, we have had our rights limited in the name of national security; the government can invade our privacy, confiscate our property, monitor our spending, seach our bodies ... one of the things that makes this country so great - freedom - was hurt because of That Horrible Day. And because of That Horrible Day, my children were born in a time of war, and have not taken a single breath during peace time.   I pray every day that they will know a time of peace.

Much like That Horrible Day, the day we learned that Osama bin Laden had finally been captured and killed started like any other day. That evening I had the news on as I was making dinner for my children, just as I do almost every day. I heard the alert of a special news report and looked up from the stove. The anchor announced Special Forces had successfully completed a covert mission and Osama bin Laden was dead.  I confess that, even though I know it was not the appropriate spiritual reaction to have, I cried tears of joy. I stood in my living room, and much like That Horrible Day, I sobbed. Sweetie asked me why I was crying, and I took that opportunity to tell my children - for the first time - about That Horrible Day. They had a lot of questions I could not answer: why don't other countries like us? why would someone want to hurt us? how could someone be so evil?

I have been dreading today since last weekend. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I would not be able to contain the horrible feelings. I knew I would have to try to explain things to my children, even though I don't understand them myself. I awoke before dawn and turned on the TV. I watched the ceremonies live on the east coast. I wept when the Navy Sea Chanters sang Amazing Grace. I wept again when the boys' choir sang America the Beautiful. I wept as family members shared their stories. I wept and wept and wept.

As I write this and send it off to the cyber universe, I am emotionally spent. But I am so grateful for the blessings in my life. I reaffirmed my decision to live my life to the fullest every day, to love my children with all of my heart every day, and to be certain I tell the people in my life that I love them.

We will never forget.

Musings from the Emergency Room

2011-09-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

I have had the misfortune of visiting three different emergency rooms in the past five years, two with my mother and one with my son. (See my post from yesterday for my son's story.) Because I have not been the patient, I have had the time to people watch and observe. Below are some of my observations and thoughts about emergency rooms. Here is a long list for the suggestion box of emergency rooms everywhere.

1. When your hospital is surrounded by one-way streets, and there is so much construction going on that one can't FIND the emergency room, it isn't really designed for "emergency" treatment, is it?

2. If you do not want me to park in a 15 minute spot for more than 15 minutes, make sure there is plenty of parking near the entrance to the emergency room. When my kid is sick and the only parking within 100 yards of the door is 15 minutes, I'm parking there. Your choices are to provide more parking, or get my kid processed in 15 minutes. You make the call.

3. There is nothing like instilling confidence in the care about to be received like uniformed police officers, with weapons, at the entrance to the emergency room, in the lobby, and in the waiting room.

4. I realize y'all are open 24/7, but would it kill you to sweep and mop the floors and maybe wipe the chairs down? Sick people have been here, and more sick people are coming in ... you're supposed to help people get better, not expose them to additional germs and disease.

5. When the sign says no cell phone use because it interferes with medical equipment, I'm pretty sure that means you should have said something to the woman having a screaming match with her boyfriend on her cell phone.

6. If you are going to call an area in the waiting room the "kids" area, it would be nice to have some kid-appropriate things. Is it just me, or did Guns & Ammo change its demographic? Really, I could do an entire post on how wrong it is to have Guns & Ammo ... in a hospital ... in the emergency room ... in the kids area. It's not rocket science, people.

7. Why don't emergency rooms have gowns that are appropriate for children? Putting my 8 year old in a one-size-fits-all adult gown was comical. And wouldn't it just be easier to have all of the "small" stuff - the pediatric blood pressure cuff, the smaller gauge needles, etc. - in a central location so the nurses do not have to run around like cockroaches when they are treating a child?

8. Shouldn't it be part of a technician's training to already know how to re-program a CAT scan for a child? In our case, the tech was on the phone, with someone who had a manual, trying to figure out how to set it for a pediatric scan, while my son was on the table. For Pete's sake, at least make that call BEFORE we get in the room!

9. Bleeding profusely definitely gets the receptionist's attention, as do vomiting and stroke symptoms. I get that. But that doesn't mean the receptionist should be able to dismiss me because my family member isn't bleeding profusely, or vomiting, or presenting with stroke symptoms.

10. I realize the staff and nurses deal with sick/hurt people all the time, but would it kill you to be sensitive to the fact that you are treating a child? My 8 year old son doesn't know what triage means, or IV, or CAT scan. He doesn't understand what you mean when you ask him when he last moved his bowels or what you are going to do when you palpate him. Not knowing what is going to happen is very scary for a kid.

11. Please don't mention "surgeon" or "surgery" unless that is what you are going to do ... for sure.

12. When critical patients come in, such as car accident or gun shot victims, please don't bring them through the waiting room. There must be a back door or a side door somewhere.

13. It is very frustrating to be in a treatment room, waiting for a nurse or doctor, and then see or hear the doctors and nurses yucking it up out in the common area.

14. Please don't send us home before we are ready. Conversely, please do not make us stay when we are ready to go home.

15. If I fill out two forms and give you a medical card, would it kill you to spell my patient's name correctly? Isn't that kind of important?

I think these are small things that would make a big difference. Just sayin.

A Cautionary Tale About Kids and Their Belly Aches

2011-09-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

First, a little history. Sweetie has been having "periodic" belly aches for more than a year now. It started out as a what appeared to be a school-related problem; he seemed to have a tummy ache whenever he had to do something at school he didn't want to do, like a book report or a math test. I basically dismissed it as some ploy to stay home from school and refused to fall for it. But then he started having belly aches on weekends, when it was all about fun. He never really complained; he would just mention in passing that his tummy hurt. I asked questions like "are you hungry?" "do you need to go to the bathroom?" "did you eat too much?" More times than not, he would eat or poop and I never heard another word. And then he started having stomach aches during the summer, and at The Ex's house, and at grandma's ... all of the places where he has fun. He doesn't have a great diet but it's not horrible. He poops regularly. I just couldn't figure out what was going on, but it didn't seem too bad so I made a mental note to ask the pediatrician about it the next time we saw her.

He had a checkup last fall, and I mentioned the stomachaches to his doctor. I told her the history, the progression, etc. She asked me some questions about his diet; she asked him some questions about when they happen, where it hurts, how it feels, etc. She palpated his stomach. She concluded he probably isn't eating enough, and directed us to pack more snacks for school, ensure he eats every 2 or 3 hours, and basically make sure he doesn't allow himself to get hungry. Oh, and drink more water. Perfect. Easy. I got this.

Despite doing everything the pediatrician said, the belly aches continued. He would have a tummy ache, and then he would eat. And eat. And eat. Sometimes it would go away, sometimes it wouldn't. I asked questions, I felt his tummy, I asked about bowel movements ... we were doing everything right. Occasionally I would give him some children's Pepto Bismol. In every single case, the stomach ache eventually went away so I wasn't too worried (though I did think it was a little odd). Truth be told, I feared my Sweetie was developing a nervous stomach because he's very sensitive and he's a worrier.

Now, the cautionary tale. Two nights ago, Sweetie complained of a tummy ache when we got home from his after-school program. He had a couple of snacks, but apparently that didn't make him feel any better. Then we had dinner, and he ate like a champ. He watched some TV, went to the bathroom, and went to bed. About an hour later, I heard him get up to go the bathroom again, then I heard a strange noise. Wait, is he crying? Why is he crying? He finished his business and ran back into his room, and then I heard the noise again. Yep, he was definitely crying. I went in to see what was wrong and he said his stomach was hurting really badly. I got him some Pepto Bismol, and then sat with him to try to figure out what happened at school, what did he eat, did he go to the bathroom, etc. I found out - for the first time - that his tummy had actually been hurting him for three days. THREE days! He was curled in the fetal position and crying, wincing in pain, and it was clear to me that something more was going on. He was gassy as a baby and loved it when I rubbed his tummy, so I thought I would try that; I touched his belly and he just about hit the roof. I felt for a fever; nothing. I asked him if he felt like he was going to vomit; no. He had eaten, he had gone to the bathroom, he had tried to go to the bathroom again, he had taken Pepto ... nothing worked. I looked at him and said, "Sweetie, is it bad enough that we need to go to the hospital and see a doctor?" and without hesitation, my 8-year-old all-around scaredy cat nodded yes. Uh oh. This is NOT good. I called the advice nurse, who very quickly surmised that we needed to go to the emergency room.

I am a single mother and I have another child. What the heck was I going to do about Stinker? It was late, everyone I know was already in bed, and most have to get up and go to work in the morning. I thought about taking him with me, but I knew that once Sweetie got to triage, there wouldn't be any place for Stinker to sit or lay down or anything. Nope, taking him with me was simply not an option. So I got the kids in the car and without calling first I drove to my mom's house. I took Stinker inside and put him to bed. As I started to lock the door behind me, my mother appeared and asked what I was doing. Of course she had questions but hello, right then was not the time for me to answer them.

Sweetie and I made the 20 minute drive to the nearest "plan" emergency room at a general hospital. Let me just say up front that now I know why "county" and "general" hospitals get a bad rap ... if our general hospital is any indicator, they deserve it! Just getting there was the most frustrating experience; I couldn't even get to the emergency driveway because the hospital is surrounded by one-way streets, many of which are closed and/or blocked because of the construction of a new hospital across the street. I parked in a 15-minute zone (knowing full well there was no way we would be done in 15 minutes). As we walked up to the door, I saw two uniformed police officers outside, another one at the interior door, and yet a fourth policeman greeted me inside the waiting room. I was thinking this could not be a very safe ER if this large of a police presence is required. Yikes.

After I got him checked in, we had to sit and wait. While we were waiting, one of the policeman outside came in and announced that my car was about to be towed. Seriously? It was 10:30 at night. I was a single adult with a sick child in the ER ...how was I supposed to move my car?? I wasn't going to take Sweetie back outside, and I certainly wasn't going to leave him there alone. Luckily, after I explained my situation to the officer inside the waiting room, he said he would make sure it didn't get towed. Not surprisingly, after about fifteen minutes of waiting, a wide-eyed Sweetie said, "Mom, I think I'm feeling better. We can just go home." Uh, no, I don't think so.

We finally got into triage and as the nurse was doing her paperwork and asking questions, I casually mentioned that they had spelled Sweetie's name wrong (despite the fact that I had filled out two forms and gave them a copy of his medical card). Apparently that was a mistake because the triage nurse suddenly became obsessed with correcting it. Mid-triage she left the room to track down a supervisor, and then hovered while the supervisor corrected the computer records at a computer in the reception area. Really? It couldn't wait until she got him into a treatment room?

In the treatment room, the first thing to do was the IV. Having had a few IVs in my life, I knew Sweetie was NOT going to like this one bit. Trust me, he didn't. He was scared, of course, so he moved right when the nurse poked him, and the vein disappeared, so she had to try again. Sweetie blew a gasket, yelling and crying and freaking out. At one point I thought he went into shock; his whole body was trembling, his teeth were chattering, he was crying, and he had a vacant stare on his face. Confession? That was the worst moment of my life. As soon as they were done, he started begging them to take it out of his arm. It took at least 10 minutes for him to understand that the IV was not coming out until we were ready to go home. A few minutes later - after the morphine hit - his stomach stopped hurting, and he started to feel better. Aha! There's my Sweetie, acting like his normal wonderful self. He was intrigued by the treatment room, the gadgets and equipment, his IV pump machine, the rails on the bed, etc. Leave it to a kid to find an ER treatment room interesting. He told me he wanted to learn all about everything because he probably wouldn't ever be in an emergency room again so that was the time to look at everything. God bless him for that.

After the doctor examined him, she decided he needed a CAT scan, "which is a 4 to 5 hour process." Ugh. It was clear we were going to be there all night! A couple of hours later, after Sweetie's participation was no longer needed, and after another hit of morphine, he finally crashed. It took him until 3:00 a.m., but my Sweetie finally fell asleep. I sat there in the room all by myself, waiting for the doctor to return with results. It was surreal. At last the doctor returned to tell me the scan results were "inconclusive" but she was concerned because of the severity of his pain, especially in the lower right quadrant. She talked with the pediatric surgeon on call at the children's hospital a couple of miles away, and they decided to admit him for observation and possible further treatment. I heard "surgeon" and the rest of what she said turned into that obnoxious droning noise that signifies adults are speaking in the Charlie Brown cartoons. Wa-wa, wat-wa-wa-wah. What? Did you say surgeon? My kid needs surgery? Now it was my turn to freak, and I did. I cried for the first time since the whole thing started.

An ambulance arrived to transport him. I thought he would be scared, and spent a ton of energy figuring out how I was going to return for my car if I rode in the ambulance with him. They woke him up to move him, and the EMTs were so cool ... they chatted him up and made the ride sound like an adventure. Sweetie told me he could ride by himself and I could just meet him there. What a brave boy he was! By the time I got to the second hospital, he had changed gowns (now a kid-sized one, not the giant one-size-fits-all adult gown he had previously worn), his IV was hooked up to fluids, he had told the nurse he didn't understand why he needed to change hospitals because the other one was just fine, and he was snuggling down for more sleep. Once he slept again I wanted to go home to turn everything off, shower, grab some comfort things for Sweetie, and get a change of clothes for Stinker at my mom's, but the nurse said I needed to stick around in case the surgeon decided to "immediately take him into surgery."

Here's the thing. I try not to be an alarmist. I try not to worry about things that might happen and focus on what is actually happening. At this point no one has told me what was wrong with my son. A nurse mentioned an appendectomy, but no doctor has said anything to me about it. I have no diagnosis, I don't know what's wrong, I don't know if it's serious, and damn, there is that surgeon/surgery thing again. I convinced her to see if she could find out when the surgeon planned to do his rounds and we found out I had time to go home if I hurried. So that's what I did.

The nurse was wrong, and I rushed for nothing. A resident came into the room at about 8:30, examined Sweetie, and said the surgeon would be in within the hour. Wrong. Another resident came in about 10:00, examined Sweetie (and asked the exact same questions I had answered FIVE times by then), and said the surgeon would be in before lunch time. Wrong again. When The Ex showed up at 1:00, I decided to pop our for some food and give them some time together. Wouldn't you know it? The dang surgeon showed up at about 1:30 and I was gone! I caught him just as he was about to leave so I got a Reader's Digest version: There was nothing wrong with Sweetie's appendix, and he never thought it was the appendix. "Basically, the kid is full of poop. Lots of poop. So much poop that it has hardened and his body can't get rid of it. Those stomach aches? The body's efforts to move the poop." Oh my gosh! And he'd been struggling with it for more than a year! And we told him to eat more, which made it worse! My poor baby. I asked how this could happen when he poops regularly and the doc said he isn't pooping completely and everything is dry and constipating, which just makes things worse. I was so relieved it wasn't anything more serious, I began making poop jokes, like he is literally full of crap, too bad this whole experience didn't scare the crap out of him, and we were about to launch Operation Poopstorm. He smiled, but he did not laugh. Party pooper. (Pun intended!)

So he spent yesterday afternoon having unpleasant procedures like enemas and suppositories. The good news? He immediately felt better. The bad news? He didn't "produce" as much as they had hoped, which suggests the blockage is very large and very old. We've been referred to a gastroenterologist for follow up; she immediately prescribed two "super" laxatives for today and tomorrow, and a daily (mild) laxative every day ... indefinitely. We are supposed to see the specialist next week to begin the long journey to total and complete poop evacuation. We're going to help him be a super duper pooper.

Shiny Happy People

2011-08-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in Baskin Robbins this afternoon, enjoying some gold medal ribbon (my fave!), when Shiny Happy People by R.E.M. came on. I found myself mindlessly singing along to some of the lyrics I remember from when that song was popular about twenty years ago. And it occurred to me ... I've never really listened to the lyrics and I have no idea what the song is about. Is it being sarcastic? Critical? Judgmental? Observant? Seriously, I have no idea. I started to look around as I tapped my foot and hummed along and I noticed ... shiny AND happy people all around me.

Now let me be clear: I may be (mostly) happy, but I am NOT shiny. Ever. Better words to describe me are frazzled, disheveled, discombobulated, sometimes even unkempt. The image I emanate is probably "lazy." I simply don't have time for all that fussing; I don't shop, and I will choose sleep over time-for-primping 100% of the time.

There was a woman with a little girl about 5 years old. I couldn't tell if she was the girl's (young) grandmother or (older) mother. Anyway, the woman was very "shiny." She was bleached blonde, faux-tanned, in good shape, adorned in "bohemian" clothes and jewelry, and impeccably groomed and made up. (I'm sure those tendrils coming out of her tousled ponytail were intentional!) She almost glowed (in a good way, not in a give-the-self-tanner-a-rest way.) I caught myself staring at her because, seriously, how much time must she spend on herself? It's a Friday afternoon, and I'm assuming this is probably what she looks like all the time. So she had to shop for her clothes and jewelry - and unless she has superpowers, you know that took more than one trip! - go to the hair salon and sit for an hour or two, sit at the nail salon for an hour or two, plus travel, and then the showering-shampooing-moisturizing-blowdrying-makeupping-dressing-accessorizing routine every morning, and the removal time in the evening. That's HOURS every day, and HOURS every week, and even more HOURS every month. I'm not judging at all, it's just that I am the complete opposite of her. Anyway, she was shiny and - at least in the fantasy world I have created for her in my head - she's happy.

The little girl was shiny and happy too, but in an age-appropriate way. She had blue eyes and blonde hair pulled back off of her face and falling out of her barrettes just a little, a beautiful green dress, sunkissed skin, painted (short) nails, cute sandals, and a radiant smile. She was getting some sherbet but was also picking out her ice cream cake for her birthday party. What's not to be happy about, right?

There was an older gentleman in line behind me and guess what? Shiny and happy! He looked like he's retired and plays a lot of tennis or golf ... tan, fit, looking relaxed. He smiled at me and struck up a conversation while we waited in line. I learned he was givng ice cream gift certificates to his grandchildren as a back-to-school treat. He noticed the little girl and smiled at her. So many times older folks ... and in my experience, older men in particular ... are crabby. Not this guy. He was shiny. He was happy.

A different woman ahead of me in line was shiny, too, but in a more subtle way than the other shiny, happy woman. This one emanated clean and fresh and cool. In a relaxed state her face was calm. She was waiting for the employee to write a message on a cake she picked from the freezer. When the gal came out with the freshly written-on cake, guess what? HAPPY!

There were two mid-twenties guys eating sandwiches who looked shiny in a literal way; they clearly had been exercising or something and had that fresh-sweat sheen. And they were laughing and joking and bustin' each others' chops. Happy.

This seems like an awful lot of shiny happy people in one place if you ask me. I mean seriously, where are the Maxines and the Walters? Then it hit me ... the employees were neither shiny nor happy. That's too bad but at least it gave the place some balance.

I left with a little spring in my step. I want to be a shiny happy person. And so it shall be. Further updates on Project Shiny Happy Person as events warrant.

Bad Decisions Make Good Stories

2011-08-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

We all do it. We have those moments when we make bad decisions. If we follow the usual path of growth, and we are not affected by alcohol, substance or other abuse, the bad decisions we make become fewer and farther between as we age and mature. Sure, some of us do it more often than others, but the point is we all do it. Even the most mature and responsible person makes bad decisions now and again. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that bad decisions make good results. That almost never happens. Bad decisions usually lead to bad results. But when it is over, there is usually a good story there. Sometimes the story is funny, sometimes it is poignant, sometimes it is sad, but when you come out the other end and have recovered, there is almost something good to share. Maybe I feel this way because I am forever searching for the silver lining in every dark cloud.

Yesterday marked six years since The Ex and I split. Marrying him was a bad decision. Of course, I have no regrets because I got Sweetie and Stinker out of it, but if I am honest, choosing this person was a bad choice. There were signs that he was a bad choice for me, but either I was unaware of them at the time or I chose to ignore them. It was bad for me financially, it was bad for my self esteem, it was bad for my health, it was bad for some of my friendships and familial relationships, it was just a bad decision. No matter, what's done is done and it does no good to look back. I've chosen to forgive him, and to forgive myself, and move on. Even though the marriage was a mistake, our story is a good story full of friendship, laughter, love, family, joy, frustration, disappointment, heartbreak ... the gamut of the human condition ... and at least for me it has a happy ending (so far).

I started a new job six weeks ago and it is my goal to avoid making some of the bad decisions I made at my former job. As I've been thinking about some of the mistakes I made before so that I don't make them again, I find myself smiling at the story about the bad decision to go work for my former employer in the first place. I have no regrets because it afforded me the opportunity to spend time with my children that I might not have had otherwise, and it forced me to become aware of my strengths and weaknesses as an employee, but it stalled my career. I turned the job down initially, and I should have stuck with my instincts. It's a good story though ... female lawyer forges a non-traditional path in a tough profession, shines at times and stumbles at other times, gets terminated for putting family first, and comes out the other end stronger, wiser, more focused on her career ... and happy.

At a work retreat last weekend, we spent a lot of time around dinner tables telling stories. Why is it that so many of the best stories begin with "so I was out drinking one night ..."? Some of my colleagues made the bad decision to order bottle service at 1:30 a.m., knowing we had a 9:00 a.m. meeting. It was a bad decision for them - they were miserable at the meeting and for most of the day - but it's a great story that I'm sure we will recount at every retreat.

I've made plenty of bad decisions in my life, like that time I stepped in between two huge drunk guys to try to break up a fight, or that time I thought it would be fun to snoop around in my husband's email, or that time I ate the worm in Mexico .... Bet you'd like to hear the stories about those bad decisions!

Get Out and Push!

2011-08-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

My new employer takes all of the attorneys (and their spouses) on a weekend retreat every other year, and this year we went to Sausalito, California. They spare no expense, being sure to set up nice accommodations, meals, and transportation (so no one is tempted to drink and drive). I had a two-room suite with a giant sunken tub at Cavallo Point. A gift basket was waiting for me when I checked in. We had a group dinner Friday night (with booze of our choice if we wanted) at a nice restaurant in the City and then we went out to some bars afterward. (There are a lot of stories in there but I will save them for another post.) I seriously did not spend a dime, not even for my cab back over the bridge. We had a breakfast meeting on Saturday and then we had about six hours of free time on Saturday. We had to be at a group dinner in Sausalito at 7:00.

When I learned of the location of our retreat, I researched what I could do to keep myself occupied during said free time on Saturday, knowing that almost all of my colleagues would have their spouses with them and I am the lone singleton. I could get a massage, go ziplining, take a segway tour, shop (in Sausalito or in the City), hike, ride my bike ... the possibilities are almost endless. I decided to do things I can't do when I have my kids with me. After some poking around, I settled on GoCars in the City.

What the heck is a GoCar? It's not a go-kart. It is a little yellow, three-wheeled vehicle licensed as a motorcyle. It seats two, it is convertible, and you must wear a helmet to be safe. It's cute. But the BEST part is ... the car talks to you. It is a GPS-directed car, so it tells you where to turn and where to drive and narrates along the way. There are different tours available; I wanted to take the Mister SF tour because it was the shortest (1.5 hours) and it takes you to the "cool" places that tourists never see. You learn about movie locations and notorious crime locations, that sort of thing. I was excited and I coaxed four other attorneys (two pairs) to go with me, and then I got my Julie McCoy on ... I made reservations, figured out how we were going to get there, decided which tour to take, etc.

So Saturday "free time" rolls around and we are ready to start our adventure. We planned to take the 12:45 ferry over from Sausalito (a 30-minute ride), which we thought would give us plenty of time to grab a quick snack before embarking on our tour. We thought wrong. The ferry was late, so I called the company while we were on the ferry and pushed our reservation back 30 minutes. When we got to the restaurant, we had terrible service; I pushed the reservation again. Now we were an hour behind schedule, which should be fine for purposes of our group dinner but would cut into our post-GoCar drinks (including my must-have Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista). Finally, a little more than an hour after we had originally planned, we watched our safety video, donned our helmets, got our operational lesson, and we were off. All was going smoothly until ....The Mister SF tour was not available due to road construction. I had to think fast and choose a different tour. I remembered the Urban Parks tour sounded cool so we picked that one and off we went.

The little cars are easy to drive, though they are a little unnerving because they are low to the ground and hard for cars to see, and they don't go very fast. Because they are licensed as motorcycles, they are not allowed in the bike lanes or on sidewalks so I'm sure it's very frustrating for the drivers who get stuck behind them. We were a trio of GoCars, with mine being the last in the line. We got a lot of attention; people waved and honked and lots of tourists took our picture.

So off we went. Not only does the car tell you which direction to go, it tells you what you are looking at, its history, and suggests where and when you should stop and get out. It gives you detour options. As long as you stay on your route, the car chats merrily, even cracking wise ... when we drove by a golf course it yelled "fore" really loud and then laughed! We went by Robin Williams' house, though the wise-cracking car wouldn't tell us which one it was.

After about two hours, my car merrily told me I was now "half way" through my tour. WHAT? Two hours is only half way? Not surprisingly, my colleagues immediately pulled over after they heard this in their cars, and we collectively decided to go off the path and return the cars; it was getting late and we needed to get back to Sausalito for dinner. As we were pulling over, the car told me to turn right at the next stop sign because the hill ahead was too steep for it. According to the safety video, as long as you follow the car's directions you will be able to navigate the steep hills but if you venture off on your own - which is certainly allowed - you may find yourself on a hill that is too steep for the car to handle. If that happens, you must get out and push. Oh, and the car has no reverse.

So after we decided to return the cars, I watched as my colleagues drove straight up that hill! I turned right and then ignored it when it told me to turn again. Here's the thing ... when you go off of the path, the car stops talking and you are left to your own devices. We three got separated so I decided to just drive toward the water (since I know how to get around once I get near the water). At one point I caught up with one of the other cars, but they went up another big hill and I went a different way. At another point I must have veered close to one of the tour routes because suddenly my car made a loud pinging noise and it yelled at me: "STOP! You're going the wrong way. You were supposed to turn left at the last street. Turn around." It scared the crap out of me, but I soldiered on. As I was nearing the return, I flipped around to go talk to my colleagues on the other side of the street and didn't quite make it ... I had to get out and push. I learned later they had had to get out and push, too!

All in all, it's a fun little adventure and a great way to see parts of the City you might otherwise miss. It's not cheap, and we were cold by the time we were done, but I really enjoyed it. And I laugh really hard when I tell people about our little adventure ...

** Photos taken from the GoCars website at http://www.gocartours.com/

I'm baaaaaaaacccck! And the Universe has spoken.

2011-06-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

Wow, I can't believe I haven't posted since February. Apparently I've been busy. I have a list of blog subjects but I just haven't felt inspired, and since I write so much for a living, I have to feel inspired to sit down and write for fun.

Project Pound Loss Week 25: I suck it! Two steps forward then one step back. Down, then up. I've clearly lost focus but I haven't given up! My Weight Watchers buddy is doing amazingly well, but I am not. I had an epiphany: Weight Watchers doesn't work if you don't work the program. Duh.

It's T minus 20 days until another big career move. After 2 years practicing on my own, after 6 months of not really working, I'm going back to employee status starting July 1. The Universe kept tossing life preservers to me and they all brought me back to the same place: I want and need the security (however fleeting) that full-time employment brings. My clients that were coming out of the woodwork don't pay. I hardly made any money last year, but I made enough to get drilled by self-employment taxes. Another law firm in my town closed, once again flooding the legal community with smart, qualified lawyers. So I took the risk and asked for what I wanted: a full-time position with the firm where I've been contracting part-time for the past two years. And they said yes. As a result, my calendar has exploded and I am a very busy woman.

I hope to get back to regular blogging ... it's a sweet release for me. Plus, I have some great stories to share.

Project Pound Loss: Week 5 and Old Habits Die Hard

2011-02-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

This past week was NOT a good week. I was busy, so I didn't track my food and I ate out a lot. Didn't I just say last week that those are two things I MUST do to succeed on my weight loss journey? Yeah, well, apparently I was just moving my lips. And this week I'm paying the price. I gained this week, and I gained enough that I basically set myself back 2 (or maybe 3) weeks. Curses.

Part of the process is to analyze choices and figure out what would have been the better choice. Without tracking it's hard to be thorough, but here's what I know. I had fast food three times in one week. Not good, and not okay when trying to lose weight. Even the "good" choices at fast food restaurants are weight loss saboteurs. During bunco last Friday, I drank too much wine. That probably wouldn't have been too bad, but considering I had a full meal after munching on the most delightful potato chips, the wine put me over the edge. But friends, those were the BEST potato chips (and I don't even usually eat salty snacks!) . So of course I had too many. And then, during the Superbowl, I didn't eat for a really long time and then gorged because I was so hungry. And I drank vodka lemonade. (Gasp!) Must. Keep. Eating. To. Avoid. Feeling. Starved. At a board meeting last night, I mindlessly snacked on cheese and crackers. I have no idea how much I ate, but it wasn't pretty.

I haven't ruined my first WW milestone - losing 5 pounds - but I should be reaching my second milestone and I'm nowhere close.

It's a "habit" to go hours without eating and then overeat because I am so hungry. It is a "habit" to snack on hors d'ouerves before eating a meal. It's a habit to drink socially and not keep track of how much I've had. It's a habit to leave the house without eating and then stop somewhere for something "quick." It's a habit to eat on the go. Old habits will be the death of me. They must die!

Project Pound Loss: Week 4 is slow and steady

2011-02-02T19:10:00.000-08:00

The good news is, I lost this week. The bad news is, last week's gain slowed me down.

The following observations have become abundantly clear:

1. I must track my food. "Guessing" or "estimating" does not work, partly because I don't know the program well enough yet but also because I forget about little snacks and things that I shove in my mouth along the way.

2. I must prepare my own food. Seriously, it does not matter where you eat - eating "out" is not weight loss friendly. Portions are too big (even of the "healthy" stuff). Even "grilled" things are not dry grilled like you would do at home; the grill is regularly lubed in restaurants so food doesn't stick. Restaurant food is heavily salted (most of the time), which ultimately results in too much sodium for the day.

3. I need to cook several meals - but not the whole week - in one sitting. I need to divide it into proper portions so I can just grab it and throw it in my lunch during the mad morning dash, or pop it in the micro after a long day. If I expect myself to cook dinner every night, I am setting myself up for failure. If I cook for the whole week, however, I get tired of the food and want something else, usually something bad.

4. It is not okay to binge on "bad" food after my weigh-in. This appears to be a pattern developing so I need to nip it.

5. I simply will not lose this weight if I do not find time for exercise.

6. I need to drink more water.

Total pounds lost so far: 7.6 in 4 weeks

Roller Queen, That's Me!

2011-02-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a small town (at least by Southern California standards). When I was growing up, there wasn't a whole lot to do. We had two movie theaters - a "walk-in" with two screens and a "drive-in" with one screen. Back then they didn't have indoor play structures, or warehouses full of bouncehouses ... we just made do with good old-fashioned imagination. We had a single bowling alley that was always occupied with league play. The nearest mall was 30 minutes away "over the hill" or "in the valley." We did, however, have a skating rink. From about seventh through tenth grade - until friends started driving and dating - we young teenagers spent just about every Friday night and Saturday night at the "roller rink." Either my mom or the mom of a friend would drop us off at the rink, we'd pay our couple of dollars to get in, and a parent would return for us in a couple of hours.

Talking about a roller rink elicits certain memories for me. Why was the carpet always so ugly? And really, how many rows of lockers do you need for a couple of hours of skating. All the cool kids had their own skates, and the not-cool kids had to rent those babypoop brown skates. I remember BEGGING for my own skates and finally getting some beautiful pristine white "girls" skates for Christmas one year. (And then, of course, I had to beg for the accessories - the colored laces, the pom poms, the neon wheels, etc.) The snack bar had delicious junk food - or so I heard - but I never had any money to buy any. If you ever spent any time in a skating rink as a kid, you'll remember this: standing along the barrier wall, near the entrance to the rink, waiting and wishing and hoping that cool cute guy would ask you to skate during the "couples" skate. It seemed like every roller rink, no matter where it was, had the same "theme" skates - all boys fast skate, all girls fast skate, hokey pokey, couples, reverse direction, etc. They all had disco balls in the center, and a DJ who shouted into the microphone so loud and fast that you couldn't even understand him. I was a decent roller skater, though certainly not one of the cool kids. I could skate backwards, though I never really mastered it. I could do spins and a few ice-skating-type tricks. And I could skate FAST. It was so much fun.

When I was in college and after, the rollerblade craze started. I jumped on that band wagon, hung up my roller skates, and bought a sleek pair of inline skates. I bought wrist guards and knee pads, but I would not be caught DEAD with a helmet on. And, looking back, I wonder why no one ever espoused about the benefits of padded pants, maybe like the ones bikers wear. At any rate, my enamor with rollerblades was over really quickly. It was really hard. And I kept falling. Hard. I put them away for a couple of years, and then tried them again when I was 30. While blading with a friend (who was much better than me), I fell so hard that I thought for sure I broke my coccyx. That was the end of all form of skating for me.

So guess what I did a couple of days ago? I went roller skating!! And let me tell you, not much has changed. The carpet is still ugly. The wall still has rows and rows of lockers. The snack bar sold junk. The kid behind the rental counter was on skates, moving around smoothly and confidently, and doubled as the DJ. They did an all boys fast skate, an all girls fast skate, and the hokey pokey. We couldn't understand a word the kid said over the intercom. There was a disco ball above the floor (or a disco-ball effect somewhere else in the rink). "Old school" was in the house: the kid with the rubber legs, gliding quietly across the floor, passing everyone; the boys who raced each other - even though racing is not allowed - weaving in and out of the slower, less skilled skaters; the girls who don't know how to skate, holding on to each other as they scoot in the inner circle of the floor, practically falling and laughing hysterically; the 14-year-olds holding hands as they skate around and around; the boy skating backwards with his hands on the hips of his girlfriend. I was flooded with deja vu!

There was one significant difference. Roller derby girls. There were several of them. You can't miss them, what with the 70s style shorts over leggings, all of the padding, the specific-purpose skates. One had what I suspect is her derby name written across her backside. Another was teaching her young daughter a fast start. These women seemed fairly unskilled compared to the derby girls I've seen during derby exhibitions ... until it was time for the fast skate. Those women got out there and hauled A--. And I think one woman was a derby ref (or is it an ump?) because she was skating faster backwards than everyone else was skating forward. And then it dawned on me that those markings on the floor were probably roller derby markings. It turns out, my area has at least three roller derby teams. That's something I must explore (and blog about later).

I had some revelations: Skating is good exercise! My legs were tired, I know I worked my back muscles and I was sweating. It turns out I'm still a pretty good skater ... for a middle-aged overweight woman who hasn't been on skates in 30 years. I only fell once - and I was SPINNING when I did it. So there.

I Used to Be A Complainer

2011-01-26T20:29:00.000-08:00

I don't mean to make myself sound older than I am, but do you remember when customer service actually meant something? I'm not talking about the idyllic 50s that has been portrayed on television and in movies (though we know it was not nearly as idyllic as the entertainment industry would like us to believe it was); I'm not THAT old. I'm talking about the 70s and even into the 80s.

Remember when diners were not expected to leave a 20% tip unless the service was great, and a simple comment to a staffer about something amiss - a dirty bathroom, a mistake on a bill, cold food, etc. - warranted a visit from the manager? The idea that a customer might complain to someone higher up the food chain (pun intended) was enough to make managers do whatever was necessary to make it right. It was not unusual to get a comped meal or dessert or a discount coupon for the next visit. In my experience, in today's restaurants, the manager isn't even there half the time and customers NEVER get anything comped.  The wait staff is usually hustling but everyone else seems to stand around a lot.

But the restaurant industry isn't the only one that has allowed customer service to become extinct. Remember when gas stations were "service" stations? Full service was the same price as self service, and it included a fill up, a window cleaning, an oil check, tire check, etc. And - gasp! - you could ask for directions and you might even get a free map. Now you can't ask for directions because some young kid is behind the counter in the mini-mart. Maps are $5 - if they have them. You have to pump your own gas; in fact, very few gas stations have "full service" as an option even if you were inclined to pay the higher per gallon price. And the clincher?? We now have to PAY for air and water!!

When I was a kid and even into college, when I went to the grocery store, the butcher knew everything I could possibly ask about meat and poultry.  The produce man would cut open a melon and let me taste it. The liquor department had its own manager, who bought everything the store sold, and could recommend a great gift or pairing. There were stock clerks everywhere and plenty of checkers. In today's "super" markets, we have banks and coffee shops and pharmacies but God help you if you need to ask a question about something; you will have to schlep all the way up to the front of the store just to ask for help, and then you have to wait while someone who knows next-to-nothing comes to "help" you. If you're lucky enough to have one of the nicer markets in your area, you pay about 4-10% more for your groceries. And let me tell you ... I worked in the grocery industry in the 80s and today's grocery employees do not make much more than I made way back then, and their benefits and retirement are not as good as they were, so we can't blame the inferior service on high-paid union members.

Back in those days, if you experienced poor customer service, you could get satisfaction. I used to write letters; anytime my customer service was lower than an acceptable level, I wrote a letter of complaint. And guess what? I ALWAYS got some sort of response. Some responses were better than others, but the point is, I always got a return letter or phone call.  Managers made me feel like my business was appreciated and they wanted to keep it. Sometimes I got free stuff, much to the laughter and giggling of friends and family. (My cousin's husband used to urge me to write letters because he loved it when I got free stuff!). Sometimes I just got an apology. And you know what, the apology was fine. No matter the response, I felt like my opinion mattered. Now THAT is customer service.

Now let's look at customer service today. Oh, wait. There isn't any. We don't interact with people; instead we are sent to a website. Sometimes we are told to fill out a comment card. But you know what? I never hear from anyone anymore.

I miss the good ole days.

Project Pound Loss: Week 3 Boo Hiss!

2011-01-25T13:11:00.000-08:00

I didn't lose this week. In fact, I gained. Not much, but I gained. So the question is, what went wrong? Here's what I know I didn't do this past week that I did on the weeks I lost: cook most of my own meals and track my food. Seriously, for me, eating out is going to be the death of me. It doesn't matter where you eat or what you eat, it is ALWAYS better to eat at home if weight loss is the goal. Even "grilled" things in restaurants are full of oils and fats because they keep the "grill" lubed so food doesn't stick. And they don't lube with cooking spray, let me tell you!! And we don't even need to talk about portions in restaurants ... a typical restaurant meal is 3 or 4 times the portion size we should be eating.

I remember a quote from Dolly Parton many years ago that I thought was weird at the time but now I think it's genius. Someone asked her how she kept her tiny waist and she said she eats a lot of fruits and vegetables and she really controls her portions. She said that whenever a plate of food is placed in front of her, she divides everything into threes: one for her to eat now, one for her to eat later, and one for her guardian angel that she leaves behind. And this was back when portion sizes were much more reasonable than they are now. Brilliant, I say.

I have made up stories in my head about why I gained this week. They make me feel less discouraged, but I realize they are just stories. The truth is, I gained 1.2. I just added another week until I reach my ultimate goal. That's a bummer, but it's not the end of the world. I remain committed and I'm working on discipline. Next week I'll be back to being "friends" with this project.

What is The Universe Trying to Tell Me?

2011-01-25T10:01:00.000-08:00

I'm a big believer in creating the life I want by conscious thought and specific action. It's a relatively new attitude for me, so I'm still learning, I'm still asking for the wrong things, and I'm still trying to interpret. I believe the Universe delivers what you ask for, whether you realize you ask for it or not. You know what I mean: negativity begets negativity, positivity begets positivity. It's important to stay focused on the positive, on the present, and on what I want.

In December I declared out loud to God and everybody that I think solo practice is not for me and that I want to "try" - there's the first problem - and see if I can make a full-time schedule work with a particular firm. One of the reasons solo practice doesn't work for me is because I don't like marketing myself when my very livelihood depends on it. I also don't like dealing with the administrative stuff - filing, etc. And if you read my previous post, you already know I don't like that people think I work for free and that they don't have to pay me for my efforts. I also want security, health insurance, etc. But I love the easy schedule I currently have and I love the flexibility so I can spend time with my kids (though that did not work out how I thought it would when I went into business for myself. Another blog post on another day, perhaps). The questions I'm currently mulling are: what is most important to me? what working situation will give me the best balance? how long can I stay on this fence I'm currently sitting on?

So riddle me this: Why is it that (literally) right after I declared that solo practice is not for me and that I want to try a full-time schedule with this particular firm, clients started coming out of the woodwork? Seriously, I have had more client referrals in the past month than I have had the entire time I've been practicing on my own. What does it mean? What should I do? How did I create this? One friend thinks the Universe is telling me that I should not go work for someone else and I should stay self-employed, and the Universe is providing me with clients to enable me to do that. That's a fair interpretation, I suppose. But what if it is the Universe providing me with an opportunity to earn some money to make up for the "pay me, you owe me" clients I already have? Or, maybe the Universe is setting me up so that when I make the move to employment with someone else, I am more appealing because I have my own (albeit small) client base. It's interesting to say the least.

I need to take some quiet time and really figure out what I want. The Universe is not sending clear messages because I'm not sending clear requests.

Pay Me, You Owe Me, Pay Me My Money Down

2011-01-20T23:01:00.000-08:00

Have you ever heard that song "Pay Me My Money Down"? Apparently it's been around for a long time - I've seen it described as a "traditional west indian sea shanty," whatever that means - but I first heard it a few years ago at a concert with my kids. We went to see Dan Zanes, a kooky-looking guy who writes and performs kids music because, as he tells it, when he had a child and was trying to find some decent music, there wasn't any. So he decided to make his own. His concerts are fun; he rides a bicycle on stage, and it's really just musicians and their instruments without all of the gimmicks and characters that are so prevalent in children's music. And he encourages the kids to get up and dance at any time during the show, which I absolutely loved. If you're interested, check him out at http://www.danzanes.com/.

So why the discussion of a west indian sea shanty? Well, friends, I have a struggle in my life that is weighing on my mind and the alternating line of this song keeps popping into my head: "Pay me, you owe me, pay me my money down." People don't want to pay their legal bills! Now before you get your panties in a bunch, let me say this: I have been a client of a lawyer and I know how awful it is to get a monthly bill and be shocked at the amount. I know what it's like to realize that you've been charged for every communication you have had, no matter how short or seemingly inconsequential. I know what it's like to get charged for every copy made, every fax sent, every stamp affixed. I get it. But here's the thing. If you sign a contract for a lawyer's service, you are agreeing to pay that lawyer for the services provided.

I have a couple of clients who hired me on a contingency basis, which means that if they don't get money, I don't get money. I'm not paid hourly, I'm paid a percentage of whatever money is recovered. Sometimes that set up works to the lawyer's advantage - very little work with a big payout. I've had one of those. Other times it's a big financial loser for the lawyer - lots of work with a small payout. I've had some of those, too. It's a gamble, and it's part of the agreement. It's an expensive gamble for the lawyer to take because litigation is not cheap, and the lawyer usually pays costs along the way. If the lawyer is lucky, he or she will recoup those costs whether the case is a winner or not. I haven't had that kind of luck.

I also have a couple of clients who hired me on an hourly basis. This is the arrangement that is a problem for the clients because the bills add up more quickly than they expect. If the client is lucky, they have a lawyer who will work with them to make payments. I am one of those lawyers; I work with my clients because I realize many of us don't have hundreds or thousands of dollars laying around that we can comfortably part with.

Why on earth would you choose to pay hourly if you can get a lawyer's services on a contingency, you ask? It usually depends on what kind of work the lawyer is doing. If you are the person suing people, your lawyer will probably take the case on a contingency if he thinks you have a decent case. If you are the one being sued, however, I don't know a single attorney who will defend you on a contingency. "Defense" equals "hourly" almost all of the time.

But here's the thing that is getting to me and is provoking the "pay me, you owe me" song. Though I am willing to work with clients to ease their financial burden, I am not willing to work for free. That means that I expect SOME payment every month, as a show of good faith that the client intends to keep her end of the deal and pay the balance in full eventually. But that is not what's happening. I have one client who has repeatedly requested that I "work with her" about the bill, and I have. I reduced my hourly rate; I don't charge her for every communication; I reduce my travel expenses and only charge her one way; I let her perform tasks that I should have a professional do. From my perspective, I have bent over backwards to make this as painless as possible for her. My reward? ONE payment in 6 months. The bill is in 5 digits now. And to make matters worse, she keeps asking me to do additional work! Really?

I like this client a lot, and I want to help her, so I am struggling. The human side of me wants to see this through. The business person/lawyer/single mother in me wants to terminate the relationship. Ethically I'm somewhere in the middle; I can't really cut bait, but I don't have to continue to work for free. I took her case because someone who matters to me professionally referred her to me. What to do, what to do? Oh, and did I mention that I did some work for her brother and he hasn't paid me one red cent? Um, yeah.

I can't help but wonder: what makes them think that I don't need to be paid? What makes them think that I can "carry" that kind of debt in my books? I'm a solo practitioner starting a brand new business, for pete's sake. It's a big fat mess. So I continue, with that song playing in my head ...

Pay me, you owe me,
Pay me my money down,
Pay me or go to jail,
Pay me my money down.

Project Pound Loss: Week 2 and we're still friends

2011-01-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

The second week of Weight Watchers was a bit more challenging for me because that silly thing called life got in the way. I was really busy. But I noticed a few things along the way ...

The longer I stay away from sugar, the less I want it. My mid-afternoon chocolate craving is almost gone. GOOD. I fall into old habits very easily. I need to be on my game or I will eat too much, of the wrong stuff, and then eat too much again. BAD. I take advantage of every possible excuse to get off track. Oh, I'm busy so I need to grab something quick (read: carbohydrate-y, probably deep-fried-y, greasy, goodness!) BAD. If I really want to change my body and change my life, I cannot drink beer. Seriously, not at all. There is nothing redeeming about beer in terms of value to the body. So it's apparently just another habit I need to break. BAD. If I am not focused, I do not stay on the program. BAD. If I really put my mind to it, I can find a little time in my busy schedule to exercise, at least a couple of times. GOOD.

I lost 2.6 pounds in week 2. I'm only a few pounds from my first goal (and my first reward).

Ya Gotta Have Friendship

2011-01-16T11:56:00.000-08:00

Have you ever seen that I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel have been asked to sing a duet about friendship in a show of some kind? They are so excited that they get to sing together! After they've been out shopping - separately - they cannot wait to show each other their brand new gowns. Lucy runs upstairs to her apartment to get hers and Ethel pulls hers out of her closet and you immediately hear that very common and canned "uh oh" - it is the exact same dress! After an argument, they agree to take them back and choose something different, but neither of them does and neither of them tells the other. So when it is time for them to go on stage, they both walk out in the same dress and they both get so mad. As they are singing "Ya gotta have friendship, friendship, such a perfect friendship" they are literally ripping each other's dresses. By the end of the song they are both wearing tatters. I've seen that episode so many times - I'm a big fan of the show - but it gets me every time.

Though fictional, Lucy and Ethel had a remarkable friendship. I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately and it occurs to me that perhaps Lucy and Ethel set my example of what I thought friendship was supposed to be. Of course, it was a different time and a different place, but it was something special. To my knowledge, there was no other woman-woman friendship like it anywhere else on TV, and my mom didn't have a friendship like that (as far as I knew). Women on TV were depicted as devoted and subservient to their husbands, but not Lucy and Ethel. Sure they had restrictions - they were homemakers entirely dependent on their husbands, which was common - but they pushed and challenged and tested their husbands all the time. They had minds of their own and they figured out how to use those minds to get what they wanted for themselves.

So let's compare their friendship to friendships of today. They spent time together nearly every day. Outside of people at the office, I don't even TALK to anyone every day, though I have a friend I talk with several times a week. They supported each other (though Ethel, wisely, often declined to participate in some of Lucy's hair-brained schemes). I find this to be the part missing in my friendships. My female friends can be supportive but they are usually too involved in their own lives to be supportive in a meaningful way. I'm meeting new people all the time, however, who are proving to be supportive of me and encouraging me to take risks in my life. Ricky and Fred got along and in fact had their own friendship separate from "the girls." Though that didn't happen in my life, I know this happens quite a bit and it's wonderful to see. Usually, however, either the women or the men are friends already and they drag their spouses along for the ride (or at least that's how it starts). Lucy and Ethel were in the same women's clubs. Lucy was the first one Ethel ran to with news - good or bad - and vice versa.

I've often wondered who conceived and wrote that friendship. In those days there weren't many women writers in television so I assume a man did it.  He must have based that friendship on women he knew because I simply cannot believe a man could conceive that kind of friendship on his own! I saw the movie The King's Speech a couple of weeks ago and walked away thinking about friendship again. Though the relationship between Bertie and Lionel started as a professional one, they became lifelong true friends until their deaths. Even a King needs to have a trusted and loyal friend and he found one in his speech therapist.

The person I felt was my "best" friend over the past decade has really been testing me, though I'm sure not intentionally. In one moment she is totally supportive, present and available and we have great conversations and really good fun. Another moment - which seem to be more often and lasting for longer stretches - she is consumed by her own life and, though we "talk" it's really her talking until she says what she needs to get off her chest and then rushes off the phone. I was feeling "slighted" - for lack of a better word - so I started paying close attention to our conversations. She literally went three months without asking about my children, though we spoke several times a week. That was an eye opener.  In the past couple of weeks we've been out together, with a couple of her other friends, and my eyes opened again. While I was catching up with one of her friends I have not seen in awhile, after he asked how I'm doing, how's work, how are the kids, etc., she interrupted our conversation and started telling a story about something her 2 year old son did. Really? You had to pick that time to share that story? The thing that really gets me is when she calls with the express purpose of asking for parenting advice and then she completely blows off what I say. Um, toots, if you do not agree with my parenting style then why do you call to ask me for advice?  Needless to say, I've been reevaluating that relationship.

I'm watching my boys struggle with friendship. Though he doesn't say it, I think Sweetie really wants to have a "best" friend but he just hasn't met a boy who has the right combination: the same desire to be "best" friends and parents who are willing to schedule play dates, etc. through me.  He has a friend he really likes who is two grades above him - and I know and like his parents - but that boy already has a "best" friend and I think Sweetie feels a little like the third wheel when they are all together. He has another friend in his grade that he likes but his parents are immigrants, struggle a bit with the language and culture, and do not seem interested in getting to know me. I tell Sweetie to have lots of friends, not just one or two, but he's very shy and making friends is not easy for him.  Stinker, on the other hand, very clearly wants a "best" friend. He made friends with a set of twins in pre-school and he loves them, but they go to a different school clear across town.  I know and like their mother, but scheduling time to play is very challenging. We last got together in October and I have been trying to schedule something since then. We are having a play date with one of my friends (who has a son Sweetie's age) on Monday and I invited the twins to join us but they are busy. Stinker cries every time I have to tell him they will not be doing something with us.  He made a new friend in kinder, but this boy is friends with everyone - not just Stinker - and that makes Stinker sad. Knowing how badly I seek a true bond with people in my life, it's hard for me to watch them struggle as they navigate their way.

"Lean on me, when you're not strong, and I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on, for it won't be long, 'til I'm going to need somebody to lean on."

Rules of Conduct for the Gym

2011-01-15T17:20:00.000-08:00

Ladies who attend a gym, especially those of you who shower at the gym, I offer these rules of conduct:

1. Do not wear perfume to the gym. When you sweat it starts coming out of your pores and the odor is really strong. And it's not a good odor. I don't care what fragrance you wear ... sweat and perfume is an unpleasant mix. Plus, I may not like the scent you're wearing so I don't need you to make it stronger.

2. Wipe the equipment when you're done. Even if you are not a sweaty Betty, you sweat when you exercise. Even if you don't drip, your sweat gets on the equipment ... on handles, on seats, on padding. I don't even like to touch my own sweat, I certainly don't want to touch yours.

3. Do not talk on the phone while you are exercising. When you exercise and start breathing a little harder, you talk louder. I can hear everything you say. And I don't want to.

4. When you shower, don't leave your hair all over the place. If it comes out while you wash your hair, leave it on the drain so the custodian can remove it when the showers get cleaned. Do not leave it stuck to the wall. Or the faucet. Or the soap dispenser. Just sayin.

5. If your hair falls out when you brush/comb/style it, throw it in the trash. Do not leave it on the hand dryer. Or the counter. Or the floor. Seriously.

6. Do not bring your young children into the locker room. I love kids, but not yours. I don't like to be naked in front of my own kids so I definitely don't want to be naked in front of yours. Besides, it's not safe for anyone when your two year old is climbing into the lockers and closing the door behind her. Drop your children in the designated kids area. That's what it's for.

7. Look around. You'll notice trash cans. You know, for you to throw your trash in. Don't leave it on the floor. Or on the benches. And guess what? They have them in the kids' area, the gym, AND the locker room. Imagine that.

8. Don't cut the line for zumba or any other popular exercise class. People come early to ensure they get a spot. They've taken time out of their day, and organized their schedule, because that class is important to them. When you come in at the last minute, say "excuse me" and act like you're joining a friend but you're really just cutting the line, we want to hit you. Hard.

9. Rack your weights. You were strong enough to pick them up, you're strong enough to put them back. If they feel too heavy when it's time to put them away, you're using the wrong weight. Try something lighter.

10. When the gym is crowded and people are waiting, follow the gym's time limits. Truly, I don't care if you spend 90 minutes at the gym every day, just don't do it on the same piece of equipment the entire time.

It's called common courtesy, people. Use it.

Where Do I Fit In?

2011-01-15T10:55:00.000-08:00

Over the past couple of years I have been doing a lot of work on myself. I'm working on being "conscious" in my every day life: conscious of what I eat, conscious of how I act, conscious of what I say, etc. Don't get me wrong, I am far from perfect. But I can honestly say I am much improved. A huge part of me wishes I had done this work a decade or so earlier, but this is my path and I'm happily traveling it.

One of the things I've been paying attention to is my interactions with other people, especially women. I don't have a lot of friends.  I have plenty of acquaintances, but I don't have that core group of women that I can count on. For example, I find myself "all dressed up with no place to go" all the time. How did I reach my middle 40s without a core group of friends? I hear other women talking about "girls night out" and I don't really have that as an option in my life. Interestingly, I never really have. I've never really felt like I fit in anywhere.

Many women have had their core group of friends since high school or college. I have one friend from junior high that I've stayed in contact with over all of these years - off and on, up and down, frequent and infrequent - but I think we're still friends simply because we've known each other so long. Growing up my cousin was my best friend, and we remained really close friends well into our twenties, and then life took us separate ways. She got married and moved away, which made our previous constant contact very difficult. Then she had a baby and I went to law school ... the rest is history. We still keep in contact, we visit occasionally, but we have totally different lives now. I have one friend from college that I talk to regularly, but she lives 6 hours away so we don't see each other very often. I have one friend from law school that I stayed in touch with, who lives within visiting range, but even that relationship has basically disappeared over the past few years.

I have no way of knowing why I didn't develop lasting friendships when I was younger, and frankly it's a waste of time and energy to look back and ponder it. Instead, I've been trying to figure out why I haven't bonded with any of the fabulous women I've met over the past five or ten years. I don't know the answers, at least not yet, but I have had a realization. Right now, at this point in my life, I am in a "no man's land." Single mothers don't really fit in anywhere. I don't have much in common with my "single" friends because my world revolves around my children and their lives, while my single friends' lives revolve around career, relationships, travel, etc.  I don't have much in common with my married friends, in part because I did not have a good marriage so I don't have anything positive to contribute, but mostly because their lives revolve around their intact families. I certainly have more in common with single mothers than with anyone else right now, but even within that group there is distance. As an example, unless our parenting schedules are similar - which is rare - one of us always hads kids in tow. My closest single-mother friend is very close to her family and spends a ton of time with them, we are on opposite weekends with our kids, and she is currently (actively) dating. I ask you, when does she have time for a cocktail? And then there's the issue of common interests: once you get us away from our children, we're left to our own devices ... what if we have nothing in common?

Don't get me wrong; it's not like I'm this lonely little sad sack. I'm not. But it occurs to me that I don't have a core group of good friends that have my back. As examples, I locked myself out of my house at 2:00 a.m and I had no one to call; the only person who has a spare key is my 70-year-old mother and I'm not going to call her in the middle of the night. I got in a hit-and-run accident in a bad part of town at midnight and I had no one to call. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. in excruciating pain, thinking I needed to call 911, and I had no one to call. Those moments in life happen to every one, and they are the moments when you realize who's got your back.

What to do, what to do? I'm not sure yet.  It's clear I need to develop a support system, I just don't know what it's going to look like. I joined a running group a couple of years ago with the hopes of meeting new friends, but what I actually got was more acquaintances. That's not a bad thing but it's not what I'm looking for right now. I've been invited to join a bunco group; maybe my support system will start there, but maybe not. As I've been learning over the last year or so, when things don't work out as we hope, we should consider it nothing more than feedback: What we did and/or how we did it did not give the result we wanted. Adjust, do something different, and wait for feedback. All I can do is keep trying different things until I find my fit.

A Day of Service?

2011-01-14T07:03:00.000-08:00

Martin Luther King, Jr. day is now a national Day of Service. People and their families are encouraged to find a way to spend the day volunteering in service of others. I'm all for it; no matter the cause, everyone can use a little help now and then, and the ability to help others is a fairly unique trait we as humans have. I also want to instill in my children the idea that they should take some time out of their self-indulgent lives and do something for someone else.

Last year I didn't plan ahead and I didn't start looking for a service project until the night before. I couldn't find anything that would be appropriate for the kids and me; the few service projects I located in my community were heavy labor (painting, etc.) and/or had age requirements far higher than the ages of my boys. I just assumed all of the "appropriate" projects had been filled by those uber-organized families. So this year I planned ahead and I've been researching service projects for the past few days. Guess what? I can't find a project that is appropriate for the boys and me to do as a family.

I began to wonder. What happened to those "clean the park" days? Why aren't agencies that serve food advertising for help on the Day of Service? My kids are still pretty little, but they could certainly accompany me while I clean up the banks of one of our five rivers. In fact, they would love it ... they would find every odd rock, plant and bug. What a missed opportunity! My little guys could certainly help carry plates of food, or pick up leftover meal trash at a meal-serving agency. They could probably help pack boxes at a food bank. Alas, none of these projects is available to us.

As I've mentioned previously, I started a non-profit that will provide weekend food bags for food insecure children. We aren't up and running yet (we're getting our legal paperwork done, corporate structure done, etc. and raising money), but after this experience I am committed to having a Day of Service project ready to go next year. If nothing else, we can make that the day we clean out/organize everything. Ideally, it would be a day where we unpack and organize tons of food to get ready for distribution. Either way, next year we will have our very own project for the Day of Service.

Is that Dr. King?

2011-01-13T11:52:00.000-08:00

It comes as no surprise, with the observance of Martin Luther King, Jr. day fast approaching, that my children are learning about him and his legacy. Last week Stinker - my kindergardener - had a school project about dreams. As a family we were to talk about our dreams for our family, for our community and for the world. Stinker's project coincided with one of Sweetie's cub scouts projects, in which he was to make a poster about what it means to be a good citizen. I feel like I know my kids pretty well, but these kinds of projects always reveal delightful little facts about my kids.

Stinker's dream for our family is that his Gigi - my mother - wouldn't be old anymore. I know he's close to her, that he loves her, and that he knows she's old, but it never occurred to me that he might have some understanding about what it means to be old. I'm not sure if he does or not because I didn't press him for details, but the comment resonated with me. Stinker's dream for our community is that everyone has a warm place to sleep. This is pretty deep stuff for a 5 year old and I was so proud to discover such compassion. (He IS a stinker, after all.) And then he blew my mind: His dream for the world is No War. I don't talk about war very often, and as far as I know The Ex does not either, but it's apparent that whatever discussions have occurred around him have sunk in a little bit. I must confess that I have told them - Sweetie especially - that ever since they have been on this earth we have been at war with countries far away.

Sweetie has similar compassionate sensibilities. His dream for our family is that his mother will live a long and happy life. (Are you saying "AAAAwwww" yet?). Seriously. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard? (Now you see why I have dubbed him Sweetie in this blog!) His dream for our community is that everyone has enough to eat. (I've started a non-profit that will provide weekend food bags for food insecure kids at his school so we talk about hunger quite a bit in our home.) His dream for the world is peace. I'm verklempt.

For his cub scout poster, we talked a lot about what it means to be a good citizen and his compassion came out again. He said things like "be nice to the planet" "follow the Golden Rule" "Honor my country". The poster ended up including an earth in the center, and then it was surrounded by symbols of things he thinks are important: recycling, a police badge (obey all laws), an American flag, seeds (to grow his own food), trees (to save the ones we have and plant more of them), and a "True American Hero" badge because "that's what I want to be when I'm a grown up." I was very proud of the ideals he chose, in part because they align (at least a little) with the ideals that I and their father believe in, but also because these are very mature thoughts for an 8 year old boy obsessed with Legos and video games to have.

So this morning, Stinker and I were snuggling in bed before it was time for me to get up and I had the news on the television (as I do every morning). The station was showing clips from President Obama's speech yesterday at the memorial service in Tucson. When he talked about wanting to live up to Christina Green's expectations and to live in the world she imagined, he emphasized with his arm and the crowd applauded. Stinker looked at me and said, "Mom, is that Dr. King?" Wow. What a great reminder that little kids are sponges!

Project Pound Loss: Week 1 is my friend

2011-01-12T15:26:00.000-08:00

Last year (or maybe it was the year before?) I posted a weekly update on my unsupervised, totally solo efforts to lose weight. (I may have been trying Weight Watchers, I'm not sure. Notice I used the word "trying" as opposed to the word "doing." I'm sure you get the picture.) The posts really didn't add anything to Like Sand in an Hourglass; I just felt like it would make me more accountable if I blogged about it. I'm either an idiot or delusional. Needless to say, once I quit trying to lose weight - like I always do - I went back and read my blog posts. It was pathetic and I deleted them. Then I crawled back into my metaphorical cave of self-loathing and had a cookie. Or 4. What can be so difficult, right? Eat less, move more. Duh.

Here's the skinny (pun intended). I used to be skinny. Then I was thin. Then I was in decent shape. Then I had a few extra pounds. Then I was "a little" overweight. Then I was a fat "skinny person." Then I was a skinny "fat person." Then I just got fat. I didn't gain very much weight when pregnant because those silly little babies already had ample room to grow in there. After delivering each of my children, I lost my pregnancy weight and then an additional 40 or so pounds. Those blasted pounds kept finding me, and they brought their friends!

I'm all out of excuses. Stinker is almost 6 years old, so I can't blame it on post-baby body. I'm not unhappily married anymore, so I can't blame it on my loveless marriage. I'm not lonely, or injured, or any number of things people rely on to explain how they got fat. I'm just unconscious about my eating and too sedentary.

Each year, like millions of other people, I declare it will be the year that I lose the weight. Each year, like millions of other people, I start and then I stop. I make up stories and excuses, I get "too busy," whatever ... I make up some story to explain why I can't stick to any program. IT ALL ENDS NOW.

Have you seen Jennifer Hudson? Damn, that girl looks gooooooood. She is my muse. My body looks like hers did in Dreamgirls - a square block - except I don't have the booty for balance. She is a spokesperson for Weight Watchers so I thought I'd go check out the new Points Plus program. I know what you're thinking: So? You do this every year, and every year you quit. Why should we care that you're starting again? Why should we be supportive when our love and energy will be wasted? My answer: I'm doing a few things differently this time and I'm setting myself up to succeed.

I've joined with a friend, so I actually do have accountability. She's someone I see almost every day, so I have to look her in the eye and confess to my eating sins. I've chosen a center right down the street from where I spend most of my working hours, so it is not a big chunk of my time to stop in and weigh myself. I chose a center that literally has 18 meetings a week; no matter my schedule, it's highly probable I can find a meeting that will work. Plus, in addition to 18 meetings a week, it has 24 "open hours" where I can go weigh in even if I can't make a meeting. No more trying to convince myself to interrupt my Saturday to go to a meeting (ick!) or rushing home in traffic to get the kids, get them fed, take them to grandma's and then get to a meeting on time. Do you see what I did there? I eliminated all of my excuses for not going to meetings! As much as I don't like them, statistics show that people with the best weight loss results regularly attend meetings.

But wait, there's more. (Does that sound like an infomercial?) I'm also working the exercises in A Course of Weight Loss. It's got 21 lessons that are designed to help the reader identify the emotional reasons for overeating, address them and release them so one can lose the weight and not gain it back. If it works, this is a HUGE part of my journey because I am definitely an emotional eater. (Someone once described the phenomenon in a way that makes sense to me [as gross as it is]: Feelings are like cat poop, food is the kitty litter, and the eater is the cat. Whenever we experience unpleasant feelings, we try to bury them with food. OMG - this analogy speaks to me, dear reader.)

I'm not done. I'm also following a biggest-loser type of program that 24 Hour Fitness will be hosting. I get extra Points Plus for exercise - bonus! I get to eat more! - AND I'm 40-something and realize that no matter what I do with food, the weight will not come off if I do not exercise regularly.

And speaking of Biggest Loser, if all else fails and I can't get a grip on this weight loss issue, I'm going to the Biggest Loser ranch in Utah in the fall! So there.

So here's the status for Week 1: I lost 4.8 pounds! Woo hoo. I didn't have a perfect week - I had bunco with the girls last week plus I baked chocolate chip cookies for the boys (masochist, I know!) - but in the grand scheme I worked the program, and it worked me. I know I won't continue to lose so much each week as I progress in the program, but a nearly 5-pound loss is definitely motivation to carry on.

Oh, and I have some rewards for myself for each milestone I hit (5%, 10%, etc.) Alas, those are for another day.

It's a "No Pants" Day

2011-01-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

I was catching up on my reading of my bloggy friend Boys Mom's page, and I realized I'm not paying close enough attention to the silly things my kids do. Boy Mom is so good about sharing the little things her 8 boys (that's right, I said it - 8 boys, God help her!) do, good, bad and hysterical. If you're interested in a day in the life, you should follow her.

So after I read some of her posts, I sat pondering. What have my boys done lately? They make me laugh almost daily, so surely I must have some great examples. Let's see. Well, they were playing with my couch cushions again over the weekend - a BIG no no - and they tore one of the cushions. Oh wait, that's not silly; that's a reason NOT to have children. I know what I'll share today ...

Stinker has decided - out of nowhere as far as I can tell - they should have "no pants" days. We have pajama days, so maybe that's where he got the idea. Anyway, it's not unusual for me to walk out into the living room where they are watching TV and see them without pants. I usually tell them to put their pants back on, though I'm happy to let them put on pajama bottoms or some other lounging-friendly pants. It's winter, it's cold, put some pants on for God's sake!

Last week Stinker comes into my office area without pants. I asked him where his pants were, and he responded - in all seriousness - "Mom, it's a no pants day." When pressed for details about why it's a no pants day and what that means, he said, "Mom, boys don't like to wear pants. You make us wear pants, but we don't want to wear pants. We're just on the couch, so we're not wearing pants. It's a No Pants day." And then he scooted out of the room. I followed him out to the living room and Sweetie wasn't wearing pants, either.

I fear for their future wives.

Happy New Year?

2011-01-11T21:56:00.000-08:00

I try to end each year on a positive note. While I'm decking the halls and fa-la-la-la-ing, I try to slow down enough to take a glance back at the year. Often I reflect on the year while writing a holiday letter. Oh wait, I haven't written one of those in years. Now I have Facebook. And this blog. Who needs to write a Christmas letter? But I digress.

As I've mentioned before, The Ex and I have been apart for five years now. He moved on right away, and had a live-in girlfriend within 8 months of moving out of our family home. I was not so unrooted. I did what I had always done before; I wallowed; I felt sorry for myself; I cried; I belly-ached to anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, The Ex seemed completely unaffected. I, on the other hand, needed some time. In the past year or so, I felt like I had let go of all of that baggage and was moving forward with my life. Two years ago I joined a church. I took a couple of spiritual growth classes. I met new people. I stopped engaging The Ex in arguments and heated discussions. I focused on the good things in my life. Though I have had setbacks - old habits are hard to break after all - I felt like I really made some good progress towards peace and contentment.

As I've also mentioned before, though The Ex and I have done a pretty good job of getting along when it comes to co-parenting our children, something changed last spring. I won't re-hash the story (check out "Is it Just Me or Is An Apology In Order?"), but suffice it to say I shut down. I went from having love for this man who gave me these beautiful children even though I don't like him, to REALLY disliking him. A lot. Despite my hard work at letting things go, the feeling of dislike really stuck with me.

So, in an effort to end my year on a positive note, I went to church on New Year's Eve and participated in the Burning Bowl ceremony. I wrote down everything I felt about The Ex and the situation, and I told him off like I would if that were an appropriate thing for me to do, and then I dropped it in the burning bowl, watched it go from paper to ash, and then scooped the ashes away and into a disposal bin. I "washed my hands" of the whole thing right before midnight.

Now the fun part begins. Did I actually release all that crap? Have I moved forward? Did I let it go? Is it a happy new year? Time will tell, and then I'll tell you.

Internet Dating

2010-12-25T02:07:00.000-08:00

Some statistics say that 1 in 5 relationships is a result of online dating. That seems unlikely given my universe of friends, though I do admit that one of my friends met her husband on match.com and they have been together for about 10 years.

I have a friend who is actively doing the online dating thing, and her stories almost make me want to sign up just so I will have something to blog about. She's realistic; she realizes that she will have to kiss a lot of frogs (metaphorically, of course!), but she is a single mom working full-time (whose ex-husband does not spend a lot of time with the children so she has very little free time on her hands) and online is currently the easiest way for her to increase her odds of meeting someone she might like. She is just under 40 and a "cute" woman. I swear, the stories I am about to share are from the horse's mouth. And I'm quite sure there are more that she has not shared with me ...

For the very first date, I told her she should text me to let me know where she is meeting him, when, and his name. Safety reasons, of course. I showed up to spy, and they had already left. That first date did not go well. Not only did he not look like his profile picture, he was about 10 years older than he said he was. Oi vey.

Of the utmost interest is the karate guy. He is divorced with a couple of kids, and his claim to fame is that he owns a few karate schools. You can imagine the type. They exchanged a few emails before they started speaking on the phone. She doesn't mess around; she knows what she likes, and she knows within the first few minutes of conversation, so she skips over the email stuff and encourages telephone contact. They went out to dinner, they got to know each other a little, and she thought he was an okay guy. She liked that he seemed to be really dedicated to his kids. She told me about him, which I thought meant it was promising. They went out to dinner a second time, and they shared a kiss. It was kind of a big deal, not because of emotion or because she really liked him but because he was the first "kiss" since her ex-husband. Our bunco group really gave her a hard time about it. She went out with him a third time - the "magic" date as some might call it - and he was like a completely different person. Picture this. He invites her to his home, promising to make her dinner. During the week. She busts her behind to get home from work, feed her children, shower, drop the kids with the babysitter, and get to his house at a reasonably early hour. When she arrived, he was still in his canvas jumper, having worked on his car. While he showered, she waited patiently in the living room, noticing the fast food wrappers in the corner and the dirty socks on the floor. She thought it was weird; if you're trying to impress someone, and you've invited them over for dinner, why wouldn't you hide the evidence of your single life? After he got out of the shower, he suggested they go out to dinner. She was thrilled, as she was starving. He took her to a Jack in the Box drive-in. They brought the food back to his house, and he insisted they eat in his living room. He laid on a couch (apparently, he's a descendant of ancient Rome!) and ate his food. At one point he needed a napkin and rather than get up to retrieve, oh I don't know, a towel or something, he PULLED THE SOCK OFF OF HIS FOOT AND WIPED HIS MOUTH WITH IT. People, I spit my drink when she told me. And that's not even the worst of it. After they finished dinner, he said that a blow job would really relax him. To her credit, she said, "I'm sure it would, but I have to go home." OH. MY. GOD.

Then there is the nickname guy. First, he wanted to shorten her 3-syllable name to the first syllable. She told him (politely) she has always gone by her first name and did not like it to be shortened. He played with a few different terms of endearment - sweetie, honey, etc. - before he settled on Mama. Really? Seriously?  Guys, women who are mothers do not like to be called "mama." It brings up maternal things for us - things like "I have nursed you" or "I have changed your diaper"- and not sexual, sensual, or I-might-consider-sleeping-with-you thoughts. She stopped returning his calls.

Can we talk about the stalker? This guy is the one who falls in love easily and quickly. She went out with him once and suddenly he is lighting up her cell phone with text messages.  Even though she kind of liked him, he freaked her out with his hard press. He texted her 6 or 7 times a day after one date. She had to cut him loose.

And now for my favorite story, only because I witnessed it.  She and I were sitting at a bar having a drink. She was sharing her online dating stories, and we were laughing. At some point she noticed the guy next to me was smiling, so she said something like "are you laughing at me?" After a little bit of discussion, and the retrieval of a profile on his iPhone, they figured out that she had "winked" at him and he had not responded. Dang - what are the odds? He apologized for not responding, blah blah blah, and left her with his business card. She texted him, and he never responded. WTH? Why give a business card if you aren't going to respond?? That does not make any sense.

And then there's John. Apparently, John is some sort of military guy. I don't know what he does for a living but he has been in the Middle East (Iraq, Afghanistan). For four months she corresponded with him. They exchanged pictures. She shared intimate details of her life, as did he. She reached a point where she felt a little guilty going out with other guys because she felt like she and John had such an amazing connection. After he came home, they met for dinner. She thought it went well, and felt like all was right with the world. He has not responded to her at all, good, bad or indifferent.

As I am approaching a time when it will be easier for me to date, I listen to these stories and I think "Is this what I have to look forward to?" Really? I think I'd rather be alone ....

Should I Be Flattered or Offended?

2010-12-08T01:06:00.000-08:00

About a week ago, a friend of mine - in a backhanded, passive-aggressive way - insinuated that I am a "martyr mommy" and that she is not.  I'd never heard the phrase before, so I did not know what she meant, but I didn't like the way she said it. It was delivered with an air of superiority that made me bristle.  I have since been on a mission to find out what it means so I can figure out how I am supposed to feel about being "called" it.

I checked http://www.urbandictionary.com/ and it says "martyr mommy" and "mommy martyr" are not defined. Yet. I guess it's only a matter of time. I googled the term and discovered that a martyr mommy is defined as a mom who sacrifices her own needs every time. According to one definition, a martyr mommy puts her personal needs, wants and wishes on the back burner, then she justifies her martyr behavior by convincing herself that this is what all mothers do. A 2005 article in The Washington Post said "There's a place for martyrs: in medieval town squares, TV soap operas and on the Senate floor.  Nobody wants one in their own home." Ouch.

A blog here on blogspot (I Invented Motherhood) provided insight into how to spot a martyr mom. Here's the rundown and my self-assessment. A martyr mom is overwhelmed and sighs, a lot (I'm not guilty (+1)). She is distracted, unable to focus (guilty (-1)). She has difficulty making choices because there are so many to make (not guilty (+1)).  A martyr mom is not organized and her house is cluttered (guilty (-1)). She can't find things, but spends a lot of time looking (guilty sometimes but not all the time (0)). She can't remember what she needed at the store so she either buys everything or nothing (not guilty - I take a list! (+1)). The martyr mom makes sure the family eats (except for herself - she lives off of snacks and bites of her children's food), and there are more drive-thru dinners and store-bought microwave-friendly meals (guilty - yikes. See my Two or More Times a Week post (-1)). Her family spends more time TV dining than eating at the table (we eat out a lot so this a cheater's not guilty (0)). The martyr mom coordinates the schedules of her kids but won't schedule time for herself (guilty of scheduling the kids but not guilty of refusing to schedule time for myself (0)). She finds it hard to separate from her children and familial obligations (guilty, but I'm getting better as my kids get older (-1)). When she has free time, she ends up doing stuff for the house and kids (not guilty - see "her house is cluttered" above (+1)). A martyr mom has been putting herself last for so long that she no longer remembers what she likes to do or how to have fun without her children (guilty of not remembering what I like to do but not guilty of being unable to have fun without my children (0)). Worse, she doesn't think having fun is important (definitely NOT guilty (+1)). She is exhausted; taking care of everyone else means she cannot take care of herself (guilty, guilty, guilty (-1)). She doesn't make time to exercise or eat well, and she is so overwhelmed that she stays up too late thinking she's doing something productive when the kids are asleep but usually ends up watching hours of bad television or playing around on the internet (gulp - guilty with a capital G (-1)). She's not writing, just reading and feeling overwhelmed by all of the information available (not guilty - I write something almost every night (+1)). When the martyr mom does things, they are rushed or not quite the way she wants them, but she doesn't have the energy to fix it (probably guilty (-1)). She spends a lot of time thinking, but isn't communicating or solving problems (not guilty - I communicate and solve problems daily (+1)). She's wallowing (not guilty, though I have spent time wallowing in the past (+1)). She has a hard time saying no, even if she's fully aware that adding one more thing to her plate means less getting done well (thankfully, not guilty (+1)).

On balance, I am NOT a martyr mommy, but boy am I close. Which brings me to my initial question: should I be flattered or offended? Everything I have read implies that martyr mommies are B-A-D, so I guess the answer is "offended." But really, what business is it of anyone else whether I am a martyr mommy or not? Since this "friend" implied that I am a martyr mommy, I have felt defensive. Suddenly I feel like I need to justify my parenting attitudes.

Confession time: I think it is appropriate for parents to make personal sacrifices for their children. I did it knowingly and voluntarily and I have no regrets, but doing so was definitely an issue for The Ex, who really has not altered his lifestyle at all. In my case, I lived a full and fun life before I had my children, so I have had no problem putting my personal "fun" on the back burner while my children are young. And besides, my version of "fun" is coming back into my life. My boys are the PERFECT age for traveling and adventures, so we're doing a lot more of that these days. I find I need some time to myself that I didn't need before; the constant noise, motion, chatter and bickering of two busy boys exhausts me far more than the constant care and feeding did when they were babies and toddlers.  When they were babies, it physically hurt me to be away from them for too long.  I still don't like to be away from them for too long - they are my heart and my loves and my center - but it doesn't physically hurt anymore. Do these attitudes make me a martyr mommy? Maybe, and if they do, so what??

My friend is definitely NOT a martyr mommy as I have defined it in this post. From my perspective, she is the complete opposite. She is very preoccupied with her own needs and wants. I do not understand why she had children at all because it seems like she is constantly trying to pawn them off on other people. She is a stay-at-home mom who puts her two young children in daycare. She claims it is so she can "work," but she has not held a regular job in about a decade so I'm not sure what "work" she's referring to. If it were me, I would hire a babysitter occasionally to get things done but I would not put my children in daycare if I did not have to. But that's just me. She has an au pair coming in about a week or so, which baffles me. Why does she need an au pair?  We definitely have different attitudes about parenting. I try not to judge her for the choices she has made, so I guess it bugs me that I feel like she is judging me for the choices I have made. I mean really, was it necessary to put a label on me?

I know that not all mothers make the choices I made when it comes to prioritizing my own needs with those of my children. But guess what? I have surrounded myself with like-minded women. We support each other in the crazy chaos that is our lives. We tend to agree with each other's sacrifices. We celebrate when someone breaks out and does something nice for herself. I guess it comes as no surprise that my non-martyr mom friend and I don't spend much time together anymore.

I Love Kitsch. Don't Judge Me.

2010-11-30T15:07:00.000-08:00

Despite my advanced years, I only recently realized that I love kitsch. I'm not saying my taste has changed; I'm saying I'm just now aware that what I like IS kitsch. I was that kid who loved to have all of the pre-fab things with my name on them. I had the little license plate for my bike. I had "This book belongs to Wendy" stickers. I thought that stuff was "neat" even though I knew it wasn't "cool."

I've never been cool. During my formative years I wanted to be cool, but looking back I accept that I didn't want it badly enough. Being cool requires effort, and I just didn't care enough. You have to pay attention to what's going on in fashion and music and gaming and cars and accessories. I was too busy trying to hide the fact that I am a geek, through and through. I was a gymnast and thought that would make me cool; it didn't. It just made me stronger and more muscular than other girls my age. I was a cheerleader; certainly that would make me cool. It didn't. I was more visible than some, but putting on a short skirt and bulky sweater so I could cheer on the home team didn't change who I was inside. I liked having a label maker, Tiger Beat covers taped to my bedroom wall, and random furniture.

After I attended the California Women's Conference about a month ago, I had an "aha" moment about my affinity for kitsch. I went with a friend and colleague who is young, successful and just a total knockout. She's also very self-assured, "in the know" about fashion and trends, and just oozes cool with every fiber of her being. We grabbed all of the free swag available in the exhibition hall without really looking at it, and then each of us (apparently) reviewed what we had when we got home. There was a keychain from one of the vendors. It has charms on it like you'd expect to see on a bracelet, including a high heeled shoe, a purse, a key and a heart. I thought it was so cute I added it to my very blase cluster of keys. My companion? Not so much. I can't remember her exact words but it was something like cheap or ugly. We also got a little business card holder that has a pink faux-leather cover. I love it and immediately emptied my very professional but very boring card holder and replaced it with my new fun pink one. My companion? She wondered why on earth this well-known vendor would give out something so stupid. Don't get me wrong; she was not being mean or criticizing me. She did not know I liked either of those things because I did not tell her; she was just sharing her thoughts about the swag. In fact, I think she would feel bad if she knew I thought those things were cute.

My home is full of kitsch, though I'm happy to say it's not too over the top. I have those collage-style picture frames and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I hang my children's artwork on the walls with tape. My kids' rooms have matchy-matchy linens and furniture. Most of my Christmas ornaments are homemade. Nothing in my house is coordinated except my couches. My furniture is cheap and shows signs of use. An interior designer would probably faint upon entering my home. But you know what? These things make me comfortable.

I love kitsch. Don't you judge me.

Is It Just Me, Or Is An Apology In Order??

2010-11-27T18:54:00.000-08:00

Confession time. It really bugs me when people don't apologize. I'm including the BIG apologies for the BIG errors and omissions in our personal relationships, but it's really the missing little apologies that make me nutty. It's silly, I know, but for whatever reason, I think it is monumentally rude. It's like saying "excuse me" when you bump into someone or "thank you" when someone holds open a door. It's just common courtesy to apologize for little mishaps, misunderstandings, moments of insanity or whatever. We all make mistakes, and we all should apologize for them when we make them. But we don't. Common courtesy is disappearing more quickly than a 14 year old can text supercalifragilisticexpialidotious.

Case in point #1 (The Ex):  He refuses to apologize to me for ANYthing. Despite acknowledging that he hurt me, he has never apologized for hurting me. He has never apologized for cheating, for lying, for sneaking around, for incurring debt without my knowledge, for breaking promises, nothing, nada, nil, zip. I have come to accept that he is NEVER going to apologize to me for anything related to the marriage. It bugs me, but I've accepted it.

We have been divorced for five years. We had what I characterized as a "decent" relationship when it came to the kids; we haven't had any custody fights, we haven't had any scheduling fights, nothing. We had some disagreements during the first year or so of our separation about parenting, but some of those we would have had even if we were married.  During this past summer, however, the relationship (at least from my perspective) was totally destroyed. The Ex unloaded 15 years of garbage on me in a two-page email, using the most hateful words he could. It was so bad that I wasn't even affected at first; I could not believe this person I knew and loved could say such things to anyone, much less the mother of two of his children. He called me names, he called me crazy, he called me a terrible role model for our children - you name it, if it's nasty, he fired it at me. The exclamation point was his most definitive statement that he could not possibly think any less of me than he already does. The insults he launched were (mostly) inaccurate but more to the point, they were unprovoked, unnecessary and unproductive. We've been apart for five years - why now? We had been getting along just fine - why now? Since that email, I have been shutting down, inch by inch, bit by bit, when it comes to him. He, on the other hand, has acted like it never happened. Huh?? Is it just me, or is an apology in order?

Case in point #2 (The Ex): About a month ago, he left a voicemail for me that clearly was not intended for me. It wasn't anything scandalous, but it sounded work-related so I texted him to let him know. He denied it was him, using his most disdainful and condescending tone he could. Really? I've known you for 16 years and you think I don't recognize your voice on the phone? Eventually I responded by saying "I didn't tell you so we could argue about whether or not it's you; I told you because I was concerned it might be important and whoever was supposed to get the message did not get it." [As an aside, it came from an unfamiliar phone number. I think he denied it because he doesn't want me to know he has a different phone number. Like I care. As long as he answers the number I call, what do I care that he has other numbers?] Is it just me, or is an apology in order??

Case in point #3 (The Ex): This is the "transgression" that inspired this post. Yesterday I received a text message from him. I checked it because he had the kids and they had not been feeling well when his parenting time began. Imagine the sensation in my stomach when I read "I love you sexy mommy."   Clearly that text was not intended for me. I responded to it, letting him know that I was sure he didn't intend to send it to me but he did and so his intended recipient did not receive it. Did I get even a cursory "oops, sorry." Nope. I got crickets. When I picked the kids up today, he didn't say anything. Is it just me, or is an apology in order?

Pretend Polygamy

2010-11-18T06:05:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about polygamy only because of that reality show Sister Wives and the fire storm that surrounds it. Let me just say it ... I'm against polygamy. Never mind that it's illegal; I don't think government should control our private lives and relationships so I would be against it even if it were legal. I'm against polygamy because I think it's a raw deal for the women.  Polygamy is a great set up for the man in the relationship. He gets the best of all worlds. He can have every single possible characteristic he wants in a wife, and if something is missing he can just go get another wife who possesses whatever is missing.  He might have his closeted siren in one wife, his spiritual teacher in another wife, his confidante in another wife, his outdoor buddy in one wife, his gourmet chef in one wife. He gets to have sex with multiple women and have families with multiple women. But what do the women get? From my very limited perspective, I think the women get all of the disadvantages of traditional marriage but get no advantage by being one of multiple wives. The sister wives have to share more than a single wife has to share - they get less of his time, his affection, his income, etc. I just don't see the advantage.

Pretend polygamy, however, is a concept I can embrace. I don't know about you, but I sometimes fantasize about what it would be like to be married to certain famous people. And, I fantasize about what it would be like to be able to have a husband to suit every mood. So I created a network of "pretend husbands" who (in my mind) fulfill my every need. Let me introduce them. Pretend husband #1 is Jon Bon Jovi. Of course. I can't remember the order I pretend married the rest of them, but I think it was as follows:  Hugh Jackman, Aaron Eckhardt, Stephen Moyer and Ashton Kutcher. Pretty fantastic list, eh?

Jon Bon Jovi fulfills my "rock star" fantasy. I imagine him writing songs for me and playing guitar while I'm in the kitchen making dinner. He's gone a lot, but it's always so spectacular when he comes home. Yes, he can be a bit of an egomaniac - what lead singer isn't? - but he's a good man. When Jon is home, I have a little glamour in my life. Richie Sambora is one of Jon's best friends and he comes over all the time. It's awesome. Hugh Jackman is the pretend husband who does all of the stuff with the kids. He coaches soccer when he's not working. He goes to all of the school events. He takes the boys on fantastic little adventures. He's got a great sense of humor and always makes me laugh. Aaron Eckhardt is my strong and silent pretend husband. I love his cleft chin. In my mind he is my true north; I never feel afraid because I know he will always protect me and he will always steer me in the right direction. I can lean on him, any time, any place and for any reason. No matter how I am feeling or what I need, Aaron is there to support me. Stephen Moyer is my home-every-night pretend husband. He's got a grueling schedule at HBO but he makes sure he comes home for dinner every night. We cook together, we talk about our days.  And I love it when he brings his Bill Compton home every once in awhile. Those sideburns really get me. Ashton Kutcher is my hot young thing.  I had mixed feelings about him based on the characters he's played, but in my mind we met somewhere silly - like an ice cream shop - and he was so sweet and endearing. He's really creative and gives great career and money management advice.  We discuss our spiritual beliefs. Plus, you know, he's young and he's hot. (I know what you're thinking, and no, I am not delusional.) I am a happy pretend polygamist.

If polygamy were a situation with one woman and multiple husbands, I might be able to get behind it. But one husband to be shared by multiple women? No thanks. I'll stick to my fantasies ...

Unbreakable

2010-11-17T09:13:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about how amazing the human body can be. Season after season we see physical transformations of the human body on The Biggest Loser by manipulating muscle mass and energy use. We hear stories of human bodies surviving accidents that they shouldn't survive. Sure, some bodies can't survive certain tragedies and trauma - or are irreparably damaged - but every day we hear stories of broken bodies healing themselves back to "almost" as good as new.

This phenomena has been on my mind because of Jacob. Jacob is a cub scout in my son's pack, though he is not in his den because he is younger. Jacob is 6 years old and has a mother who is the classic "den mother" - she runs two dens - who makes sure each of her boys has an opportunity to earn every pin, belt loop and patch available during the cub scout year. They do crafts, skits, everything under the sun. She's an amazingly busy mother and her two kids are with her every step of the way.

A few weeks ago, Jacob and his family went on a vacation to Southern California. They went to amusement parks, including Universal Studios. To hear his mother tell it, one minute they were sitting eating lunch, and the next Jacob was at the bottom of a set of concrete steps, laying still on the ground and totally nonresponsive. The next few minutes are all a blur for her as she watched emergency medical teams try to get Jacob to respond. He was taken to a local hospital but eventually airlifted to a children's hospital about an hour away so he could be treated by the best of the best. Jacob was unconscious for a couple of days, and for awhile there, his mother had no idea whether he would ever speak to her again. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for her. I'm good in a crisis, but I've never had a crisis involving my children. All bets are off when it comes to our children.

The pack mobilized as best we could from 500 miles away. We contacted people we knew in the area to help the family while they stayed in a Ronald McDonald House near the hospital. We set up prayer circles at our churches. The scouts made cards and pictures to put in Jacob's room. For the first week or so everything was touch and go and doctors were hesitant to make any predictions about Jacob's recovery.

Fast forward about two weeks. Jacob showed up at our pack meeting a couple of nights ago. If I didn't know better, I would never know he'd been in a hospital with everyone worried about him. He looks like the same normal, healthy, typical 6 year old boy. His mom says she is so thankful that kids don't know how to feel sorry for themselves; Jacob is resisting mom's efforts to make him take it easy for awhile and he's complaining that he's bored and he wants to run, jump and play. I was so happy to see Jacob back to normal - at least externally - that I wept when I got home and said a prayer of thanks. And he's not even my kid ....

I have broken many bones in my day. I slid down the stairs in a box and broke my arm. (And then lied to my mother about how I fell!) I got my foot caught in the spokes of a bike that was too big for me and broke two bones in the middle of my foot. I fell off the monkey bars and broke my foot. I did an aerial cartwheel in the sand and landed on a rock buried beneath the sand, breaking an ankle. Even more painful, I stepped in a hole and pulled ligaments in my foot. But here I am, all these years later, not suffering any ill effects from these multiple bone fractures.

We are so lucky to have bodies that are often unbreakable. Disease is a different issue, but when we're talking about bones and muscles, these bodies are amazing pieces of machinery. I'm grateful.

How Come You're So Lame?

2010-11-16T09:56:00.000-08:00

Have you seen those commercials? You know, the ones with the blonde-haired little boy, about 7 years old, who is talking about some cool new car. There is a series of them, but each one ends the same: he is sitting in the backseat with his seat belt on, he looks at the camera and says "Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you have to be lame." I lauged. I laughed until it became clear that Stinker has seen those commercials, too, and he uses the word against me.

I've mentioned this before; these kids are sponges and they absorb everything. I often hear myself being parroted back to me - in tone and content - and I unfortunately hear their father as well. (There are a few choice phrases they have picked up from him that are almost enough to make me slap their faces ... but I digress.) Every now and then Sweetie will use a word or phrase I am certain he has heard at school, but Stinker is still young enough that he gets everything from either his parents or the television. He's been claiming things are "lame" for about two weeks now.

I play an online game that keeps track of each player's respective position on the leader board. I play with the same group of people, and I am often in first place, but not for long. One player in particular unseats me from my first-place throne regularly. Stinker likes to watch me play and tell me when I should ask for a "hint" and when to use the bonus moves available. He was watching me the other day and he noticed my avatar was in second place, not first. Him: "Mom, are you in second place?" Me: "Yes. [So-and-so's Mom] is ahead of me again." Him: "How come you're so lame?"

Guess what? I didn't have an answer for him. I truly and honestly do not know why I am so lame. Worse, I don't know exactly what to do about it.

Kids. You gotta love when they speak their truth without any inhibitions, reservations or filters.

Two or More Times A Week?

2010-11-15T19:53:00.000-08:00

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Confession time. I do not cook. I never saw much point in it when I was single. When I was married, I cooked nearly every night but it was basic, quick meals and absolutely nothing fancy. The Ex is one of those guys who was just happy to have someone prepare food for him, no matter what it was, so he would eat almost anything. Almost. He was really grateful when something was actually good, but trust me ... I have made more than my fair share of totally inedible meals. It is an understatement to say I'm not a very good cook. (But I'm a rock star baker - with a bit of practice I could probably survive a few rounds on Top Chef Just Desserts!) The home-cooked meals tapered off when the children came along and again as the marriage crumbled.

When The Ex and I split, the kids were so little and eating mostly "baby" food so it seemed futile to cook, and I suffered from depression and lethargy so any excuse not to lift a finger was a good excuse. Even now, with Sweetie at 8 years and Stinker at 5 years, cooking meals is mostly futile because they are so picky. Every now and then I get a bug up my rear to cook and invariably those little rats frustrate me with their finicky palates. ("What if friends come over for dinner? Do you cook then? Or on holidays ... surely you cook on holidays?" N. O. No. I have cooked two turkeys in my life, and I fed 10 people on Christmas Eve ONCE.) My contribution at potlucks or family holiday meals is dinner rolls. (Not really, but practically.)

I'm sure it's no surprise that the busier we get, the less likely I am to cook. I don't cook when it's hot outside. I don't cook on Tuesdays because we have cub scouts. I don't cook on Thursdays because I work nights. I rarely cook on both Wednesday AND Friday because we have soccer practice (though that is about to end - thank goodness!) If you're keeping track and can do some very basic math, you can figure out how many times a week I cook.

The boys and I had some errands to run after I picked them up (which is another excuse for me not to cook!). Sweetie asked if we could eat before we hit the grocery (which is almost torture for my children) so we stopped at a fast food store in the same shopping center as the market. While waiting for our food, the boys discovered the comment cards and proceeded to fill them out as only children can. Sweetie can read so he mostly answered the questions asked, one of which was "How often do you eat at fast food restaurants?" and the answers were: less than once a month, about once a month, once a week, or 2 or more times per week. You see where I'm going .... Not only did he mark the box for 2 or more times per week, he said - gasp! - "Too bad they don't have a box for 4 times a week. That's what we need."

I immediately channeled Daffy Duck: I say he does have to shoot me now. So shoot me now.

Honestly, we eat out (or take out) 3 or 4 times a week during the fall, but we don't eat at fast food restaurants very often. The kids get "fast food" - McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, etc. - probably once every ten days or so (ssshhhhhh ... I know that's too often; hush up, judgie!), but we eat at restaurants and delis. My kids love sandwiches, so that's a main staple for dinner. (They eat hot lunches at school and therefore rarely have sandwiches for lunch.) But, all stories and excuses aside, what a piece-of-poo mother I am that my kid thinks we eat at fast food restaurants more often than we eat at home.

I'll give you one guess what I bought at the grocery store after we finished our dinner. We will be having spaghetti and meatballs tomorrow (BEFORE cub scouts!) and quesadillas on Wednesday. They are with their dad Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, and then we will have homemade chicken noodle soup on Sunday night. It's not much, but it's a start!

Operating From the Source

2010-11-13T19:37:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it's been more than 3 months since my last post. I didn't realize so much time had passed, and looking at my archives, I have not really given sufficient time to this blog. I must move it back up to the top of the priority list. So what have I been doing these past few months that has kept me away from my blog? I've been operating from my source, which has been different and exhausting and exhilarating all at the same time. It's sort of like the purpose-driven life ... I make decisions based on what my spirit and my soul need, not on what my checking account needs.

I realized that one of the things my soul needs, every day, is quality time with my children. As a practical matter, we don't get as much quality time as I would like once school is in session, because of homework and bedtimes and cub scouts and soccer, etc. However, this summer I woke up and realized my children are the PERFECT age for traveling and road trips ... Sweetie is not old enough to ask for friends to come along (yet) and Stinker is old enough to do just about anything. So we three musketeers spent a lot of time on mini-adventures over the summer ... camping at the zoo ...

a mini-safari at a wildlife reserve ...

out-of-town zoos ...

hiking ...

amusement parks, museums, etc. For the first time in years, I feel like I got to enjoy the summer with my kids (even though I have to work).

Another way to spend more quality time with my children is to become more involved with their school. So, I've been volunteering at the elementary school. I am the Fundraising Chairperson, I grade papers for Sweetie's teacher, I chaperone field trips, etc. It's been so great getting to know the teachers and administrators and seeing my children in their academic setting.

I've always had a soft spot for children, so I decided to do something about it. With the help of a couple of great and supportive friends, I started a California non-profit corporation. It's called Brenson Charitable Works, Inc. and its mission is to provide services to elementary school children that will help them achieve academic success. We will start with a weekend food program for food insecure children. I have toured the facility of a program in Nevada that we want to emulate, met with the Executive Director to learn about the program, and have been making contact with our local food banks and providers of services for the homeless. We incorporated in July, and now we have a Board of Directors in place. We had our inaugural Board meeting in October, and now we are in the process of getting set up - checking account, tax exempt status, computer equipment, etc. This non-profit is my new "baby" and it took up a LOT of my time in September and October. I'm considering taking classes, but I have to be careful to balance my time with income-earning tasks as well.

I took on a couple of new clients, I settled a couple of cases, and I'm still doing contract work at a law firm that I absolutely LOVE. Oh, and I'm reminding myself to live with my heart open and without fear. Every day.

It's amazing how easy the day-in and day-out is when I operate from my source. It makes the uglies - such as the relationship-destroying altercation with The Ex over the summer - more palatable.

I Wanna Wake Up Before I Go-Go

2010-08-01T23:44:00.000-07:00

My apologies for such a long break between posts, but my mind has been busy elsewhere.

Starting in April, I participated in an intense performance coaching program that began with an intense weekend, followed by ten weeks of one-on-one coaching, and then finished with another intense weekend. It was an amazing experience and I cannot believe how much I learned about myself and about my life moving forward. (If you think you might be interested in something like this, check out "Leadership" at www.sourcepointtraining.com.) I won't give too much of the blow-by-blow since it will bore you to tears, but I will share a bit of the "a-ha" moments I experienced.

I enrolled in the program with the idea that I needed some help starting a business and building my law practice. A-ha moment #1: My current business plan is working for me, at least for now, so there's no need to change it. I don't need to waste any energy "worrying" about my career in the short run because it is going just fine and I am happy. When it is no longer fine and I am no longer happy, that's when I need to put some renewed energy into it. A-ha moment #2: Work doesn't feel like work if you're doing it for the "right" reasons (and the "right" reasons are different for everyone). When I was working as an associate in various-sized law firms, I was doing it for the wrong reasons, which explains why I never felt fulfilled, it felt like a grind, and I had no desire to put in anymore time than was absolutely required. (It also explains why I put myself in a position to get terminated!)

A-ha moment #3: My heart needs some attention. Like everyone else, I've had my share of hurts in life, and I always thought I had properly grieved each and every one of them. I thought wrong. What I did instead was bury anything that resembled a feeling deep down inside, throw up giant walls, and then busy myself with "stuff" to run away from anything remotely unpleasant. That's really no way to live a life. I declared at the end of the first weekend that I would live my life with an open heart.

A-ha moment #4: Despite all outward appearances and my tough exterior, I'm a scaredy-cat. I've always considered myself brave, and I am when it comes to outward appearances and external opinions, but I'm terrified to share my internal self with people. I've never really worried about what people think of my behavior - making me unafraid to do things that make other people uncomfortable - because I recognize that most people are so self-involved that they're not even paying attention to whether or not I'm making a fool of myself. I AM worried - devastatingly afraid, frankly -of letting people see my true self. I close myself off - and shut people out - at the slightest hint that someone might see the real me. That's no way to live a life. I declared at the end of that first weekend to live without fear.

A-ha moment #5: I'm not very nice to myself, and if I'm not very nice to myself, how can I expect anyone else to be nice to me?? Though I'm confident in my lawyering skills and have no problem telling people how awesome I am , I clam up when it comes time to applaud myself for the person I am. I "say" mean things to myself all the time, I discount compliments that people pay me, and I focus on my flaws rather than on my admirable qualities. So I've stopped the negative talk and am working on learning to like myself again.

Coaching is an interesting experience. Unlike traditional counseling or therapy, I didn't really look back at my life to explain why I do the things I do. Instead of analyzing why I engage in specific self-limiting (or self-sabotaging) behavior, I learned to identify that behavior, acknowledge it, and then use my newly-learned tools to change it. I was reminded over and over of that old saying about insanity (from Einstein, I think): The definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting a different result.

I'm not insane anymore. I'm taking small steps, but I'm doing many things differently than the way I did them before. I'm noticing things I never really noticed before. I'm changing the way I spend my days. I'm changing the way I think about my self, my family, and my friends. In short, I'm waking up. How blessed am I that I am waking up in time to enjoy it??

Medicine is not for me

2010-06-09T21:29:00.000-07:00

Though I am an attorney now, for a brief period I considered going to medical school and becoming a pediatrician. I even declared biology as my major when I transferred from a junior college to the University of California. (I quickly discovered and introduced myself to my university guidance counselor after one lecture in a college-level biology class; I knew immediately I needed to get out of the "science" college and enroll in the "social science" college instead!)

While in college, I took a weekend trip to visit a friend attending a college about 6 hours away. We had a great time; lots of loud music, dancing, a bit of karaoke (gasp!) and on the Saturday night before I had to leave we ended up continuing the party at someone's home into the wee hours of the morning (as college kids are known to do). One of the guys dropped his beer bottle just outside the jacuzzi, leaving glass all over the patio, and then he kept stepping in it. He complained that he was walking in glass but he kept doing it. When we were finally leaving, he decided to walk us through the house and out to our cars, but wanted us to wait while he got out of his wet bathing suit and put on some dry clothes. As he walked down the hall, we noticed that his foot was bleeding - badly - and he was tracking blood all over the WHITE carpet. We kept telling him to stop walking around, but he wasn't listening. Finally, as my friend examined his injuries to see if we needed to take him to get stitches, I looked at his foot, my brain engaged - ooh, that's really bleeding - and I hit the deck. I didn't actually fall, but I felt dizzy and had to sit down. I was 21.

When I was in my senior year of college, I dated a loafer-or-sneaker kind of guy. I finally convinced him to wear cowboy boots so we would blend in at the country bar where we were taking line dance lessons. When we got home, he used his right foot to wedge his left boot off ... and split his big toenail right in half. There was blood everywhere, and it was NOT pretty. (What is it with me and men with bleeding feet??) I took him to the emergency room and made the mistake of watching while the doctor anesthetized his foot (with a needle between the toes!) and proceeded to lift his toenail off. When I saw the exposed "meat" of his big toe, my brain engaged - ooh, that's human meat - and I hit the deck. This time I actually fell. Ever fainted? The next thing I know, there's this really awful smell wafting in the air. The nurse actually used "smelling salts" to revive me. After she helped me up, she made me sit with my head between my knees. Literally. I was 23.

A few years later my mom had some surgery to remove a tumor from her adrenal gland. The surgeon showed me a picture of the tumor - it was huge! - and it didn't bother me one bit. Then I was standing by my mom's bed and looking at her shortly after she woke up. She looked grey. My brain engaged - ooh, that giant tumor in the picture actually came out of her - and I hit the deck. Again with the smelling salts and again with the head-between-the-knees. I was 25.

Still years later, my then-fiance had some knee surgery and couldn't really move for about four days. I played nurse and changed his bandage. I pulled the dressing off, cleaned the incision, and when I got up to take the bandages to the trash, my brain engaged - ooh, blood was oozing - and I stumbled into the wall. I was 32.

Somewhere in my late 30s I turned a corner. None of the miscellaneous fluids associated with pregnancy, birth and c-sections bothered me. I'm very calm when my kids bleed. My own blood doesn't seem to phase me. A few years ago, my mother called me from the emergency room to tell me she had a nosebleed. About 8 hours after they packed her nose, she woke me in the middle of the night to tell me she needed to go back to the hospital. Her nose was bleeding so much that it was soaking through the packing and pouring down the back of her throat, making her choke and gag. Blood was everywhere; it looked like someone had been murdered in her kitchen. I took her back to the hospital, where they packed her again. A few hours later, she was bleeding all over the place again. We went to a different ER - clearly the staff at the first one didn't know what they were doing - and they packed her a third time. (By the way, according to my mother, having your nose packed is VERY painful ... and it hurts worse if you're already sore from the first, and second, packings.) Through all of this drama, I was fine (except for my anger and frustration that they couldn't get the bleeding to stop). I cleaned up the blood in the kitchen and I was fine. I washed the towels she had used to try to stop the bleeding and I was fine. Maybe my fainting days are over. If true, then I've hit the deck - or come close - four times that I remember.

And what did I learn from all of this?? It's a darn good thing I didn't go to medical school!

The People of Wal-Mart arrive in Sacramento?

2010-06-01T23:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen or heard of that website called something like the People of Wal-Mart? If you have email and you have friends, you probably have at least heard of it. Supposedly, the website features pictures of real, actual Wal-Mart customers - from all over the country, I presume - wearing some of the most outrageous and ridiculous outfits. These outrageous outfits are pitched as the person's "regular" attire. Frankly, I'm not certain if I believe the photos are what they claim to be, but I can tell you this: Every time the "People of Wal-Mart" email - sent from a well-intentioned friend or sometimes (gasp!) my own mother - lands in my inbox I can't help myself. I know it's going to be awful. I know I'm going to cringe. I know I am going to make derisive comments and be all judgmental and stuff. But I do it anyway. It's like a car accident; you know you don't really want to see the carnage but you slow traffic to rubberneck anyway. Thankfully, I haven't received an "updated" email in about a month or so because that last one? Nauseating. No, really.

The greater Sacramento area has several Wal-Marts; I can think of about 8 off the top of my head. Some are nicer than others. I live in a southern suburb of Sacramento, and our Wal-Mart is t-e-r-r-i-b-l-e. I don't even like to go in there, but alas, it is close so sometimes I do. A little north from me - literally, maybe 5 miles north - is a new one in an area that is being refurbished, and it's pretty decent (though it may not last because the neighborhood just really isn't recovering). In the next county to the west, the border city opened one of those Super Wal-Mart megastores about two years ago. There's another big one in the heart of the Sacramento area that is big enough to have its own elevator. I have been to every single one of these stores at one time or another, on different days of the week, and at different times of the day and night, and I can tell you one thing for sure: the "People of Wal-Mart" featured on the website and in the emails do NOT shop at Sacramento Wal-Marts. For example, I have never seen a size 24 woman stuffed into a size 6 hot pink romper. I have never seen butt crack (though I've seen plenty of boxer shorts peeking out of pants belted mid-thigh). I have never seen hair so long it drags on the floor. I have never seen children being dragged on the floor behind the cart. I guess that's why I'm skeptical about the authenticity of the website and the emails.

Sacramento hosts the California State Fair each year, which is humongous and full of all kinds of folks, some of whom travel the entire length of the state to get there. It is at the State Fair each summer where I see what I think of as the People of Wal-Mart, wearing ill-fitting clothes, showing too much (overweight and butt-white) skin, swearing a blue streak, and stuffing their faces with fried Twinkies and fried Snickers Bars. (Yep, they deep fry ANYTHING at the California State Fair.) In their defense, California hosts the State Fair in late August and through the Labor Day weekend, which, if you've ever spent a summer here, you know is MISERABLY HOT. I get why people try to get away with as little clothing as possible, but seriously, do they not look in the mirror before they leave the house? Even though these People of Wal-Mart populate the State Fair, I have never thought they populated Sacramento because I've never seen them.

Everything changed yesterday. I took my boys to the Sacramento County Fair. It's small and just like any other county fair: 4-H livestock and farm animals, photography and science project contests, displays, carnival rides, exhibitions and shows, and deep fried food. I always refer to it as a "shrinky-dink" version of the State Fair. The significant difference (other than shear magnitude) is that the county fair is really only populated by Sacramento-area people. We might get a few out of county people, but not many, because it's not really publicized and is just a "local" thing.

So imagine my surprise when I noticed the People of Wal-Mart walking around the fairgrounds! I saw some really interesting fashion configurations yesterday. One woman was wearing black zebra-striped stretch pants - at least two sizes too small - with a fringey black top and kitten heels. Really? I don't know what she was thinking. It might have made sense if she were there with a man on a hot date, but she was there with her little kids. It was so hot her heavily made-up face was melting. I saw a man with a beard so long that he literally tied it in a bow below his chin. Seriously. One woman and her "man" - dressed in black biker-type gear - were so drunk at NOON and so loud that their pre-teen children kept trying to get away from them. The mom kept slurring "guysh, wait for me. Wasyer hurry? I jes needa getta more beer." The children - boys about 12 or 13 - looked like they just wanted to die. The piece de resistance, though, was the very large man whose shorts and shirt were so small that he looked like Borat in his mankini. It was NOT pretty.

I guess the People of Wal-Mart do live in Sacramento. They just don't shop at Wal-Mart.

(I wonder if I should start a website called The People of Fairs and Festivals. That might be fun. Not.)

Bird Parties

2010-05-23T16:20:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure you know, certain types of birds tend to cluster together, particularly when the weather is getting chilly but not cold. Where we live - where we don't really get that cold compared to most parts of the country - the birds tend to cluster in the mornings, in the winter. When Sweetie was just a little guy, we would actively look for clusters of birds on telephone wires, electrical poles, rooftops, etc. while we were driving to daycare/preschool in the morning. He got such a kick out of seeing a bunch of birds all huddled together. One day, after we had been to a birthday party over the weekend, he saw a cluster of birds and said, "Look, Mommy, those birds are having a party." Even now - at the ripe old age of seven - anytime we see a cluster of birds he points out the "bird party."

Stinker picked up on this dialogue when he was very young. At 2, when he was just learning to put multiple words together, he would point to a cluster of birds and shriek "Bird party, bird party, mommy, yook, bird party."

Stinker just turned 5. Recently, after I had picked both children up from their respective daycares and we were driving to a fast food restaurant for dinner before heading over to their father's house, Stinker noticed a "V" shape of birds, flying and circling around a gas station. He leaned out the window of the car and shouted, "hey you, birds, you need to land. Let's get this party started."

I was a little shocked, having no idea where he heard that phrase, but just assuming it was something he heard from kids at preschool. And then Sweetie starts singing "I'm coming out, so we'd better get this party started" by Pink. THAT one is definitely from me.

Anyone who doesn't believe that children are sponges has not spent any time around my kids. I swear, these two boys remember EVERYTHING they have ever heard or seen.

What is that music?

2010-03-22T15:00:00.000-07:00

My mother is number 2 of 11 children. The "middle" pack of siblings are of the hippie generation. I remember the long hair, headbands, peace signs, and the other stereotypical things we think of when we think of that era. Not surprisingly, many of her siblings are of the liberal ilk, and are much more open about their life and their experiences than the people of her generation.

So one of my mother's sisters is married to a tattooed, motorcycle-riding guy who has always liked to keep busy with his hands doing landscaping, yard work, arts and crafts, etc. For a long long time they lived in this house that had the greatest back yard ...orchards at the very back, a swimming pool, plenty of yard to play, and this great patio. Together they created this two-part patio ... half was covered, and half was not. The uncovered part had a koi pond, a sitting area, and heaters. The covered part was unremarkable, just what you would picture it to be. The best part, though, was the speaker system. My uncle wired a bunch of speakers and mounted them on the patio cover. They could hook it up to their stereo and pipe music outside whenever they wanted.

One night a few years ago, the Ex and I were visiting. We were sitting outside near the koi pond, drinking beer and chatting, with my aunt, uncle and their two grown children. We were listening to music, and the conversation turned to the mounted speakers and the music that was playing. We were wondering whether the neighbors ever complained about the music, which lead to the following story.

One night my aunt and uncle had been watching an adult movie together and had it hooked up to their surround sound. They didn't know it, but it was also hooked up to the outside speakers. They were broadcasting the "oh oh ohs" and the bow-chicka-bow-bow to the entire neighborhood!! I asked if their neighbors had said anything and they said that strangely, no one had. But the neighbors were averting their eyes and avoiding their gaze as well.

Can you imagine? I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. Only in my family, I swear!

No More Eye Jousting!

2010-03-15T20:38:00.000-07:00

Sweetie is a scaredy-cat. Despite the fact that he is approaching his 8th birthday, this kid is afraid of everything. He's getting better, but seriously, everything freaks him out. Knowing this about him, I was hesitant to take him to Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, but he begged. He "promised" he wouldn't get scared as long as we didn't go to the 3-D version. Ha. Famous last words.

If you're familiar with Tim Burton's work, you know that he is "dark" and, some would say, a bit twisted in his vision. Though I am generally a sunny person and prefer the bright and happy things in life, I like Tim Burton's work for the genius of it. He definitely has his own vision and he puts it in everything he does. I love that about his films. His vision shows again in Alice in Wonderland. He takes the famous story and adjusts it. It begins with Alice as a young girl having a recurring nightmare, where she goes to this strange place called Wonderland that has all of these strange characters. She explains to her father that she thinks she's going crazy because she sees a purple disappearing cat, a blue caterpillar, a mad hatter, and various other odd creatures. Her father - a visionary who has been called nuts more than once in his life - assures her it is only a dream, and if she gets scared, she need merely pinch herself and she will wake up.

Fast forward 13 years; Alice's father has died and her mother is attempting to marry her off to a nobleman. After the young man proposes, Alice needs a moment, and she runs away to think. She follows this little white rabbit she keeps seeing running in the bushes of the garden. She is peeking down a hole and she falls ... all the way down to Underland. Things have changed over the years, but the same characters are there and they've been waiting for her. According to an ancient scroll, she will slay the Red Queen's champion on a particular day (which is coming soon). They've been looking for the "right" Alice so she can come and do the deed.

The movie is full of trials and tribulations for Alice as she tries to figure out what to do. Not surprisingly, there are chases and battles. In one of the chases early in the movie, the famous doormouse pokes a needle in the eye of a beast, pulls it out, and saves it as a trophy. Though blood did not squirt all over the place, the gouging was pretty obvious. Sweetie flipped out!! "Mom, did you see that? That mouse jousted out his eye. Oooooh, let's go, I don't want to see anymore eye jousting." That was it for him. I refused to leave - he insisted on seeing the movie and we just got there - so he wrapped his arms around my upper arm and buried his head. "Tell me when the eye jousting is over." Despite my many promises that the eye "gouging" was finished, he hid his face for quite awhile.

As the movie progressed, some "creepy" things happen. In one scene, Alice must hop on the severed heads - left over the from the Red Queen's "off with his head" declarations - in order to cross a river. Sweetie flipped again. It took awhile until he finally settled again, though he leaned over and said, "Mom, I really want to go. I know there's going to be more eye jousting." Steadfast in my purported lesson of "finish what you start" I did not budge.

As the movie was building to the denoument, the final battle erupted; the red knight (a brilliant surprise by Crispin Glover) and all of the red cards were fighting with the odd characters of Alice's tea party. And wouldn't you know it, someone gouged out another eye! Sweetie sat up, looked at me with wide eyes and said "you said there wouldn't be anymore eye jousting, but they just did it again. I'll wait for you in the hall!" and I'll be darned if that kid did not get up from his seat and beat feet out of the theater! We were so close to the end I tried to coax him to hold on just a few more minutes but he remained committed. He said, "really, Mom, I'll just sit right outside the door. No more eye jousting!"

So I stood at the top of the aisle, with him outside the door, and I watched the last five minutes of the film. When I walked out to meet him, I chuckled and said he was just being silly, that it wasn't that bad and the rest of the movie was fine and he stood right in front of me, looked me straight in the eyes (pun intended) and said, "Mom, I have a new rule for movies. No shooting, no blood, no hurting animals, and now no more eye jousting!"

Well. So there it is.

I'm not ready to meet Kevin yet!

2010-03-10T10:20:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a non-religious home; my parents were forced to go to church as children and hated it, so they never made my sister and me go. I remember going to various churches with friends growing up, but we did not have a family church and I do not recall ever attending church with either of my parents. I am not a religious person, though I have been on a personal spiritual journey for the past few years. The Ex claims to be an atheist, so I'm sure it's no surprise that our children do not attend church and have not had any formal religious training.

Sweetie is a thinker, and he has lots of questions about everything. I've mentioned his spirituality before; he's very new age-y, especially for a child at the ripe old age of 7. When he asks questions about death, God, love, etc. I try to answer them honestly. I tell him that nobody knows the answers for sure, and lots of people believe different things. He knows I believe in God and his dad does not.

Stinker has never asked any questions about God. So imagine my surprise when the following conversation took place:

Stinker: [after explaining the safety rules at school] So I make sure I don't run on the sidewalk, or let go of one hand on the monkey bars, or any of that other stuff so I don't fall and crack my head open.
Me: That's good, honey. I'm glad you keep yourself safe when you're playing at school. You definitely don't want to fall and hurt yourself.
Stinker: Yeah, because I'm not ready to meet Kevin yet.
Me: Kevin? Whose Kevin?
Stinker: You know, Kevin. The man in the sky who meets you after you die.
Me: There's a man in the sky named Kevin?
Stinker: Yeah. He lives in the clouds and sits in a big chair. He has a place up there.
Me: Are you talking about God? In Heaven?
Stinker: No, his name is Kevin.
Me: Sweetheart, I've never heard of anybody in the sky named Kevin. But I believe there is a man named God who some people think lives in the clouds. And he lives in a place called Heaven.
Stinker: Nope, not that guy. I'm talking about Kevin.

Oh. My. Gosh. I could not stop laughing. It took me awhile, but I think I figured out what happened. One of his little friends in pre-school lost his father last Thanksgiving, and he was telling people that his daddy died and was now in Heaven. I think Stinker mis-heard, and thinks he heard "Kevin." His 4-year-old little brain translated that information into a guy named Kevin who lives in the sky, and that's who you meet when you die.

There's no arguing with a 4-year-old once he has figured something out. At least I should be glad he isn't ready to meet Kevin yet.

Pukes Today, Leaders Tomorrow?

2010-03-05T20:11:00.000-08:00

I was going to start this post by asking "what's wrong with kids today?" but I realized the inspiration for my post is not really the kids but the management of the McDonald's where I encountered these kids.

I took my boys to McDonald's for dinner. (Shhhhh, stop judging!) We were there at the peak of the "family" dinner hour and there were lots of little kids there in addition to mine. Unfortunately, there were a bunch of teenagers in there, too. One group in particular had three booths in a row and took up an entire wall of the restaurant, right next to the fountain where every customer had to go for napkins, drinks, straws, ketchup, etc.

Now I know that teenagers are a species all by themselves. I get that they are loud, and they're full of hormones, and when in groups they are flirting and playing. The volume was not what bothered me, nor did I care that they were mouthing off to each other. What bothered me was the girl who really thought she was cool, but she was actually nothing more than a bully. She yelled the F word, loudly, at least 3 times while there were small children - including mine - standing 5 feet away from her. She hit one of the boys in the face after calling him a name. She pulled one of the girls' ponytails. She sat and threw french fries across the table at one of the boys. She was mouthy and abusive to everyone. In short, she was a puke. I do not understand why the other kids were friends with her, but teenage friendships are often a mystery to me.

What I want to know is, why didn't the manager of McDonald's do something? Shouldn't the manager have said something to this girl? I'm not suggesting the girl should have been kicked out - though I probably would have applauded if that had happened - but at a minimum one would think a simple warning was in order. "This is a family restaurant so foul language and physical contact will not be tolerated." How hard would that have been? As a bonus, it might have got the other kids to calm down just a little. Really, is the loss of a teenage customer a match for the loss of families as customers?

The scary thing? These kids all had the same club/group name on their backpacks that suggested some kind of leadership program. So am I supposed to be impressed that the pukes of today are the leaders of tomorrow?

I think I want to puke.

Are we going to cook Gigi?

2010-03-05T07:22:00.000-08:00

Sweetie is a really spiritual and thoughtful kid. He believes in karma, reincarnation (though he doesn't know that's what it's called), and magic. He believes in God. He believes in the Golden Rule. He loves animals. Over the years I've learned that when someone tells him something or something happens, he ruminates for a couple of days, sometimes weeks. If he has questions, they will pop up randomly some time after the fact, usually while we are riding in the car.

A couple of years ago, Mama G and I had our estate plans done. I needed to get mine done because I am a single mother with young children and needed to make sure they are cared for should their father predecease me, and I wanted to designate someone to handle their inheritance until they reach a certain age. Mama G was most interested in granting a financial power of attorney to someone (not me) and a healthcare directive to control what would happen to her should she become sick or injured and incompetent to make her own medical decisions. As part of this discussion, she told me very clearly that she wants to be cremated.

Sweetie must have heard us. About two weeks later, while we were driving in the car, Sweetie said, "Mommy, what's cremated mean?" He was about 4 years old. I am one of those parents who tries to be honest with my children even when it's uncomfortable, so I told him the truth in as simple terms as I could manage. I said that when some people die they want their body to be buried and other people want it to be cremated, which means that it is burned. Unsatisfied, he asked me how the body is burned, so I told him there are special places that do it and they have really big ovens that they use. (Gasp!) That seemed to satisfy him. About a week later, again in the car and again out of nowhere, Sweetie asked "Mommy, are we going to cook Gigi?"

I think he understands the concept of cremation.

My Las Vegas Debut

2010-03-03T23:51:00.000-08:00

Some years ago - early to mid 1990s - I made my stage debut in Las Vegas. Seriously.

I have an uncle who lives in a suburb of Las Vegas proper and has for a very long time. When I was younger, my mom and I would go to his house for Thanksgiving every year. We became very predictable: Big beautiful dinner on Thursday, day-after shopping on Friday, and some sort of show on Saturday. Keep in mind, I'm talking about the old school shows, before the big production shows they have now. We also went to the off-beat shows because none of us wanted to pay for full price shows; we just wanted to go out together to a show. My uncle always liked to see groups from his youth. I remember we saw The Four Lads once, and we even saw Frank Sinatra, Jr. In the year of my debut, we decided to go see Sha Na Na. Laugh if you must but I'm not kidding; we thought it would be hysterical.

I grew up watching Sha Na Na on television. My father loved 50s music and he thought Sha Na Na did an okay job of covering some of his favorites. He cracked up at the silly costumes they wore, and used to tell me stories about "greasers" and "bobby soxers." We amused ourselves by trying to impersonate John "Bowzer" Bowman's ginormous mouth and incredibly deep voice. I have vivid images of my dad standing in our living room in jeans and a white tee, flexing his bicep and rotating his fist from front to back, opening his mouth as wide as he could. And then it was my turn. It was even funnier when I tried; I have a small mouth anyway, and I was just a little girl. He used to get so tickled. And then we would sing the weekly sign-off song: "Goodnight, Sweetheart, well it's time to go. Goodnight, Sweetheart, well it's time to go. I hate to leave but I really must go. Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight." He would laugh at my inability to carry a tune and tell me, "Poor baby, you inherited my singing voice."

Fast forward. My dad passed in 1991.

Fast forward to the Las Vegas show a few years later. There were four of us sitting at our little table. I was in the front, so I had the back of my chair to the table, leaving me with my back to my mother and my aunt and uncle. Sha Na Na was calling for volunteers from the audience to come up on stage. I did not know it at the time, but all three of those Judases were pointing at me behind my back, hoping they would pick me. And Donny did.

Donny was the greaser in rolled up jeans, converse sneakers, a striped shirt with cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, a duck's ass haircut, and sunglasses. He grabbed my hand and pulled me on stage. The other volunteers were young children, so I had a strong feeling this was going to be terribly humiliating. Luckily, I knew the chances of me seeing anyone I knew, especially at a Sha Na Na show, was slim to none so I decided to just enjoy the moment.

Basically, I had to hula hoop, do the limbo, and dance a couple of lindy steps in a "contest" with the other two contestants. I kicked those kids' asses, but it was rigged and I got robbed. Despite losing to a couple of snot-nosed kids (who, by the way, should NOT have been at a Las Vegas show on a Saturday night in the first place!), I must admit it was really fun. Donny was really cool and we laughed a lot. He was tickled to hear I had watched their TV show when I was a kid, though he said it made him feel old.

After a couple of obligatory bows and a wave to the crowd I returned to my table, parched and out of breath. My mother had the biggest smile on her face. After I sat down she leaned over and said, "Your dad would've really loved that."

You know what? She was right. My dad would've LOVED it!

It's Almost So Big Ya Gotta Wipe It

2010-03-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

I love concerts. I went to my first concert when I was 15. I wasn't allowed to date until 16, and a boy-friend invited me, so I was sure my mom would say no, but she didn't. I was so thrilled. I remember my friend Scott had a pea-green truck and he agreed to drive but we had to find gas money. We searched between cushions, under seats, in our lockers and backpacks, etc. until we finally came up with enough to get us there and back. It was awesome. The year was 1981. The band was Journey. I had a wicked crush on Steve Perry - why? I have no idea. We had bleeder seats but I didn't care ... I was seeing and hearing Steve Perry LIVE.

My love for concerts has not waned at all, though I have noticed I'm becoming less tolerant of the crowd. I often go to concerts by myself, after deciding some years ago that people are non-committal when you have to purchase tickets in advance, and if I wait for someone else to make a decision, I miss my opportunity. Having been stuck with tickets - sometimes expensive tickets - after someone changes their mind, I just order one ticket and go alone. It's fine. I'm pretty social and I usually have no trouble making friends, and I have always had a good time.

Tonight I went to see Bon Jovi. Know this: I luuuuuuuuuvvv Jon Bon Jovi. If this were chick lit I might say I lurve him. I haven't always loved him. His hair was too big and his music too "metal" for me in the 80s. He came on my radar in the 90s, first when he did a few episodes of Ally McBeal - remember, he was the painter/carpenter/handyman? - then when Bon Jovi's music changed to something a little less metal and a little more traditional rock, and then he was on Sex and the City. I swear, the man just gets better and better with age. Yum. I got a chance to profess my love for him on a giant birthday card. As he said, he turned 21 for the 27th time. Or, he's 18 with 30 years experience. (See? He's even the perfect age for me. Too bad he's happily married. And a famous rock star. Whatever, I can fantasize!)

The concert was really good. They've been doing this for 27 years and they still look good and sound good. I like Richie Sambora but I don't lurve him. He looked a little puffy. And what's with the tail hanging out the back of his jeans or shirt or whatever? I'm sure it was cool in 1983 but now? Not so much. Jon hardly has any wrinkles, especially given his age and number of years on the road. I alternated between swooning and panting the entire two hours they played. And let me just say, for the record: Jon Bon Jovi cleaned up in his every day rocker-ish style and probably smelling good? Yum. Sweaty Jon Bon Jovi? Yummier. Sweaty Jon Bovi in a tight t-shirt? Oh. My. God. I feel like a school girl but I can't help myself ... the man is so hot.

Some observations: There were too many school-aged children there. I don't care if they're off track, and I don't care if they stay up late. A rock concert is no place for a 10 year old on a Tuesday night. It's too loud, people drink too much, and too many people are practically having sex in their seats. Which brings me to the next complaint: Why is it that people feel like it's okay to engage in porn-movie kisses and ridiculously heavy petting at a concert? Don't they realize that we can see them?? I had a particularly lovey-dovey couple in front of me tonight and I would probably hate them except they were clever and nice and I liked them. I had the tantalizing trio across the aisle: a guy in his late 50s or 60s and a young couple. I was trying to figure out that situation; I think the older guy was her father, perhaps chaperoning a date. If he wasn't her father, she was awfully hands-on with her date's father. And if he was her father, her date had some big balls, what with all the manhandling and smooching going on right next to Pops. I had the obnoxious grandmas behind me. You know these ladies ... the ones who were probably too old for Bon Jovi in the 80s but have continued to follow them around. The woman right behind me had speech peppered with colloquialisms I hear the kids saying. She actually said "he's hella hot" and "I want to get closer, yo." She was at least 60. The few times I tried to sit down she had her foot in my back. And speaking of grandmas, we had the wearing-clothes-appropriate-for-someone-about-half-your-age grandma near us, who apparently had a tiny bladder because she was up and down about 10 times. She had on skinny jeans, spikey heels, and a sequined tank top with no bra. There is no way to explain the experience of seeing her rocks-in-socks bouncing up the stairs. Many, many, many women were wearing clothes similar to what they probably wore when they saw Bon Jovi in the 80s. I kid you not, I saw off-the-shoulder tops, black tops with denim mini-skirts, leggings and acid wash jeans. No lie. The piece-de-resistance, though, was the inspiration for the title of this blog and she deserves a paragraph of her own.

This woman was probably in her 50s and at least 40 pounds overweight, all in the butt and chest. She had long jet black big hair - probably with a bump it at the crown - and heavy eye makeup. She kind of looked like a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet trailer park version of Elvira. Her clothes were all black and skin tight. I swear she had on leggings and a low-cut shirt that she's probably had for 30 years. I saw her in the ladies when I first got there and she definitely caught my attention, mostly because of the size of her chest. It was HUGE. I mean, like, she probably has to special order bras in a cup size I've never even heard of. There used to be a blonde woman who would run out on the baseball field after games - Yankees, I think -and bounce her big bosom around. She had nothing on my Elvira. And to make matters worse, Elvira stuffed these pontoons into a shirt that was five sizes too small.

So we're sitting in our seats - me on the aisle, the lovey-doveys in front of me, and a very nice couple about my age to my left - before Bon Jovi comes on and all of a sudden here comes Elvira walking up the stairs. The woman of the couple next to me covers her husband's eyes and says "don't look, honey." Um, okay, how can he NOT look? His eyes bulged out of his head and the three of us stifled a giggle. Then the male part of lovey dovey gets a glimpse of her. I swear, it was like slow motion action. He was talking and looking around and suddenly he stopped, mid-sentence, and started to stare. And then he realized he was staring and slowly turned back to female part of lovey dovey. Female says "you're so rude, stop staring" and he says - as God is my witness this is a direct quote - "Wow, that's almost big enough ya gotta wipe it." The guy next to me spit out his beer and we all howled. There were high fives all around, and tears in our eyes from laughing so hard. She remained a source of entertainment for us the rest of the night. Male lovey noted her backside was almost bigger than her front, and that's saying something. We noted her impeccable balance as she tottered down the stairs in her high heels, overinflated rescue boats, all while holding a beer in each hand.

To quote Jon Bon Jovi himself, "It doesn't get any better than this. Thank you, and good night."

When Hairy Met Smelly ...

2010-03-02T14:33:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty hairy. Not Sasquatch/Chewbacca hairy, and not Mediterranean hairy, but German-and-Irish-light-colored-hair-everywhere hairy. And now that I am in my mid-forties, I'm starting to get grey hair in odd places (my eyebrows!) and short thick whiskers have moved in on my jawline. I really should wax. A lot. Or maybe try electrolysis. Unfortunately my skin is also fairly sensitive. It and The Wax do NOT get along so I do not have high hopes for the success of electrolysis. So I use a depilatory, I shave, I wax a little bit, and I pluck. It's really not pretty. Maintaining a hair-under-control environment is time-consuming. Some things go by the way side. Lest you have your mind in the gutter, I am talking about my legs. It's cold so my legs are always covered. I sleep alone. I don't date. I let the hair on my legs get too long. So? Don't judge me.

This year I am going to lose the extra weight I've been carrying. I know, I say that all the time. But really, I'm going to do it. I'm not kidding. Notice I didn't say "try" I said "going to." Positive declarations lead to success (or so they say). So I've been tinkering with my schedule trying to make time for a regular appointment at the gym. I scoped out the gym near where I'm working right now. I put a gym bag in the car for those (very rare) times when I have some time to kill and would normally go sit at a bar. As Spongebob would say, "I'm ready."

Today I decided I would go to the gym in lieu of lunch because (1) it was lunchtime, (2) I wasn't hungry, and (3) I am not on a deadline. I was so proud of myself, praising me for having that gym bag in the car. I get to the gym, battle for one of two available parking spaces, and march proudly into the ladies locker room. As I'm opening my gym bag, I remember that I put shorts in there. And I can't remember the last time I shaved my legs. Seriously, I have no way to even guess.

I'm blessed with the realization that I am not the center of the universe and most of the time no one even notices me. I'm a middle-aged, non-descript, totally average-looking person whose carrying around extra weight. Except to the fat-o-phobes and the meanies, I am non-existent to strangers. It's cool, I don't mind. If I want to step into the light, I can. But I digress .... Normally, the fact that I haven't shaved my legs and am about to put shorts on at the gym wouldn't bother me even a little bit. Seriously ... nobody's looking at me, nobody's paying attention to me, I'm not cruisin' for a date or anything. But I've just finished reading Bitter Is The New Black - a memoir by Jen Lancaster - and have just started reading Bright Lights, Big Ass, her follow up. Jen's "shtick" - if you want to call it that - is observing and making fun of people (including herself). So suddenly I'm thinking the next Jen could be in the gym, noticing my hairy legs, and all of a sudden I'll be the topic of some stranger's blog and later a character in their New York Times Bestseller's List memoir.

Rather than pack up and leave - my first instinct after Jen's skewerings pass through my mind - I come up with a solution. I will find a treadmill in a corner, or in the back, where the fewest amount of people will see me and be near me. As I walk to the bank of treadmills I see one, against the wall, with a broken treadmill next to it, no one on the one behind it, and a vent blowing air from behind. Yes! The gods were shining on me. Or so I thought.

I'm doing my Couch to 5k workout - a story for another post - and I can feel the cool air blowing from behind me. No one is next to me. In fact, no one has even glanced in my direction. Told you. Then I noticed The Smell. It was awful. Seriously. I can't even think of a word that can describe this odor. I turned around and a very sweaty man was on the treadmill behind me. He was right in front of the vent, so his stink was blowing directly at me. Thank God I had my back to him; a direct hit from the smell might have mortally wounded me. I had flashes of Sweetie and Stinker covering their noses in the perfume section of the department store, screaming "Ow, Mommy, my nose hurts. What's that smell?" I tried to stay focused, but the smell got stronger and stronger. Just as I was thinking I have never smelled anything so rank in my entire life, I was reminded of that one time, at band camp ... er, in Germany, c. 1988.

After college, 3 girlfriends and I backpacked through Europe for 3 weeks. We're talking old school ... we paid for the trips ourselves (none of this happy-graduation-here's-some-money-to-go-travel-the-world stuff for us girls), stayed in hostels, slept on trains, used Eurail passes, etc. We spent a LOT of time on trains because it felt like it was cheap since we had already paid for the passes. One day we were traveling from Frankfurt-ish to Munich-ish and we made the bad decision to go on a Friday evening during rush hour. The train was PACKED; even the little seats that fold up into the side of the train in the aisle were down and occupied, making it difficult to pass under the best of circumstances and really difficult while schlepping a giant backpack.

Anyway, we finally saw a compartment that was empty save for a newspaper and a briefcase. What luck! The 4 of us got all excited, got up to compartment, opened the door ... and practically passed out. The absolute worst case of B.O. came emanating out of the compartment. Seriously, there was no person or animal in the compartment, but it was spewing forth by far the stinkiest smell I have ever encountered (then or since!). We were coughing and choking, our faces were turning red, and we were trying to figure out what to do, all the while laughing so hard we could hardly remain upright. We collectively decided that whoever stunk up the place must have left, and if we opened all of the windows to let in some fresh air, we'd be fine in no time and would have the compartment all to ourselves. So we scrambled in while holding our breath, heaved our backpacks onto the overhead racks, opened all of the windows and sat down. It was October, it had snowed the night before, and it was cold outside, but we didn't care. We had our turtleneck collars folded up over our nose-and-mouth areas (I have photos!) for a little bit but after a few minutes the brisk air cleared out the stench and we could relax a little.

And then HE entered. The source of the smell. Apparently Sir Stinks-A-Lot came back for his briefcase. He was a giant man, greasy hair, bad teeth and just as pleasant as can be. He walked over and immediately began closing the windows. He smiled and nodded at us as he moved his briefcase and plopped into the chair. He said something in German to the four of us in general and my girlfriend (who was fluent) responded. Then, all of a sudden, she stood up and started to get her backpack off of the travel rack. "What are you doing?," we asked. She turned to us with her eyes wide, a strained smile on her face, trying very hard to maintain control of herself and she said, "Why, I'm getting ready to get off the train, of course. This is our stop." The other 3 of us were puzzled; we just got ON the train and expected to be on it for a couple of hours. "But this isn't ..." one of us (probably me!) started to say, and she looked at us again, surreptitiously rolling her eyes to the door, and said, "You'd better hurry and grab your stuff. The train is stopping and WE HAVE TO GET OFF!" We scrambled to get our things, and as we were being herded like cattle down the aisle to the door of the train car, she turned around and said, "That man - and his awful stink - is going to Munich, too." When we inquired why we couldn't just switch cars she started to shake her head and said, "No way. I can still smell him. It's so bad that I'm sure the whole damn train smells like him. And then we'll have to smell him again anyway when we arrive in Muich and he gets off at the same train station. No way, no how. I'll take my chances with the next train."

Turns out, I have smelled something so rank. Something worse, in fact. And I survived. So I focused on breathing through my mouth and finished my workout.

It's Naked Time!

2010-03-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

What is it about men and nudity?

I grew up with one man in my life, my father. He lived with us but he wasn't around a lot because he worked really hard. (In hindsight, my father had an absolutely incredible work ethic.) I don't have a ton of memories of him from when I was a child, but one that stands out is the underwear. My father liked to walk around in his tightie-whities. I didn't think much of it as a little girl, but it was SO embarrassing when I hit junior high school and just mortifying when I was in high school. To this day I can picture him walking down the staircase, turning through the living room - even when we had company over! - and going into the kitchen for a glass of water or something.

When I was a teenager, my father had drilled it into my head that boys only wanted to have sex with me, and of course I was a good girl who would never dream of having sex while in high school, so boys remained a mystery to me. I had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing really serious and nothing long lasting because if I felt like things were progressing physically, I cut bait and ran. But one of the boys I had dated ran naked through the half-time show during The Big Game when he was a senior. At the time, while laughing nervously because everyone else was laughing, I thought "Oh my God, that boy is naked ... in front of hundreds of people." (By the way, the now-infamous streaker was and probably still is one of the nicest men I've ever known. He's good people.)

In college, I discovered I liked to hang out with men. I became friends with my first gay man. I had sex for the first time (no, not with the gay man). I fell in love for the first time. I made some really good male friends. Though many of the college memories are fuzzy, I remember just about every guy I knew was always looking for an opportunity to take off some or all of his clothes; they were BA-ing people, taking off their shirts, skinny dipping, taking a steam, you name it.

I lived with a man for the first time when I was in my mid-twenties. He loved to be naked. He would get out of the shower, dry off, and then walk around the apartment stark naked. He completed his entire morning routine in the nude. He finally, begrudgingly, put his clothes on only minutes before he had to leave.

I don't want to tell tales out of school about the Ex, but suffice it to say he was not averse to nudity and leave it at that.

I remember seeing a Comedy Central special years ago by comedian Dana Carvey, who had two young sons at the time. He told stories of the troubles he and his wife had trying to keep clothes on those kids. Figuring it was useless to require clothing at all times, they decided to focus on time, place and manner restrictions to the nakedness. They implemented "Naked Time." They let their children run around naked for an hour or two, every day, at exactly the same time. He said they would sit there, hands ready to remove clothes, saying "Is it time yet? Is it time yet?"

So here I am, a single mom to two little aliens, uh ... um, I mean, two little boys. These boys beg me to let them be naked on "stay home days." Sweetie is starting to show signs of modesty when it comes to some things, but is he modest when it comes to parading around the house with not a stitch of clothing on? Nope. In fact, he likes to call attention to his nakedness - his "booty" in particular. Stinker comes to me with a big grin on his face and says "Look, Mama, I'm naked!" And then he runs around the house for awhile.

I'm sure I'm prudish as a middle-aged divorcee whose self-esteem has not recovered from a bad marriage and a divorce, but even when I was at my thinnest and most confident, I did not run around naked. Not even when I was alone.

So what is it with men and nudity?

I finished the sentences ...

2009-05-01T21:08:00.001-07:00

1. My ex's…are a part of my history.

2. Maybe I should ...... get to work.

3. I love ...... sleeping in.

4. People would say that I'm ...... crazy about my children.

5. I don't understand why ...... people have hate in their hearts.

6. When I wake up in the morning .... I go over my to do list.

7. I lost my ... mind, but luckily I found it again.

8. Life is full of ....... difficult but important lessons.

9. My past is ....... in the past, and I'm moving forward.

10. I get annoyed by ...... people who are not sincere.

11. Parties are not as fun as ....... I think they're going to be.

12. I wish life was not ....... such a rat race.

13. Dogs are ....... the best!

14. Cats are ....... temperamental.

15. Tomorrow is ...... going to be better than today.

16. I have a low tolerance for ...... liars, cheaters, sneaks, religious zealots, people who judge others, elitism, drama, dairy products.

17. If I had a million dollars ....... I might make a dent in my debt!

18. I'm totally terrified ........ by all things Bush.

19. My significant other ....... hasn't introduced himself to me yet.

What My Children Think of Me

2009-05-01T20:50:00.001-07:00

I stole this off of my Facebook page. I just thought it was so cute.

I asked my children a series of questions and wrote down their answers. Sweetie is 6 years old and Stinker just turned 4. I asked the questions separately so they were not influenced by their brother's answer.

1. What is something mom always says to you?
Stinker: "I love you." Sweetie: "I love you."
[Hmmmm ... can't get much better than that!!]

2. What makes mom happy?
Stinker: "When I play nicely." Sweetie: "When I laugh."
[Both true.]

3. What makes mom sad?
Stinker: "When I hurt your feelings." Sweetie: "When I feel like you don't like me."
[Again, both true.]

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
Stinker: "Tickle." Sweetie: "By doing funny things." [Like what?] "For example, telling me funny jokes that I never heard."
[Sweetie's answer is a little surprising ... I don't tell that many jokes, just the same ones over and over.]

5. What was your mom like as a child?
Stinker: "I don't know." Sweetie: "I don't know."
[Apparently, we need to have more conversations about my childhood. And they need to speak to my mother!]

6. How old is your mom?
Stinker: "40." Sweetie: "I can't remember."
[hee hee - Stinker is close]

7. How tall is your mom?
Stinker: "I don't know." Sweetie: "I think you are ten feet."
[hee hee]

8. What is Mom's favorite thing to do?
Stinker: "Play with me." Sweetie: "Hear us laugh."
[Both true.]

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
Stinker: "Clean up." Sweetie: "Usually work."
[Again, both true.]

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Stinker: "I don't know." Sweetie: "Money." [How would money make me famous?] "Because you want to be rich."
[hee hee. Actually, HE wants to be rich. I would just like to be comfortable!]

11. What is your mom really good at?
Stinker: "Exercising at the gym." Sweetie: "Loving us."
[Sweetie's answer made me verklempt.]

12. What is your mom not very good at?
Stinker: "Listening to me when I tell you to come and look at stuff." Sweetie: "Fixing stuff."
[Both true. In my defense, Stinker whines all the time, and his "come and look" voice is the same as his whining voice!]

13. What does your mom do for a job?
Stinker: "I don't know." Sweetie: "Your job is to work with people." [What do I do with people?] "Go on the computer and work, writing notes and sending messages."
[Both good answers as I am currently unemployed and spend a lot of time on the computer searching, emailing, applying, etc.]

14. What is your mom's favorite food?
Stinker: "Blueberries." Sweetie: "Candy."
[Both good answers!]

15. What makes you proud of your mom?
Stinker: "Doing something pretty." Sweetie: "When you're nice."
[hee hee. Stinker picked up on my feeble Martha Stewart tendencies, and Sweetie picked up on my "service" activities going on since I've been unemployed.]

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Stinker: "Squidward [from Spongebob Squarepants] because you have lines on your head just like he does." Sweetie: "Scooby Dooby Doo because he's the best."
[Stinker's answer - OUCH! Apparently I need some Botox]

17. What do you and your mom do together?
Stinker: "Work." [what kind of work?] "Wash the car." Sweetie: "We play together."
[hee hee - Stinker had helped me wash the car precisely one time. Though he "cleans" everything right now.]

18. How are you and your mom the same?
Stinker: "We have the same eyebrows." Sweetie: "We're both humans."
[Both answers make me laugh.]

19. How are you and your mom different?
Stinker: "Hair color." Sweetie: "You have long hair and I have short hair."

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
Stinker: "You say it." Sweetie: "I just do."

21. What does your mom like most about your dad?
Stinker: "We used to be a family." Sweetie: "He's cute."
[Stinker's answer is a little heartbreaking.]

22. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
Stinker: "Disneyland." Sweetie: "Home."

Out of the Mouth of My Babe

2009-02-12T13:21:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm not even sure I should share this. I'm hoping some other parents out there have experienced a similar horror and can relate.

I was sitting at the table with Sweetie, keeping him company while he did his homework. He was busy cutting and gluing when out of his mouth, out of the blue, fly the following words: "Mom, did you know white people are better than black people?" WHAT?? I just sat there for a second, with my mouth literally hanging open. I knew I had to say something, but I needed a bit of time to get a grasp of what he just said.

As background, The Ex and I are about as WASPy as you can get these days. He is a blue-eyed blonde from a judeo-christian family; his mother is first generation American citizen by birth (her parents were born in Italy) but his father's family has been here for a long time. I am a fair skinned brunette with ancestors who arrived on the Mayflower. We are pretty much lovers of everybody (except each other [wink]). We live in a diverse neighborhood and Sweetie has always been in multi-cultural schools and classrooms. In fact, he was the only "whitey" in his kindergarten class; it was a beautiful blend of children with all different skin colors, and he is one of only two "whiteys" in first grade. To my knowledge, neither The Ex nor I have ever talked about anyone in terms of skin color in front of our kids; it just doesn't come up in conversations, with each other or with others.

After I got over the initial shock, I cross-examined Sweetie about where he would get such an idea. Turns out, in his study of Abraham Lincoln as we approached Lincoln's birthday, he learned a little bit about slavery. To my horror, he learned that all the rich and powerful white guys had black slaves, and that was because whites are better than blacks. He did NOT learn, however, that slavery was so wrong that our country fought a war over it!! He did NOT learn, however, that those rich and powerful white guys were wrong!! Oh. My. God. So, I took a deep breath and explained, in as age-appropriate terms as I could, what was so wrong with slavery. I was encouraged when he said "I feel really bad that I said that, Mom. Slavery was mean."

Dreams and The Dream Box

2009-01-28T08:16:00.001-08:00

Dreams, the word "dream," the idea of dreams, the truth about dreams ... all of it has been prominent in my life for the past two weeks (or so).

"All that we are is the result of what we have thought." - Buddha

As part of my spiritual journey, I'm opening my heart to new and different things, ideas, and people. For the first time in a long time, I am attempting to identify very specific things I want for myself and for my family. I'm setting dreams in motion.

I have a very dear friend named Tee - we've known each other since 7th grade - who is years ahead of me on her spiritual path and is a great grounding source for me. Though we do not have identical beliefs, they are similar enough that she can help give me perspective and direction when I need it the most. One of Tee's fundamental truths is that "beliefs create reality." It goes along with the Laws of Attraction and The Secret: what you put out into the universe is what you get back. I've seen it work in her life. As an example, right about when she turned 40, she adjusted - not abandoned - her existing and lifelong dream of marriage and family. She decided that living where she lived would not lead her to the father of her children, so she moved. She focused not on finding someone to "marry" (necessarily) but on someone who wanted the same kind of "family" she was now picturing. She drew a picture of her dream "family" and taped it above her computer. She believed that such a man, and such a family, existed and that she would find them. About a year later, she did and they now have a new family of their own.

For the past year or so, with Tee's help, I have been working on my attitude. I have tried to quiet that voice in my head that is full of doubt and skepticism. I have tried to see the positive in every "bad" thing that has happened in my life. I have tried to stop looking back at things I cannot change and have started moving forward toward change I want. It is not easy; I slip back into my old ways when I'm not paying attention. It's exhausting because it is contrary to habits I have developed for 40 years of my life, but I can see subtle little changes occurring all around me.

After I had a mini-breakdown/pity party for myself a couple of weeks ago, Tee gave me this wonderful card. In addition to the things your dear friends always tell you - I love you, you're fabulous, etc. - she reminded me that things that are worth having are often difficult to get, but they are worth the effort and heartache at the end. She told me that the "bad" things in life are merely the universe's way of shifting our focus off of that which is not important to that which is important. She suggested I create a vision board, and include pictures/ideas/symbols of my dreams, and post it in a prominent place in my home so that I see it every day. A couple of days later, she presented me with The Dream Box.

The Legend of the Dream Box (often attributed to Lemuria) suggests writing down your fondest dream, greatest desire, strongest wish on a small piece of paper, putting that paper in a Dreambox and placing it beside your bed. Every evening as you retire and every morning as you rise, hold your Dreambox and think on your dream, believing with all your heart that is is so. Legend has it, if done faithfully, your dream will come true.

I wrote down my most prominent dream right now and put it in the box. I have also started my vision board, which right now represents 3 very specific dreams that I have for myself.

In January the minister of my church has been going over "the basics" of the Unity/New Thought movement. One of the things I learned is that some of my favorite 19th century authors and poets were part of what is now known as the New Thought movement more than 100 years ago. Ralph Waldo Emerson, the son of a Unitarian minister, held "meetings" with his literary friends - including Henry David Thoreau - to discuss spirituality, including the idea that if you truly set your mind - and your heart - on something, it will come true.

"Be careful what you set your heart on, for it will surely be yours." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

So two Sundays ago I showed up at church for the third lesson on "the basics" and guess what it's about? Dreams! The third basic premise of New Thought is (to paraphrase) the idea that if you take that which is in your consciuos mind, and tell it to your subconscious mind with deliberation and conviction in its truth, your subconscious mind will make it true. Hey, look at the quotes above ... that's what Buddha said, that's what Emerson said!!

The next day was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. "I have a dream" was all over the place.

The day after that was President Obama's Inauguration. Talk about dreams! The dream theme was everywhere: dreams of Lincoln, dreams of MLK, dreams of our forefathers, dreams of a nation, dreams of a people, dreams of a little boy, dreams, dreams, dreams.

So I leave you with this:

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler." - Henry David Thoreau

Long live the tooth fairy

2009-01-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

We hit a milestone in our household last weekend. Sweetie lost his first tooth.

About two weeks ago, I was looking at him while he was speaking to me and I noticed a new "space" in his bottom teeth. I asked "did you lose a tooth?" No. "Do you have a loose tooth?" No. After examination, I discovered the culprit: an adult tooth had broken through and was shoving the baby tooth out of the way.

A few days later, I made corn on the cob for dinner. He took one bite and flipped. "Mom, Mom, I have a loose tooth. You have to only give me soft food!" Then the panic started: is it going to hurt? is it going to bleed? are you going to have to pull it? Drama, drama, drama.

As the week wore on, I would catch him playing with it with his tongue as kids do, but he never said anything about it again.

We were driving home from a little nature hike - on a deserted country road - and all of a sudden he yelled from the backseat, "Mom, my tooth just fell out and it landed in my lap." That was it.

We called Daddy and Mama G to share the exciting news. When we arrived at Mama G's, she handed him a dollar bill "in case the tooth fairy forgets you." Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.

We then went to the store to find the perfect container in which he would put his tooth for presentation to the tooth fairy. Whatever happened to the envelope - tooth in, tooth out money in, money out - of my childhood? No, my son wants a treasure chest or something. We couldn't find anything small enough, so he settled for an organza bag used for party favors at baby showers.

The tooth fairy left $5. I think I got a quarter when I was a kid. I hear the tooth fairy gives a lot more for the first tooth these days, and the gift is smaller for subsequent teeth. My son didn't even notice; he was delighted to find that the tooth fairy had in fact come. He checked under his pillow, took the money and stuffed it into his piggy bank, and then came to tell me the tooth fairy did not forget him and she left him a dollar.

It was surprisingly emotional for me. My baby clearly is not a baby anymore. Before I know it I will be dealing with body odor and pubic hair. Eek!!

Whatever happened to common courtesy?

2009-01-07T19:44:00.000-08:00

Is it just me? It seems that people have stopped using the basic common courtesies we all learned as children. I'm talking the basics, like saying thank you to someone who does something for you that they didn't have to do. I'm talking about saying excuse me if you step in front of someone. I'm talking about speaking to people - no matter their age - in a respectful manner. What happened? Where did it all go?

In the past month or so, I have written letters of recommendation for two of my son's former teachers as they search for new teaching positions, and neither one even said thank you. I don't expect a parade, but is it too much to expect a simple "thanks"? One of the teachers in particular irked me because I have not seen nor heard from her for more than 6 months, my son doesn't even go to her school anymore, and she tracked me down to ask me for a glowing recommendation, and she didn't even have the courtesy to acknowledge receiving it, much less thank me for writing it. Am I being ridiculous?

I was walking through an automatic doorway yesterday and this woman decided to try to go through at the same time as me. She practically body slammed me on her way past me, and when I turned to say "excuse me" she didn't even pause or look back and instead kept barreling through to the store. Isn't it common courtesy to say excuse me when you bump into someone? I say even when I don't think it's my fault, because maybe it is my fault and I don't want to be rude.

And don't even get me started on customer service!! The phrase "customer service" has morphed into an oxymoron.

Kids today - mine included when they think I'm not paying attention - no longer "ask" for things. They issue orders. "I want more milk." "Buy that for me." When mine do it, I stare at them, and they just keep barking orders at me, and I carry on with my business. Sweetie will bark and bark and bark until he finally gets the hint and asks me nicely, but it takes him a long time to figure it out. And the tones of voice that kids use!! Sometimes Sweetie speaks to me in a tone that I never would have dreamed of using with my mother, even when I was a pukey teenager. It astounds me how often I have to say to him, "If I were you, I would think about the voice I am using with my mother and maybe start over." Just tonight, after I told Stinker to "put your shoes on, please, it's time to go" my THREE YEAR OLD said "whatever" and walked away from me. Are you kidding me??

And kids are so bossy and disrespectful with each other. I'm not talking about siblings necessarily, because I recognize that you sometimes reveal your ugliest self with the people who are closest to you. I'm talking about kids who are supposed to be "friends" yet they speak to each other in a voice that suggests they can't stand each other. When did it become "cool" to be a jackass in elementary school?? I always believed the jackass factor didn't kick in until middle school, after kids have at least had a chance to navigate through school for a couple of years. As an example, a boy in Sweetie's FIRST GRADE class told Sweetie very matter of factly that he is a baby. Why? Because he was cold, so he put his arms around me and said "hug me to help me get warm." We're talking 6 years old, not 14!! WTF?? And when I said to the boy, "you know, it's not very nice to call people names" he said - swear to God - "so?"

I don't profess to be the best mother in the world, but by God my kids will learn their manners and they will learn to be respectful, especially of adults. It's a work in progress for sure, and we have a long way to go with our table manners, but at least they usually say please and thank you - especially to people other than me - and disrespect is simply not tolerated in my house.

It's sad enough that kids aren't learning common courtesies, but it's really sad when they don't learn them because their parents don't even utilize them. What has happened to the world?

Jokes from a 6-year-old

2008-12-25T20:36:00.000-08:00

What kind of monster loves to dance? The boogeyman.

Why don't clams share their toys? Because they are shellfish.

When is a door not a door? When it's ajar.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other slide.

Knock Knock. Who's there? Boo. Boo who? What are you crying about?!

Knock Knock. Who's there? Woo. Woo who? What are you so excited about?!

These few very bad jokes elicit peals of laughter from my 6-year-old. So of course I love to hear them over and over again.

Perpetuating the Myth and Salvaging the Story?

2008-12-24T23:42:00.000-08:00

Sweetie is at the age where he asks if everything is "real" or "fake" so of course he has been asking about Santa Claus. Luckily, he is in a year-round school, and he is "off track" from just before Thanksgiving until after the first of the year, so I am not battling all of his killjoy peers and their nasty little tales of parental lies and deception. And, as I have mentioned before, he totally believes in magic.

So we've been counting down the days to Christmas Eve with our advent calendar. We've been talking about the story of Christmas and the birth of Jesus (prompted by a nativity scene in a neighbor's yard). He has asked for, and I have shared, stories of Christmases when I was a little girl. He was horrified by the trick my father played on me when I was 8; he led me to believe that my Big Wheel didn't come with all of its pieces, and you can't make returns to Santa, so I was just out of luck. He loved the story about the Christmas when I received two live finches ... I kept hearing this "peep peep" sound while we were opening presents but never noticed the cage. He didn't know Santa could bring you pets!! He was intrigued by my older sister's claim that she got out of bed one year because she heard something; the presents were under the tree and she saw Santa's boot as it disappeared out our front door. (She is nearly 50, and SWEARS to this day that she saw Santa's boot walking out our door.) We talked a little about Santa, but not as much as you would think considering all of his questions about everything else.

Out of Sweetie's mouth, here's the skinny on Santa: He was a real person, a long time ago, but new guys become Santa when the current Santa gets too old, and it just keeps going from new guy to new guy so we always have a Santa. (Hhhmmm ... has someone been watching The Santa Clause?) Santa doesn't live at the North Pole all the time - only when he is getting ready for Christmas - but the elves live there all the time; that's why they have those funny ears. He isn't sure where Santa lives, but it has to be someplace warmer than the North Pole. Santa is magic; he makes his reindeer fly, he makes his sleigh fly, he can magically make chimneys big enough for him to climb down and up, he has a magic key that opens doors to homes that do not have fireplaces, and he has that magic bag ... it's kind of like Mary Poppins' bag; it looks really small, but it can hold every single toy that every child in the world has put on his or her wish list. Oh, and Santa can stop time ... duh, how else could he get around the entire world in one night? The magic kind of "freaks [him] out" - that's why he doesn't want to go see Santa and get close to him. And by the way, even though those Santas in malls are not real - Santa hires guys to pretend to be him because he is too busy at work - maybe those mall guys have some kind of magic, too. He isn't sure, but he doesn't want to risk it. Santa doesn't make toys; his elves buy them at stores. Rudolph, though a real and magic reindeer, does not have a red nose that lights up. Rudolph's nose is red, but it's red like the one Dale has from Disney's Chip N' Dale. Rudolph wears a red flashlight on his halter!!

After we toured our neighborhood to look at lights, baked fresh cookies, sprinkled reindeer food on the lawn (oatmeal with glitter, so the reindeer can see the sparkles from the sky and know there are kids here), and got dressed in our Christmas pajamas, I heard him talking to his very best friend "Puppy" - a polka-dotted stuffed dog he has had for more than 5 years - and telling him "he's coming, he's coming, we have to go to sleep."

In years past, we have written letters to Santa, and received letters from Santa and/or Mrs. Claus, but this year he simply was not interested. Instead, he chose to tell his wish list to one of his worry dolls. He is 100% confident that his worry doll will take care of things for him, and he will get that one thing he really really wants. The problem? Because he didn't write it down anywhere, I am not 100% certain what he "really really" wants. I had to make an educated guess.

I just heard a clatter outside, and when I went to check it out, I noticed my Christmas tree has a ton of presents under it that weren't there before. And according to http://www.noradsanta.org/, Santa was in my area while I've been sitting here writing this blog. Though I believe in the spirit of Santa, I have always thought I was perpetuating a myth. Maybe I've been wrong; maybe my son is salvaging the story for me. Christmas just isn't the same if you don't have Santa in your life.

Happy Christmas.

Celebrate the Conscience!

2008-12-17T10:59:00.000-08:00

As the mother of a six year old, I am often faced with those opportunities to teach my son about right and wrong and the power of his conscience. Sometimes it feels like it doesn't get through, but I had a very proud parental moment yesterday.

Two days ago Sweetie asked if he could have a piece of candy. "Bless him for asking" I thought to myself. I said no because the boys had been over at Mama G's for awhile that afternoon and she lets them eat so much junk. I thought that was the end of it. A few hours later, however, I found evidence that he had had two pieces of candy. I confronted him and at first he denied it. Then I showed him the candy wrappers, and he admitted that yes, he had eaten a piece of candy after I told him he could not have any and he claimed he had given the other piece to Stinker. He went off to his double timeout; one for eating candy after I told him no and one for lying about it.

Yesterday I was sitting on the floor folding laundry and Sweetie came up to me and said: "Mom, you know how you found those candy wrappers last night and I told you that I had one and gave one to [Stinker]? Well, I lied to you, Mom. I had two pieces of candy. I just feel guilty so I wanted to tell you about it."

I was so happy to have some proof that he has a conscience and it's speaking to him! It's not much in the grand scheme of things, but I'll take very little victory I can.

Where Did I Go Wrong?

2008-12-10T20:15:00.000-08:00

Overall my boys are good kids, but it has become abundantly clear in the last two months or so that they simply do not listen, and I don't know what to do about it. They don't listen to me, their father, their grandmother, and sometimes even their teachers. They violate long standing rules for no apparent reason. They do things I have specifically told them not to do just a few minutes earlier. Where did I go wrong?

I have taken classes and read books and talked with other parents. What I am doing should work. They aren't monsters or openly defiant like some of the kids you see on the nanny shows. They just ignore me. I give clear warnings and I follow through with whatever consequence I threaten, but they don't care. I have "good citizen" rules that apply whether we are at home or somewhere else. We have "ugly" words we do not say because good citizens don't use those words. We have "bad" words that no one is supposed to say. I have restaurant rules and store rules. My rules are consistent, and there aren't too many; I definitely choose my battles. So why don't they listen? Where did I go wrong?

Some examples just from today. We have a long standing rule that we do not jump on the beds. I have explained that it is not safe and they will break the bed. They went off to play in their rooms, and sure enough within about five minutes I could hear them jumping on the beds. I reminded them of the rules; I caught them jumping on the beds five minutes later. We have a long standing rule that we do not throw things - anything - in the house. They hardly ever abide by that rule! We have two types of couch pillows, the "green" which they are not supposed to play with, and the "flowered" which they are allowed to play with. Sweetie launched a huge couch pillow - the ones they know they are not supposed to play with - across the room and knocked over some Christmas decorations. We have a long standing rule that we do not treat furniture - ours or anyone else's - like playground equipment. Did that stop Sweetie from swinging between couch and loveseat like they were parallel bars? Did that stop Stinker from tightrope walking on the back of the loveseat? Did that stop Sweetie from using his dresser as an anchor to tie up toys with Christmas ribbon? No, no and no. And this was all before dinner!! Where did I go wrong?

Neither of my boys can stay seated at the table through an entire meal. It doesn't matter where the meal is - home, restaurant, family's house, picnic - and it makes no difference what time of day it is; breakfast is just as problematic as dinner. Before we sit down to eat at a restaurant, I remind them of our table rules, including sitting "bottom to bottom, back to back" on the chair, facing the table, until I tell them it is okay to get up. If we are in a booth, they both eventually lay down and have to be reminded to sit up. Stinker turns around, or gets on his knees. At a kid friendly pizza place tonight, I reminded Stinker for about the fourth time to sit down, in his chair, and he said "No." Just like that. Nice and calm, no tantrum, no devilish smile ... just "no." I don't like to physically move his little body, but I do, and I did. He just got up again. Where did I go wrong?

We have very simple rules for any store: no running, no yelling, look with our eyes and not our hands, and stay close to Mommy. Stinker - the rambling man - is warned that if he wanders away from me, he will get put in the cart (which he hates). Long story short, we went to buy him a new pair of shoes, he ran away from me, and landed in the cart. And then he whined and yelled and cried that he wanted out, the whole time we were there. I'm sure the other shoppers loved me. I told him I would let him out to try on shoes, but that he was to stay close by, and if he could do that, I would let him stay out of the cart and walk. He took off again, with the shoes still tied together!! We went to a craft store to buy supplies for a school project for Sweetie. Stinker was so obnoxious; I took away a toy he was holding, slapped his hand, and gave him a timeout right there in the store. A woman told him she was going to make a phone call to Santa and make sure he was on the naughty list. How embarrassing!! Where did I go wrong?

And then the piece de resistance. They had a big fight in the bath, so I got them out and into their rooms to get ready for bed. After I escorted Stinker to his room, and as I turned to get his pajamas, he picked up a toy, and said to it "I hate that stupid Mommy." As you can probably guess, "hate" and "stupid" are ugly words in our house, and good citizens do not call other people names. I am devastated. I know most children say that to their parents at some point in their life, but Sweetie has never said it, and Stinker is only 3 years old. Where did I go wrong?

I'd love some parenting tips. I don't have any problem disciplining my children, but I don't want to be a yeller and I don't want to resort to spanking (though I have done both on occasion ... I am human after all.) In the meantime, I am going to go have a stiff drink and lick my wounds ...

Guatemalan Worry Dolls

2008-12-05T17:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Sweetie came up to me, all excited: "Mom, come here. I found this thing, I've never seen it before so I don't know how to tell you what it is, I bet you don't know, but come and look because I want to have it." I couldn't imagine what had him so worked up. I followed him into his room, and he presented me with a small, oval-shaped box made of a wicker-type material. I knew immediately what it was, I just had no idea how he found it!

When The Ex and I first split, I was worried about a lot of things. My worries were weighing on my mind, and apparently wearing on my face because Mama G gave me a little oval-shaped box of Guatemalan worry dolls. At night before you go to sleep, you tell one of the dolls a specific worry, and then the doll does the worrying for you so you can get a good night's rest. I haven't used them in years, and in fact I forgot I even had them, but they've stayed with us through two moves and somehow ended up in Sweetie's hot little hands.

Sweetie is a pretty spiritual kid and a big believer in magic. He believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. He believes in pixie dust and fairies and dream catchers. He understands and believes in karma (though he thinks it is the spirit of a child). So you can imagine his delight when I told him about worry dolls. He begged me to let him have them because "Mom, really, I have a lot of worries." I tried to get him to tell me some of his worries - seriously, what is my 6 year old worrying about? - but he said "you aren't magic, Mom, but the worry dolls are. I want to tell them so I won't worry any more." How could I resist?

This morning he told me he had used all 6 of the worry dolls last night. And he feels "less worrying" today. Well. God I love that kid!

The Rainbow Song

2008-12-04T21:13:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a home with a mother who liked to sing. She had a beautiful voice, an alto, and I remember her singing all the time: vacuuming, cooking, sewing, gardening, driving. Sometimes she would put on an LP, crank it up, dance in our living room, and sing her little heart out. Maybe that's where the divine dances of the ya ya brotherhood originated in my head! I loved to hear my mother sing when I was little. I really loved it when she sang "que sera, sera." (What is that song actually called? Did Doris Day sing it?) That song had an impact on my older sister as well; a couple of years ago, while she was in Paris, she texted me to tell me that it was playing in the little cafe where she was enjoying a brioche and coffee! As I got older, I thought my mom was weird - nobody else's mom sang all the time and nobody danced around!

For me, music and memory tie together in my brain. Certain songs evoke very specific memories for me, both good and bad. Thankfully, all of the songs I remember my mother singing bring up warm fuzzies and smiles. Maybe it's because of the strong impact my mother's singing had on me, but I really wanted to sing to my children. I don't have a very good singing voice, but everyone always told me it doesn't matter to little kids, so I decided I would try it. When my sons were infants, I sang made-up silly songs to them during playtime, and they smiled. I would pace with them during the witching hours - those long nights when baby just won't sleep - and sing. I couldn't remember the words to very many songs, so I sang weird songs like "Silent Night" and "The Ants Go Marching One by One." The one song I remembered - a full three verses - was "que sera, sera." I sang that song to them a lot.

We did a lot of singing in the car on the ride home from Disneyland earlier this week, but it was more of the silly made-up type. For example, I made up a song about their stinky feet, which they LOVED. We sang it over and over again while they stuck their stinky feet on my center console and I tickled their toes. Sweetie asked me to sing it again today. He loves it when I sing. Stinker doesn't. Most of the time when I sing, Stinker tells me to stop.

Imagine my surprise when, at bedtime tonight, Stinker asked me to sing him the Rainbow song. The Rainbow song? What's that? I kept thinking about the made-up songs ... did one have a rainbow in it? No. Nursery rhyme songs? No. What the heck was he talking about? And then it hit me. He wanted me to sing him "que sera, sera." I sing three verses, and the second verse (as I sing it - who knows what it actually is) is:

Then I grew up and fell in love,
I asked my sweetheart, "what lies ahead?
Will there be rainbows, day after day?"
Here's what my sweetheart said:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera.

When I said "are you talking about the que sera, sera song?" he said. "yeah, yeah, sing dat one." I can't remember the last time I sang that song to either one of my boys. I have no idea what prompted him to ask me to sing. But I loved it. And I sang it. And he made a yummy noise! I was not surprised when Sweetie came into Stinker's room and said, "sing it to me, sing it to me." So I did. And then he made a yummy noise. I am a lucky mom; other than giggling, there's nothing better than a yummy noise from my sons.

Divine Dances of the Ya-Ya Brotherhood

2008-11-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

My two children spend, and have always spent, most of their days in a structured school environment so that I can work. I have guilt, and feel like I am missing out on critical bonding time with them during their day, so I am forever trying to come up with ideas that are "uniquely me" to help me bond with them. Often, they are so happy to see me, and relieved to be home, that they have an abundance of energy that cannot be contained. On those days, the constant chatter and loud silliness starts in the car ride home and then spills out of the garage into the house. On those days, it is difficult for me to change my clothes and get dinner going because they are literally hanging on me, talking to me, tugging on my clothes, etc. I needed something we could do together when we got home, that was quick and easy and a no-fuss treat for them, that would make them feel like they were getting some special attention from me and would diffuse some of that extra energy. Behold "ya-ya" time.*

We drop everything as soon as we get in the door. I put on some fun music, turn up the volume, and we dance around the living room being crazy. It only takes about 10 or 15 minutes before they feel sufficiently spent. We started with the B-52s - they LOVE "Rock Lobster" - but they now want their own music. We are currently all about the Naked Brothers Band, and they don't even request that I join them in the dancing. I know it's time for divine dances of the ya-ya brotherhood when one of them says "Mom, can we get our ya-yas out, please?"

Recently I caught myself watching them. It warmed my heart to see my sons, totally uninhibited and full of joy, leaping and dancing together. They had big smiles on their faces. They grabbed stuffed animals for dance partners. There was no special occasion; it was just an ordinary day like any other. How lucky am I?? What a great day!!

*The idea of "ya-ya" time is not my own. How we do it is our own special creation, but I read about the idea in a parenting magazine somewhere.

The Days They are a-Changin'

2008-11-17T13:12:00.000-08:00

Until recently, a typical weekday for me went something like this: up at 6:15 a.m.; shower and dress; pack lunches and backpacks; make breakfast; rustle awake two young sleepyheads; beg and plead for my children to eat, brush and dress; load the car; first grade dropoff; preschool dropoff; fight traffic for 40 minutes to travel a whopping 14 miles; work all day as a litigation attorney; scramble out of the office at 5:00 to fight traffic again; first grade pickup and preschool pickup by 6:00; make dinner; fight about homework; dishes; baths; bedtime stories; and tucked in children by 8:30. Then I got to start on all of the other things that "normal" people do when they get home. It was exhausting. I've been doing some version of this routine for the past six years, but totally by myself during the last three. And my single-mom routine is not very different from the routines of many, many single moms, and I even had the benefit of a very good job, very good childcare, an ex-husband who is around for his children, and regular child support payments. Many single moms don't have that financial strength I had. I knew I was tired, but I didn't realize how tired until the universe pitched me a curve ball.

About a month ago, after working for the same employer for almost 5 years, I lost my job. I was shocked and upset at first, naturally, but the strangest thing happened on that very day: I slept better that first night than I have in months, maybe even years! And my sleeping "issues" - not being able to fall asleep, waking in the middle of the night, struggling to get up in the morning - are basically gone. Go figure. There must have been some relief in knowing I didn't have to get up and do that darned routine again.

After the shock wore off, and I squashed the rising panic, this change in circumstances is probably a good thing. I really needed some time off - to rest, to clear my head, to unclutter my life - and now I have it. Don't get me wrong, I MUST find another job, and I'm actively looking for work, but it's nice to be able to cook for my children, go to the gym, volunteer at school, help out some friends, and still pick my children up in the afternoon with plenty of time left in our day to be a family.

Now a typical weekday looks something like this: up at 6:45 a.m.; dress; pack lunches and backpacks; make breakfast; rustle awake two young sleepyheads; beg and plead for my children to eat, brush and dress; load the car; first grade dropoff; preschool dropoff; have coffee with the "guys" at the donut shop (unless I'm volunteering in my son's classroom); go to the gym; shower; spend 1-2 hours on the computer doing job search-related things; chores/errands; watch a little TV/movie; first grade pickup; preschool pickup; make dinner; fight about homework; dishes; baths; bedtime stories; and tucked in children by 8:30. On most nights I don't have to do anything after the kids are in bed because either (1) I already did it, or (2) I could do it tomorrow.

I have a much calmer existence now. I have plenty to keep me busy, but nothing tragic happens if I choose to forego the chores/errands and relax instead. Too bad I don't have that "I love to clean" gene. I know my calmer existence is only temporary, but I'm going to enjoy it while I can. Yes, the days they are a-changin.