World's Worst Moms and the Great Banana

    I will admit that this morning because of my cranky attitude I hold the torch for World's Worst Mom...In fact I hold that trophy quite often...  In fact, I have a good blogger friend who created   http://worldsworstmoms.com/, chronicling some of our worst moments as mothers.  I have submitted quite a few of my worst moments to her site.  Okay, sometimes I write a blog entry just for her.

     The best thing about World's Worst Moms is that it is all in good fun.  Lately my posts have been about my trials and tribulations with the puppy.  I knew what I was getting into when I allowed hubby to talk me into getting Woodrow.  I knew that I would be the one walking him, making sure he was fed, buying his treats and food, picking up his shit (all of it and all kinds).  This does not stop me from bitching about what an Asshole this dog is.  Seriously, today for example shithead got a walk to the school, then he ran around the dog park, then he got a bath (which he loves btw).  And while I am in the shower, jerkface comes in, knocks over the empty humidifier canister (on purpose), steals a part off of it and runs around in front of the shower door, daring me to come and try to take it from him.  He knows I am otherwise occupied in the shower, yet poopy breath starts to mouth said object and throws it on the floor, grabbing it in his mouth, running up to the door and chomping down on it loudly.  I can not emphasize enough what a jerk he is.  Anyway, this week while hubby is out of town, I have taken up the vocabulary of a high schooler.  Once I had kids I learned to curb my potty mouth.  This week phrases such as, "You MOTHERFUCKER" and "Son of a Bitch." have been released....in front of the kids.  "Asshole" is my nickname for him...I am sure it is okay if my 3 year old and 5 year old start using that word right?  I have spent the better part of a week wrestling the bastard for objects he has stolen.  Yelling each and every time..."YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE OF A DOG I HATE YOU." Yep stellar parenting over here.

Anyway, my good friend over at World's Worst Moms is having a give away, because she is awesome.  And she got a puppy about the same time we got Woodrow.  I  think Tammy as a kindred spirit.  She's witty, she's real, and like me, has a lot of qualms about religion.  Anyway, she is giving away a Banana Hammock to one lucky...um brave sole.  So go and check her out and try and wrestle that awkward piece away from me.  http://worldsworstmoms.com/the-great-banana-hammock-er-bunker-giveaway/.  Oh and while your at it, go like her blog and her Facebook Page cause Tammy is awesome.

Our Village

This time of year people seem to be scouring for ways to give.  Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year's seems to make all of us introspective and suddenly caring about others.  "Up All Night" created this gem:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eoTSDCAHqaU

Last month I spent a few hours composing a blog entry to only have the wonders of my computer and the Internets make it disappear and I didn't have the energy to re-write it at the time.  So I am going to try again, because I feel I need to.  When everyday the little things we do may just be touching people in huge and significant ways we just don't know about.

We have these two neighbor boys who sometimes come by with their puppy dog for a play date with Woodrow.  We never know when they will show up, but sometimes around 5:30 there is a knock at the door and we end up with two very happy puppies.  These boys, from what I can gather are raising themselves.  The oldest is about 15 or 16, he is in High School and has the responsibility of caring for his younger brother who is 10 and in 5th grade.  I only get snippets from the older boy about their lives but from what I can gather, there is no male figure.  The mom works a lot in order to provide for them.  These boys pull at my heartstrings.  They remind me in so many ways of so many of my old students whose parents were struggling.  They are the example of the working poor.  They represent the loneliness and hardships of some childhoods.  One day while the boys were hanging in the backyard watching the dogs play, the older one asks me parenting advice.  "Since your a Mom, can you tell me why after holidays some kids get all crazy.  Cause Billy (not his real name) won't listen to me and is crazy since Halloween. How can I get him to listen?"  This young boy who should be playing and enjoying his childhood by playing too many computer games is asking about parenting his younger brother. In some way I hope that our home if only for the hour the boys come over and hang out in the backyard is a safe haven for them.

Today I walked Cookie to school.  It is a cold and wintry day...It was in the high teens and we had all bundled up against the cold.  We were fortunate to be on the receiving end of winter jackets from two friends last year.  Therefore we have a couple extra.  I noticed a little girl at Cookie's school was wearing just a hoodie for warmth...It is in the teens people!  No gloves no winter jacket.  I had brought Jelly with us in the Chariot, and happened to have a spare pair of mittens for Jelly in it.  I gave them to the little girl, and even though they were too small, even though she seemed a little embarrassed she wore them any way.  I ran home, dropped Rebecca off with her Daddy and drove back to the school with one of those extra jackets in tow and a pair of mittens.  I informed the teachers that she did not have a winter coat or gloves and that I was leaving the jacket and gloves for her to use for the day...if she didn't have any at home, she was welcome to keep them.

This little girl is sweet and kinda shy.  Last month she was in my daughter's half-day Kinder class.  One day she was moved to full day Kinder.  Her mother, left the family, or at least this is the scuttlebutt I heard.  The mother left the father alone to raise three young children....she just left, checked out, gone.  Not even in the "I'm divorcing you" but in the divorcing the whole family left. As much as I may complain about my sweet little ones, I could never ever leave them.  As much as I envision myself running away screaming in my pajamas pulling at my hair some mornings, I could never leave these beautiful wonderful girls.  

My village may be small here in Colorado.  My village may sometimes only consist of us and our closest neighbors, but sometimes a kind thought or word, a thoughtful gesture means more than serving Turkey to homeless on Thanksgiving.  Maybe today, maybe every day I interact positively with those boys will make the drudgery that is their lives better.  I learned that in teaching, one word kind or cruel can touch a child in ways we could never imagine...those words will stay with them forever.  Today I choose to be kind.

Women's Lib

If someone was to tell me 15 years ago that I would have to fight for the rights my grandmother and mother fought for and won for me in the 60s and 70s, I would have thought them crazy.  Rights I have enjoyed and taken for granted.  Never have I thought I couldn't get a job because I was a woman, I have never had to bat an eye in regards to decisions regarding my own reproduction and body.  All of those choices were mine and mine alone.  I have never had to fear telling a doctor I wanted to be on or off the pill.  I have never had to rationalize or convince my pharmacist that the medication I was taking was for my own health that my doctor and I felt best for me. 

When 18, on the pill (of which never missing a day), and facing a positive pee test,(it was....get this, a false positive) never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would have had to consult with anyone other than my partner and my doctor.  Never was there a question that if I was pregnant the decision of what to do would be for anyone other than me. 

My daughters are facing a world that is trying to legislate religious doctrine.  A country where a portion of the population thinks it is okay to legislate their bodies.  A group of people who think that it is okay to accept brutal attacks on a woman's body and continue to place the blame on her.  A group of people who think it is okay to call women sluts and whores because they, for whatever reason, have taken responsibility for their own bodies by being on birth control.  

Many times when facing a ballot myself I have felt it was choosing the lesser of two evils. I have voted Republican I have voted Democrat, I have voted Green party, and Independent.  Ask yourself this question, who in the grand scheme of things is the lesser of two evils?  Who is trying to reduce and keep others from enjoying the rights guaranteed by our constitution?  Take away Democrat verses Republican and view this political race in regards to who is looking out for basic human rights. Who is guaranteeing separation of church and state?  Who is allowing people of all races, color, gender, and sexual orientation to pursue their rights of life, liberty, and happiness?   As mothers fight for the rights of your children.  As mothers, think of the world you want your children to be a part of.  As a woman fight for your own rights to make decisions regarding your own body and healthcare.  As a woman fight for you daughters, your granddaughters, and yourself.

Memories of Griffin

Eight years ago I was looking forward to my 28th birthday, long term boyfriend (now hubby) and I were planning a trip to Hawaii (where I incorrectly thought he'd pop the question), I was just finishing up a paid internship at the famed Dreamworks (yes it was awesome), and I was expecting to become an Aunt for the first time. Things were great.

Just one week prior to August 21, 2004 I threw my sister a baby shower for the little bundle cooking in her tummy they had named Griffin Patrick.  She had been on bed rest since 20 weeks and at 34 weeks along, she was anxious and a little stir crazy.  Things had not gone according to plans.  The pregnancy was fraught with problems from the get go.  While organizing things for her party that had to be thrown at her home due to the "bed rest" dilemma, I drove out to her home a day before the party, to clean, decorate, and get a sneak peak at the little man in utero.

Looking back there are many things I regret that week.  The first being, allowing my sister to go shopping with me, even if we did things slowly. Sometimes, emotionally, I can't help but think that shopping trip to Michaels contributed to her myriad of problems.  But I know that it really didn't matter, and holding onto the memory of us shopping together is what I want to choose as the overwhelming memory. The second, not getting to see Griffin in an ultrasound.

After our shopping excursion, Sissy had an appointment for an ultrasound and NST. (fetal monitoring, which she was having weekly).  She was looking forward to seeing Griffin, making sure he was okay, and me getting to see him with her.  I was told to wait in the hallway while they set things up and took Griffin's heartbeat.  Sissy came out pretty soon after they took her back looking very upset.  They had to take her into a different room and do an extended fetal monitoring test for at least an hour.  There would be no ultrasound.

This did not make much sense to me, not knowing anything about anything about bearing babies, as couldn't they see and know things better by looking at an ultrasound?  Instead of seeing a fuzzy picture of little hands wave at us, we sat in a tiny cold room.  Sissy on a bed, hooked up to a fetal heart monitor on her belly, and her crying. Crying in my arms, saying that she would not be going home with Griffin.  That they needed to take him out NOW, that she didn't think she could stand it if she had to walk out of there without a baby. Years later one thing stands out in my mind is the fact that she had a premonition, she knew and there was nothing she could do about it.  Or nothing anyone at the hospital would do about it.  Years later, as a mother, as a woman, I vowed to learn from that moment.  Learn that ultimately I knew my body best, knew my children best, that I would know what was best and not to listen to the doctors, or anyone else, but listen to my instinct. 

Why do I write about this now?  Eight years have passed and I am not sure why this year has been almost as hard as the first.  Almost as hard as receiving the phone call from my bereaved sister so early on the morning of August 19th.  "Ginger we lost Griffin".  The numbness of knowing that I was going to have to face my sister in her most vulnerable state.  I would have to see the grief etched in her face and her very being.  That as a family, we would have to bear a nightmare no one wants to ever endure.

It was to be my last day at Dreamworks. I remember driving to Dreamworks that morning after getting the news in order to basically throw them my key card and parking pass...telling my friend and boss that I could not stay for any exit interview, that I could not go over what was left or what I did, that I was needed elsewhere.  I didn't want to have to go back there, to the place where I talked incessantly about the shower I was throwing, about the nephew I was now never going to have.  Knowing that if that thought pained me, I imagined my sister having to go back to work as a teacher and explain to all her students that there was no baby.

Images still in my mind like it was that day.  Arriving at the hospital to watch my sister in agony.  Inducement, drugs to basically keep her incoherent.  And the quiet murmuring of the nurses.  And my sister apologizing to me.  Telling me how sorry she was that it would ruin my vacation, that my birthday would be ruined.  Her begging the nurse and doctors to make sure she had the baby before the 21st. The first time in my life I think my sister ever thought of me first, or so outwardly.

I remember the anger.  Anger at the doctors for not listening to her and letting her have the baby earlier like she asked.  Anger that the night doctor was not changing her from pitocin to some other drug in order to speed up the delivery, because we knew he did not want to be the one to deliver a dead baby.  It was taking sooooo damn long for her to progress. Which made no sense since she had been contracting since 12 weeks.

  My best friend dropping everything to be there for my family.  For having the forethought to get a food tray, to make sure we were nourished.  For being able to hold herself together.  There is another friend, Kelly, who once asked why she was the one who had to be the experienced one when it came to things like tragedy.  I don't have the answer, but my best friend was our rock, and she was able to do that because she had been one to experience the loss of her own son.  I thank her today for understanding my need to call her and for forgiving me if I failed to even see how that phone call might have hurt her in so many ways. For telling me to grab my camera to document and take pictures of Griffin. Thank you Jen.

Most glaringly in my memory is the family holding their breath in the waiting room while Amy completed the task of delivering her dead son.  How my Brother in Law's family and mine came together to feel like a whole family.  How in tragedy and sadness we held hands and even I, the atheist,  prayed with my sister's Mother in Law, because her faith was important to her.  How after receiving the text from my brother in law that Griffin had been delivered, there was a large 'whooshing' sound, as a cohesive whole, we all let out the breaths we had been holding.  We were able to weep at last.  To go outside and let out huge sobs of grief.

To go and hold our lost family member was surreal.  To see such perfection without a spark of life, to witness my brother in law tenderly handing Griffin over to my mother, his mother, to me and back into his cradle was heart wrenching.  But worst of all was to watch my sister curled up in the fetal position, mourning the son she never got to see alive.  To wanting to rage at the nurses for stupidly putting a latex catheter in my sister, when she had huge signs on her door that said, "LATEX sensitivity".  To my friend Jen, who again, went to the nurses and told them to fix it so Sissy didn't feel any pain.

Watching my father and brother paint a happy baby's room stark white with tears running down their faces.  Boxing up baby gear and carefully labeling each box.  Not knowing what she'd want to keep later on.

For my parents who tried to make my birthday a happy one despite the fact that we were all numb and in mourning.  For my hubby who didn't know what the heck to do but stay out of the way, to hold me as I cried myself to sleep, for later apologizing for not coming with me.

This year my Brother In Law sent out a beautiful message on Facebook in Griffin's memory.  And in it he said he didn't know why this year was so hard.  Much harder than the last couple.  I am not sure either, but maybe it's because our girls are starting Kindergarten.  Five is such a beautiful age of hope and innocence and new beginnings.  Things that you imagine when you have a baby growing in your belly, things that were lost to Griffin.  When a mother loses her child, she not only loses their presence but the what would have beens.  Before that child is even born, she imagines the future.  She imagines them holding her hand in their fat little fist, them saying "Mommy", going to kindergarten, their first curse word, getting married.  From the moment you find out you are going to be a parent, the fear sits on your chest, making you breathless at times. The fear of losing.

So today, on my 36th birthday, I dropped my five year old off at Kindergarten, managed not to cry, and felt nothing but the loss of Griffin and that hope and that future that never was.  I admire my sister and brother in law for their strength to endure and do it again twice more.  For finding joy where there was sorrow.  For honoring Griffin's memory so beautifully, while finding joy in the day of my own birth.  We weep for the loss of Griffin on the 20th of August.  And what I regret most is that I jokingly always said, that Griffin would be born on my birthday since we knew he'd be early.  For that I am terribly terribly sorry that it never came to pass.  I would have loved to share my birthday with Griffin. 

Won't you be my Neighbor...part II

I am a lucky woman.  Very little in my life causes me much stress.  Not the all out crazy stress that working with people and students did.  But here are some recent things that keep me up at night.

1. sprinkler spouting like a fountain in the middle of the night and me worrying that it will not shut off and flood.

2.Forgetting to take the trash out so therefor at 1 a.m. I am outside dragging the container to the curb, despite the fact that we get up at 6 almost every single morning.  But it could be that one day my kid sleeps in until 7. 

3.A person I know finds peace and the help they need to be healthy.

4. My daughter starts Kindergarten and is in the same class as my neighbor's kid.  This is the same neighbor whom I tried to befriend and for whatever reason, she does not like me, my kid, or us.  Never did find out what the problem is.  We are cordial to each other.  Will engage in conversation occasionally while getting the mail, wave as we drive by, but in general ignore each other.  Yesterday was the official "find out who your teacher is" posting at school.  We walked on over to see Cookie's name in black in white, verify that she was on the right list for half day, and look at the names of her classmates, of whom we only know our neighbor.  Cookie was ecstatic to verify that neighbor's kid whom I will call "Sweetie" was in her class.  We like Sweetie, she is polite, plays well, and is a lot of fun, as she does have an older brother to learn from and copy cool things from.  Sweetie and family was also at the school to take a look.  Sweetie and Cookie run off on the playground together and play like old friends.  I play with Jelly and help her navigate some play equipment.  I say hi to the neighbor Mom, I'll just call her "Neighbor," to be respectful.   She is cordial, and when I say that I use the word exactly how it sounds.  She says 'Hi" back but there is no warmth in it.  Thus begins the Mommy Freeze Out.  Have you heard of this?  Well neighbor's oldest of course is going into 2nd grade.  She has made all the Mommy friends and connections at the school.  I am new.  As she was standing with another Mom, I went up to let her know that me and another Mom were starting a Daisy troop and Sweetie was more than welcome to join if they wanted.  Her and the other Mom were cordial..."We'll keep that in mind, but we already have a full plate."  Words were nice, body language was not.  I was not born yesterday, I know how to play the political game.  Did so for years successfully while teaching.  I do not want to have to do it, I want to enjoy my child's elementary school years.  I don't want to be too involved, but I don't want to be uninvolved.

So I am worried.  Worried that because neighbor obviously dislikes me, which normally would not bother me too much, that Cookie will negatively be affected.  Hubby does not get it.  He asked, "why does it bother you so much?  Fuck Her."  Here's the thing, women are evil, women can be cruel, women can and will freeze out my child, refuse to allow their children to invite her to parties or play because of me or I should say because of neighbor  Am I over reacting?  Maybe....but I have been around the block, I know and see what is happening.  I am hoping this woman is not too petty.  That whatever slight I made wasn't so bad that she would deny me and my child the ability to form our own life at the school in a positive way.  That I am seeing things that aren't there...

Walk the Dog

Week 18 in puppyville and I still not sure I like this guy.  He still chews, he attacks the kids, he won't let me pee in private, and now "my time" after I put the kids to bed is taken up with playing with him or deterring Woodrow from humping my leg.  I alternate from really liking him to thinking he is a giant Asshole.

Hubby is out of town and normally I will admit that I kinda enjoy it.  I usually get housework done.  I do floors, I clean rooms, I clean out cabinets.  But with Woodrow now a part of the family I am just overwhelmed with frustration.  I yell at the dog, I yell at the kids, I yell at myself for yelling at the kids and the dog.  Basically it has been three days of me screaming and kids crying, dog humping.  And it's been hot.  Really hot, like Southern California hot, only they have cooler temps right now.  So puppy being the difficult son of a bitch that he is, doesn't want to go for walks or runs.  He just wants to sit on the air conditioner vent in between terrorizing me and Cookie. 

Anyway, this evening, sensing the need to try and get rid of some of that puppy energy, I convince the kids to put on their shoes and go with me to the neighborhood shared green space (just a giant grassy area sandwiched in between about 8 houses).  Here we can hopefully run Woodrow and tire him out a little.  All is going well, we remembered to bring the Frisbee and poopy bags!  He chases the Frisbee, he chases and tackles the kids, kids and me get bit up by mosquitoes that have finally decided to show up after being basically non-existent all spring and summer.  All good.  Cookie decides that she wants to try and walk the dog.  Sensing he's kinda tired, I allow her to take the lead. To the corner.  I take over all is going well.  We get in front of our house and I allow her to hold the lead while I throw away poop.  Neighbor decided this is a good time to walk by, Chocolate lab sees people goes nutty, drags Cookie across the lawn...literally.  Woodrow proceeds to scare the crap out of neighbor's 6 year old son.  I manage to tackle the dog and hold him down so neighbor can proceed home with now quaking child.  (yeah, I'm a horribly irresponsible dog owner and parent). 

I now, notice the piles of poop in front yard that Cookie narrowly missed being dragged through.  I put dog and kids in gated backyard so I can pick up piles of steaming smelling feces.  As I am scraping poop into poop bucket from scooper I spy from the corner of my eye Cookie in the front yard with the dog back on the lead!  Now my child is smart...but this was anything but a smart decision. Bill Cosby would say in his stand-up, "Kids are Brain Dead."  Ain't that the truth, cause what in the world would possess this child who had just been dragged 40 feet by the dog to try it again? 

Now here's where things get dicey.  Me, exhausted after a long day of referring between dog and kids, swimming, and park in 96 degree heat at 5,000 ft, starts in on the screaming.  And my neighbor, whom I love dearly is in her backyard with her entire family celebrating her 70th birthday gets to hear the whole embarrassing exchange.  Cookie says to me later, "Mommy my noggin was tired that's why I didn't make a good decision."  Insert guilt.

The puppy Cronicles

For those who don't follow me personally on Facebook, then you don't know we acquired a new member of the family last month.  An adorably cuddly Chocolate Lab, Woodrow. 

You see, I made the fatal mistake of making an arbitrary rule based on nothing other than I thought the conditions could never be met.  Or at least seemed so far away that it made sense, at the time.  When we had to get rid of our Shih Tzu, Pongy, when Cookie was 11 months old, I announced that we would not get another dog until she was at least 5.  I also had the forethought to include a clause about future children, should we have any more kids, all of them had to be potty trained.  I am not going into the details of Pongy, only to say that it was not an easy decision, but the best for everyone, including the dog.  So, one fateful day in April, Jelly filled up her potty chart and Cookie was soon to turn five.  Hubby was on the Internet the next day looking for a dog.  Eight week old Woodrow came home on May 9th. 

Hubby begged cajoled and made promises....."I will take care of it Ging.  I will take it for walks and get up with it."  I kept on telling him that puppies were a lot of work.  And they chew everything. I reminded him again and again about when my Mom's dog, Sage was like as a puppy.   Hubby insisting, "No I will watch him, and I will love him and hug him and train him."  Kids start chiming in, "we will feed him and walk him and play with him and love him forever."  Cookie, "Mommy I will be five and Sister filled up her potty chart.  You said when I turned five we could get a puppy.  And you said if Sissy went potty in the potty we could get a dog."  On and on it went and I caved.  I remembered Cookie's first word was "Dog Dog". I started coming round to the idea of having a dog again.  I grew up with dogs.  These last four years have been the only time in my life I have been dog less. 

We prepped the kids on how to train dogs.  I got a book, watched a DVD, cause frankly, I had never trained a dog.  My parents did that.  And as for Pongy, hubby trained the evil little dude.  He was a good dog in every way except the whole attack anything and anyone that moved any where near him and he was so angry all the time.  But he never chewed, he was housebroken, we could leave him all day and not get complaints from the neighbors that he was barking.  

So we are now on week four of having an adorable puppy who chews everything.  He will eat anything that crosses his path.  But his favorite thing to chew is Cookie.  He loves to attack her, nibble her, grab at her hands, hump her, in general dominate her as much as possible.  It is getting quite old.  We have spoken to the Vet, we have read the books, we have tried numerous techniques.  They tell us to make a yelping noise when he tries to bite her, yeah either Woodrow is too smart and figured that out in two seconds, or he finds joy in hurting the kids.  We tried vinegar water, but the kids found that wielding the squirt bottle fun and powerful and began just squirting him randomly for pure joy of torturing the poor puppy.  And Jelly lost the bottle somewhere....I can handle the chewing of objects including my couch, but I can not abide him teething on my babies.

After a particular rough day of the dog verses Cookie, I had had enough.  Jelly does not have the same issues Cookie does.  She seems to just be calmer and understand not to flail her arms in his face or squeal like a girl and well, be Jelly and not Cookie.  So to solve this problem I informed Cookie she could not interact with the dog unless the following conditions were met. 1. He was calm and laying down. 2. I or Daddy was with her.  She was only to pet him on his back with his fur and not squeal, giggle, or in any way be herself.  Yes, I told my child to be someone other than who she really was.

But me telling my lovely, outgoing, wonderful little girl to be something she is not, was not enough.  Oh no, it gets better.  We were all in the backyard enjoying the pool and summer weather.  Woodrow was lying in the grass chewing away on a stick, chalk, or something he probably shouldn't and I spy Cookie run up to him and wave her towel in his face.  Woody, being well, a puppy jumps up and decides it must be attack Cookie time, cause he started to jump and bite and try and play with her like she was another dog.  Cookie starts crying and screaming, flailing her hands in a jazz hands like fashion in his face....Woodrow reacts by trying to grab at her fingers and play tug with them.  And I sit there in the rocking chair, in the shading yelling, "I am not going to help you.  I saw you. You asked for it.  You bugged him.  I am done intervening between you and the dog.  If you don't want to listen to me, I am not going to help you."  Of course the dog is getting more excited as her cries and flailing proceeds to a fever pitch.  Finally, guilt and shame set in and I intercede.  Telling the dog to get "Off" and making him sit.  Hugging Cookie tsking over her new wounds, sending her in the house for more band-aides. 

And here I sit feeling guilty because Cookie is sad that the dog is not living up to what she envisioned.  Guilty that her hands are cut up. She can not figure out how to play with him in a way that does not equal sharp knife like puppy teeth embedded into her flesh.  I am left frustrated that I allowed myself to be in this position.  I really can't complain about a situation I knowingly created.  I knew what would happen.  I know my child, which is why I wanted to wait until she was five.  I thought she would be old enough to take direction and understand that dogs are not people.

But he is cute, so I guess we'll keep him.

Baskets Overflowith

I am not sure how anyone else feels, but I was raised that for Easter, you don't get a whole lot. Mom may have spent at most $10 on each of us kids. We got a toothbrush, one sees candy Bordeaux egg, a toy of some sort, and a book. Of course there was an egg hunt that was filled with candy and quarters, but really Easter wasn't about getting a lot of toys. When buying Easter baskets for my kids, I tried not to get something too big, cause if it was too big, one has to fill it right?

I am totally judging others, so WTF is with the gigantic Easter gifts? I mean, little Jimmy and sweet Tammy do not need $100 worth of gifts. Nothing you give should be too big to fit in their basket. I have seen pictures of little Jimmy in front of a bike. I've tried to stick to no more than $25 per kid. I've learned from Christmas that this year my girls needed exactly the same things. While color could be different, the items had to be the same. I have been pretty on top of gift giving for them lately, so when I saw certain things on sale, I bought them.

Each girl this year got the following: 1. favorite barbie size prince (bought on clearance at the Disney store. They were seriously only $5) 2. A my little pony ($5) 2. A book ($3) 3. Gardening gloves, a shovel, and a rake ($5) 4. Reese's chocolate bunny ($1) 4. Toothbrush ($2) 5. Skittles Egg ($1) 6.Egg Hunt filled with spare change and one bag of Hersey's Chocolate eggs ($2). Give or take a dollar and some change I did pretty good.

My kids are spoiled don't get me wrong. They have way too many toys, and my hubby will go out and buy more Christmas gifts if he things we don't have the "WOW" factor he is looking for. But in general, I try to instill a little bit of restraint. I can and do take my kids to Toys R Us and Target to "window shop" toys. We rarely buy anything, and my kids know better than to ask or beg. I made Cookie contribute the money my Brother In Law gave to her when we were in California to her upcoming birthday gift. Really, it wasn't mean of me, weeks before he had given both kids a wad of dough each! So I told her if she wanted that Disney magic princess castle, she'd have to contribute, cause it was way too expensive. And now just to be extra mean, I ordered it to make sure we could get it, in time for her birthday, plus it was on sale and I had a coupon. UPS delivered it to the door unwrapped with the picture of the castle bright as day on the box, so now she has to sit and look at it for a month before her birthday. I won't let her open it. Torture I know.

Anyway, no baskets are overflowing here.

Voyeur

I know it's been forever since I have even thought about posting. There was a few months of deciding that birth control might help control some hormonal imbalances and help me drop some weight, since nothing else was working real well.

Instead I became a basket case and had horrible visions of bashing my sweet Cookie's head against the wall. Thankfully we were in our extended time in California, I was close to Mom, and I could run home for help. Cause it all came to a head while Hubby was away at a conference. I needed serious help. Like, "Mom, you need to watch me and the kids because I think I am going to hurt one of them." For the first time in my life I really understood women whose post pardon was so bad they could seriously hurt their own child. I broke down. The last time I was in such a mess was the first time I tried birth control. Even after giving birth to Cookie, I was never that bad.

I dropped the pill and by day three off of it, I felt my head clear. I should have known better. It was the same feeling I had soon after I stopped nursing Cookie. Hormones are no joke and those idiots in Washington who want to tell women that birth control is wrong haven't a clue. Some women need it to balance their otherwise crazy hormones, I've learned to stay the hell away from it.

It is finally April, we are back in Colorado, my house is finally in order. Some big changes are coming, and NO I am not pregnant! Stop thinking that! We are going to get a puppy the beginning of May. A beautiful Chocolate Lab puppy. So in a sense, another baby....but one I can leave at home alone, one I can kennel, one who can't talk back. But still cries at night, pees on the floor, and tears my house apart.

When we bought our house 6 years ago, we looked at another one down the street. It was a ranch style, which in retrospect would have been nice, but I knew I wanted kids and the two bedrooms that would have been future children's were in the front of the house. The giant windows facing the street, where any boy or girl could crawl through or sneak out of or in. That so never happened in my front facing window as a teen. Nope never. One of the things I hated about our house was the layout of our Master Bedroom and bath. It has this huge open area to the bathroom from the bedroom. No door just a giant opening. The shower, is small, in a corner and is glass on three sides, basically you are exposed. It is also carpeted. I was not a huge fan and had visions of redoing the room. Well, I still do, but not because of the carpet or the huge opening. I actually now love how open the room is. I can actually take a shower every morning because I can see the kids. They can play in my room and I can see them. Unfortunately, they can see me. This morning while I showered Cookie decided that she was going to camp out right in front of the door, looking at me shower. She brought in a pillow and a blanket and creepily watched me wash. AWKWARD. She is almost five, and now asks questions like, "When am I going to have hair on my bottom? Why do you get hair on your bottom?" My Voyeuristic daughter continues to make me laugh, which is a good thing, cause a month ago I was so in a different place.

Look at Me Damn It!

I've always wondered how my friend with four kids manages to get at least one picture with all her kids more or less smiling, at the camera. I can't even get the two I have to smile, let alone look at me while taking pictures.

Today I hang my head in shame at the loss of complete control while trying to take the annual picture of the kids in front of the tree. The picture I want to put on our Holiday Cards. I even bought special outfits for the kids. I spent an extraordinary large amount on an elephant dress for Cookie, because I liked it, and I knew she would, too. I special ordered a red sparkly "horsie" shirt for Jelly, whom I am now calling Biscuit, since I heard another Mom refer to her child as that, and thought it would be cute to have a "Cookie" and a "Biscuit."



The girls were cute, Cookie all dolled up in her Angel halo and hair out of her face for once because she had a "dance" recital in a Christmas play...a whole other post on that later. But would these little demon children look at me? Would they stop playing for one minute with all the Christmas decorations that have been out for two weeks? Would they sit still? Will my camera please just take pictures and stop trying to recognize fricken faces? After about the 20th shot and not one good photo where both or either are even remotely looking towards me I loose it.
"STOP!SIT STILL. LOOK AT ME. DARN IT! SMILE.STOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPP GETTING UP FOR PEET'S SAKE. STOOOOOOPPPPPPP."




I am now seething. Cookie says, "Mommy, can you stop yelling please." Me to self,"I am the worst Mommy ever." To Cookie, "Sorry sweetie, we're almost done...can you just please look at me instead of playing..."






And then of course when I tell Cookie to hug her sister....the result is a headlock. And then the tugging of the hair accessories and then they were done, and so was I.

Top 12 Crafty Things Every Mom Should Have

After my rant yesterday, I thought I should post the top twelve things every mom should have for her Crafting Crazy Child.

1. Paint. preferably washable kid paint with brushes of different sizes, but really you can use sponges in a pinch. I love water colors, too.
2. Glue. Sticks that are the purple color that dry clear so they can see what they are gluing. Elmer's clear, and Tacky Glue. "Dot Dot not a lot".
3. Construction paper. Any size will do, but I like to have the large and small.
4. Tissue paper: All different colors. I cut some into squares and keep in plastic baggies. See the elephant we made with tissue paper, sticky sparkle foam and wax paper.
5. Paper plates: For holding paint and creating fun stuff.
6. Googly Eyes: Self Stick are best, but you can help your little one apply a dot of Tacky Glue to
the back of them.
7. Contact paper. In a crafting pinch, make place mats...we have a dozen self made ones. We print out coloring pages of the kids favorite thing, color and then glue to construction paper.
8. Cotton Balls: You can not imagine what you can do w/ those suckers. Cookie once surprised and made little men with cotton balls, Popsicle sticks and construction paper.
9. Popsicle Sticks and Pipe cleaners
10. Pasta different sizes and shapes: You can dye them any color you wish...just place pasta in a plastic baggie, add a tbsp of vinegar and add one drop of food coloring...set out to dry on a lined cookie sheet.
11. Crayons
12. Scissors both adult and kid kind.

May you be driven crazy and may you create adorable stuff to display and brag about to your friends.

Crafty Obsession

Besides math and science, my most dreaded subject in school was art. I have vivid memories of my 6th grade teacher making us create monthly calendars. Only the best were displayed on the wall each month. Out of a nine month school year, I got my calendar only displayed once, it was my Mother's day one. Every time my teacher would hand back our graded calendars mine would say, "Use a ruler." Letter grade, "C". Damn it I did use a ruler and the fucking lines never ever came out straight no matter how hard I tried! Of course, later in adult hood, I learned how to use a ruler properly. But seriously I hated art. Nothing ever came out as I envisioned, everything always looked horrible. My stick figures were even bad.

Later, as a teacher myself, I learned to embrace art. I became creative. I would make all kinds of wonderful wall displays...with the help of my super talented super artistic boyfriend (now hubby). One of the things that attracted me to Hubby was that he could draw, that he could create anything with his hands. In fact, inheriting his artistic talent was one of the things I hoped the kids would get the most. Embarrassingly using my artistic skills while teaching History to middle schoolers can be funny, when everything one draws looks like a penis. I even encouraged students to be creative, many times I would give them choices on how to show understanding, written or artistic. And I never graded on how well the art was done, but on comprehension.

Now, as a parent I am knee deep in crafting and I am slowly going mad. I hate art. I hate crafting, I hate everything about it, except the joy my kids get in creating it. Cookie asks to craft about 100 times a day. I have an entire cabinet devoted to crafting supplies, which she is bound and determined to go through in a month. I am constantly stepping on sticky crafting things. I have gems stuck to the bottom of my shoes, my feet, and on my couch, in our food. There have been tears over the fact that certain things are not going according to Cookie's vision. There are tears because I say no to crafting, there are tears when I tell her to clean up and stop. There are tears because we don't have any more purple sparkle paper.

I wince when Cookie asks to craft. There is much yelling over crafting...mostly by reluctant me. I want to pull my hair out every morning beginning at 6 a.m., when my little Cookie starts harping about crafting for the day. Here is how the most innocent conversation turns me into the World's Worst Mother.

Cookie: "Can we do crafting"
Me: "Not right now"
Cookie: "I want to do crafting"
Me: "Later, I am not ready to deal with the mess."
Cookie: "I want to do crafting."
Me: "I SAID NOOOOO"
Cookie, now in tears: " I just love it so much. Can't you do crafting with me? I want to do it now."
Me: "I HATE CRAFTING."

Yep, Every. Single. Day. And every single day, I dissolve into a screaming crazy mom because, frankly I suck at crafting, and we end up fighting. Cookie asks me to help her. I tell her what she wants to do is impossible, it just can not work out. That there is no way possible I can do what she wants me to do. She dissolves into tears and begs me. I end up screaming.

Crafting makes me dissolve into a tantrum throwing child. When I was about 11, my Mom, sister, neighbor, and I made Gingerbread houses. Well this uncrafty person ended up smashing her uncooperative house to bits in a fit of frustration with my frosting knife. Picture graham crackers, frosting, and candy flying everywhere with me yelling and screaming, huffing and puffing. We never made Gingerbread Houses again, and I think my Mom gave up trying to craft with me. Girl Scouts was pure torture for this untalented girl.

And to think I was actually happy that it seems my kids got the artist gene! Cause frankly, I am starting to resent my sweet little Cookie and even Jelly, who loves to sit and peel stickies off the backs of gems and stick them to construction paper. Both love to paint, and color and create, and I hate it all. And I am frustrated that Hubby does it so easily with them, when he finds the time. I hate those Moms who come up with cutesy crafting projects and like it. I hate Martha Stuart, too just for her..."let's see what we can make with these pine cones and ribbon." But, mostly I just hate crafting. And I hate that my dinning room table and floor are littered with glue, glitter, stickers, gems, sequins and bits and pieces of paper. As soon as I clean it, they want to start over again. Of course I buy it for them, I contribute to the madness, and I am ultimately the CRAZY ONE in this household.

Not so Mr. Roger's Neighborhood

I read an article the other day that discussed how more and more people's newspapers are being stolen for coupons. Just when I thought print was dead, it is revived by mega savers. Never in my wildest dreams would I think someone would stoop to stealing another person's $1.65 newspaper for coupons. That was until our paper started disappearing.

At first I thought it was because we had just reopened our account after our trip to California. I had completely canceled our delivery and told them we were moving, in fear that somehow, it would get out we were out of town for an extended amount of time. So soon after renewal our paper would be there one day, then absent the next, then there for two day, well you get the picture. I even had reported at first, what I thought, lousy delivery to the paper. Then it kept happening, so I started to suspect that someone was stealing our paper. And it looked to be just ours, because both my neighbor's were still there. Annoying to say the least.

By chance one morning, I happened to be rearranging the closet by the front door, when I glanced out the window. And I saw IT happen. A family, that I knew as THE family you shake your head at. THE Family, who leave dirty mattresses on their front lawn (okay front weeds). THE family whose kids have been known to ask neighbors for cigarettes or they were going to be in trouble by their Mom. THE family that you are sure social services has made at least one trip to. THE family where I actually was not sure how many kids they had, but was sure each one had a different father. THE family where you were sure the parents were on Meth or some kind of drug. Yeah, that promising to not judge went out the window with THAT family. You see THAT family was walking with their kids to school by my house when the male adult in the group pointed to my paper, said something, and then one of the children picked up my paper.

Needless to say, I went tearing out the front door, in my pajamas yelling at the top of my lungs "So your the ones stealing my paper!" The entire family stopped in their tracks. The little boy who was in possession of my paper dropped it quickly. The toothless mother responded, "It's the first time my son has ever taken it." This comment, got me even more angry. How dare this women blame her child! (Yes I was judging) I saw with my own eyes the "Father" figure tell the kid to pick up the paper. Her child looked stricken. The male adult continued to walk on. And in my not so great moment in front of these children, who obviously needed some good role models, in front of my children who stood at my door with my husband, (in shock and quite confused), I responded, "YOU ARE JUST TRASH! JUST TRASH" And then grabbed my paper, turned around and stormed back into my house.

Husband was left speechless and I must admit, a little proud of me. I was left sheepish, thinking how I could have handled the situation a little better. How I could have used it as a lesson in using one's words nicely to get what one wanted. How maybe it might come back to bite me in the ass in the form of T.P., eggs, or something worse. How maybe, that mother, according to those friends with a different perspective on Facebook, might have needed the coupons. How maybe my $1.65 a day paper was not worth it. How instead of judging, I should have helped. There's a reason my American Indian name, given to me by a friend in High School was, "Speaks With Foot in Mouth." It will one day be my downfall.

When a Good Cookie Goes Bad

Food allergies are annoying for those of us without them. But for those with severe ones, it is absolutely frightening. Because my Cookie is lactose intolerant and allergic to pumpkin, I have had to become "THAT" parent. You know, the one who insists that no one brings cheese or milk for snack at school. As any parent of a child with a food allergy knows, it gets harder as the kids get bigger. Having to order spaghetti at Chuck E. Cheese while everyone else enjoys pizza at a party, or forgoing the summer trips to the D.Q. are just small sacrifices. It is heart wrenching as a parent to witness your sweet child's eyes tear up when they can not be like their friends.

Yesterday I inadvertently poisoned my friend with nut tainted zucchini cookies. I am not a nut fan. I usually forgo putting them in any baked good, however, for some unknown reason, I put cashews in a batch of zucchini cookies.

These cookies are incredibly yummy. It's a recipe I stole from one of my favorite food mystery writers, Joanna Fluke. In fact, I lost the copy I had made, and had to go to the library, and borrow Apple Turnover Mystery for the recipe. I've made these cookies numerous times, and have never ever included the nuts it called for...but last minute decided to throw in some cashews. I have included the recipe below.

This delicious recipe is made for sharing, and it makes two dozen cookies. So, when my friend and neighbor invited us to the park yesterday morning, I brought some along to share. Forgetting she was allergic to nuts, she forgetting to ask about nuts, had one bite....then asked, "Oh my God, are there nuts in these?" Yes people, I poisoned my friend. We had to gather our children and rush over to my house just down the street. Within fifteen minutes, she was having trouble breathing. I drove her, bringing along Cookie and her little firecracker to the Urgent Care. An hour later, a shot of Adrenaline and pretnezone...my friend was done for the day. Unfortunately, her hubby was out of town...and she has a 4 year old. So of course, I stayed with her while she slept, and let the girls play. My hubby had to step up and take Jelly.

Thankfully, we caught it in time. Thankfully, she knew how bad she was. The worst part, other than I could have killed my friend, was that she was hesitant to get help. Hesitant because of course it was the weekend. Hesitant because that meant a possible trip to the E.R. And a trip to the E.R. would cost money...a lot of money, even though she has insurance. Glad I remembered the Urgent Care, which we have gone to for hubby for his broken collar bone and his anxiety attack. Glad that I could take her little one with us to the fair to give her more rest. Glad that she harbors no anger towards me. But in the future, no nuts....ever.

Almost to Die For Zucchini Cookies

preheat oven to 350 degrees
1 cup of White Sugar
1 cup of Brown Sugar (packed)
1 cup of Softened Butter (that's 2 whole sticks people)
1 1/2 cups of peeled, Shredded Zucchini (I use a cheese grater)
1 tsp of baking soda
2 large eggs beaten
1 1/2 tsp of Vanilla
1 cup of Chocolate chips
1 cup of chopped nuts (walnuts, pecans, cashews) optional
4 cups of all purpose flour

1. Combine White Sugar, Brown Sugar, and butter in a large bowl, beat until fluffy
2. Mix in baking soda. Add beaten eggs and vanilla extra mixing thoroughly
3. Add in the peeled shredded zucchini packing it down into the measuring cup. (I had to drain it first) and stir until incorporated.
4. Add nuts and chocolate chips, mix well.
5. Add the flour and mix in one cup at a time. Dough should be thick.
6. Drop by teaspoonfuls or tablespoons (depends on the size of cookie you want) onto a cookie sheet.(sprayed w/ non-stick spray or on parchment paper)
7. Cook 10-12 minutes, for smaller cookies, 20 minutes for bigger, at 350 degrees until lightly browned.

Amusement Park? I use the term Amusement loosely

If you have ever experienced the joy of taking your children to an amusement park, you will understand when I say, for parents, it can be anything but amusing. In February, we were blessed with the opportunity to stay in California for a total of just about 6 weeks. During the coldest part of winter in Colorado, California weather is a blessing. We even were fortunate enough to rent a house in a privately gated community on the beach just 15 miles from Anaheim, better known as Disneyland central.

We drove. Straight through, 18 hours. While the kids slept the majority of the drive and did relatively well.....hubby thought he was manly enough to do all the driving himself. Five bottles of energy drinks seemed to do the trick...however, he suffered once we got to my Mom's house. And by suffer, I mean five days stomach flu on top of basically diuretics in the form of those energy drinks...almost killed him. Jelly had the tummy flu right before we left, and I was praying to whatever deity might exist that no one puked in the car. At least, we were fortunate enough that hubby avoided the death plague until we got to California. Cookie came down with it the day we moved to our beach house, puking all over a local restaurant before we even got our food....we ran out, hubby throwing two twenties on the table and we never went back. "oops, sorry about the puke, gotta go".

So, after dealing with a sick Jelly, 18 hour car drive, sick hubby, sick Cookie....I was left to just suffer a yucky tummy, but darn it if I was going to puke and not take my kids to Disneyland. So, while hubby was stuck working during the day, I spent six weeks taking the kids to the Long Beach Aquarium, the beach, and Disneyland all alone. If you want to learn your tolerance level for your children and fellow man/woman, take your kids solo to an amusement park.

February in California can be warm, cause, well, it's California. My first solo mission to Disneyland scared me. But, I was going to do it. We bought season passes, and I was going to get my money's worth darn it. While the day started off okay, it soon became apparent that I was not really in the mood to deal with the public. Let's just say, waiting in line for 3 hours to see princesses with and impatient almost 4 year old and active 18 month old is not for the faint of heart. It was close to 80 degrees, I was in a pair of yoga pants (no pockets...what was I thinking) and I was sweating carrying my 20 pd baby, a backpack full of kid crap, and wrangling a hot and cranky 3 1/2 year old. And of course the "Mommy I have to potty" just as you are getting to the front might make you want to strangle your lovely child. Or the claim that they are absolutely not hungry, even though you know they are, and the tantrum they are throwing makes you want to shake them and force the fried food you just bought at inflated prices down their throat to prove how wrong they are and to shut their lovely mouths is just a small part of the amusement park experience. Every. Single. Time.

However, none of those moments compare to what went down in the bathroom at Disneyland. After my very long morning and afternoon at "The Happiest place on Earth," I realized I had yet to change Jelly's diaper all morning. I dislike the changing stations at Disneyland. First, they are sized for infants, not any child over the age of one. Second, they dwell in a spot that receives very little light. And finally, Disney, for our convenience, provide toilet paper at the stations on dispenser rolls right at a child's hand or foot level. Having wrestled with Jelly on a previous day at the changing station, I really really did not want to use them.

As we are leaving the park, I inform Cookie that we will be making one last trip to the restroom to go pee and change Jelly's diaper. Cookie, being the stubborn mule that she is, exclaims, "I don't have to go" and begins balking at the entrance. Me, "the rule is you try. I have to go, so we are all going." Cookie, "I don't want to." Me, "I don't care." Jelly, in stroller, "Out Out, " as she strains against the straps and starts pulling out her arms. I am now dragging screaming Cookie, pushing stroller with screaming toddler, avoiding running into other people and notice that the handicapped bathroom is taken, the changing station is being used, so I go to a stall at the very back. Because, I have two children, one in a stroller, and not all three of us, let alone two of us will fit in a regular stall, I am going to have to go w/ the door open. And then discover, I have started my period. Fanfrickentastic!

Toddler is making a break for it, bad mouthed 3 1/2 year old I have decided is so not making it to her next birthday, and I am bleeding. I struggle for my backpack, which I am praying holds my Diva Cup ( I love my Feminine Cup...). Child, whom may or may not make it to four, is now very interested in what I am doing. "Mommy, what are you putting in your bottom?" I so don't want to have to explain this now. Me, "Nothing Cookie." Yep, I had promised myself that I would always try and be honest with the girls about that stuff, and here I was, pretending it didn't exist. But, really, I was in a Disneyland bathroom, with the door open, and I was tired. I then tried distraction, "Can you check and see if sissy is still strapped in?" It worked! Discussion about being a woman and periods and sex and bleeding avoided...this month.

I finished my business, gathered my stuff, my children and headed to the changing table..when another mom swooped in and took it! I was done. Put a fork in me done. I sighed and in my oh so passive aggressive way, say to Cookie, "We'll just Change Sissy at the car, I hate the changing tables in here, they are too small." And then it happened. The other Mom who must have been just as tired, just as done as me, turns to me and yells as I am leaving, "Aren't you a Bitch having a bad day. It's not too small. Get over yourself." Me, in complete shock, "my child dislikes them." and I continue out the door but not before another woman, I can only assume her friend, chimes in "Fuck You". I grew up in S. California. I taught in the Los Angeles Unified School District. I have had gang members in my classroom. I have been threatened. I have had students with guns and knives. I am not easily intimidated. And if I did not have my children, if I was not so shocked that another woman could say such things in front of her children I might have responded, instead I took my darling daughter by the hand and we left Disneyland. Of course she did ask, "Why was she so mad Mommy?" I responded, "because we all have bad days sweetie."

And yet, here we are, back in California for two weeks, and I am back at Disneyland...where this World's Worst Mom, dragged her hungry child out of Disneyland kicking and screaming from all the way from the middle of the park, on the bus, and to the car. "I want it and I want it now" demands just do not fly with this Mom. "Amusement" far from it. But it is all worth it when your princess meets here favorite princess for the first time. Or your baby points to Dumbo and yells "Dumbo". Oh I hate you Disney...you are a marketing genius.

A Little Help is a Hard Thing to Ask For

I am not one to rely on others. I usually feel that one should not rely on someone else to do what they can do themselves. In fact, I have a hard time trusting others to follow through. Way back in the time I like to call BK, or before kids, I was a highly organized person. I could juggle numerous projects and get them done weeks before deadline. I was the person people called to get things done.

You read in all those baby books to take a break when you have a newborn, as often as possible. To hand that baby over to someone else. To ask people to help you clean and cook. Because I knew practically no one when I had Cookie, I had a hard time asking anyone for help. I am not the one to ask for help. I am the person who can handle anything. I am the person who keeps it together. My neighbor had to beg me to let her babysit so Hubby and I could have a date night. I think Cookie was like a year old before I relented and let her.

In a one week span I have asked for help three times. From friends, acquaintances, and even a stranger. A move completely out of the ordinary for me. Completely uncomfortable for me. A move that makes me feel vulnerable and not in a good way. But, when hubby was in the E.R., when I could see that Cookie was worried and stressed, I knew that I needed help. I reached out to anyone and everyone I could think of who might take her. Friends and classmates of Cookie were e-mailed...I was begging. Not a position I like to be in. But, the response I received was encouraging. The fact that a friend came, picked up my baby, fed her lunch, and remembered to bring extra socks for her, made me feel better. But, not well enough that I didn't show my appreciation in the form of a gift bag of stuff.

On Thursday, while hubby was out of town, I decided to take Cookie to Summer Camp via the bike. What an enormously bad idea. I had that intuitive feeling like, maybe I should just drive, but I can not make excuses for not exercising anymore. I was determined to get some exercise in while hubby was away. The flashbacks of the last time he went out of town, me taking a bike ride, getting a flat, and the ensuing hour of trying and succeeding of changing the tube was echoing in my brain as I set out.

But, I went anyway. I kept thinking, what are the chances, I mean I go out all the time, when he's home, why would I get a flat now? But on the way home with just Jelly in the trailer, I got a flat. I was nowhere close to being home...I was some 3 miles away, with my almost two year old. And I was not in the best neighborhood in town. My town is relatively safe, but we are not immune to theft or murder, or all the bad things that happen when humans come into contact with other humans. I knew that I could take a bus home, or call a taxi, but where would I leave the bike and trailer? They would be gone in minutes. So I pulled up to a not so nice apartment building's front lawn to try and fix my flat.

Normally, under good circumstances changing a flat would take me a little time, but when you don't have the right size spare tube, the pump is not working properly, and you have a crying 22 month old....things can go south quickly. I must have been trying to fix said tire for about an hour before someone stopped to help me. A few bike riders, runners, a couple walking a dog, and even the local police went by without asking if I needed help. Picture a disheveled bike rider sitting in front of a crappy apartment building with a relatively expensive piece of equipment (the bike trailer), with a toddler running around crying, covered in dirt. But, finally a girl named Megan stopped on her bike to ask if I needed help.

My pump for some reason was not working, I couldn't patch the tube, as I couldn't pump it up to find a leak, I replaced it with another tube, one slightly thinner, made for hubby's bike, but it would work, but couldn't pump it up. She proceeded to pump up my tire, and then asked if I would like to follow her to her house down the street, as she had an air compressor and a bolt for the tube's valve. She seemed trustworthy, I mean she did stop....and she helped me put the tire on, and even held the bike while I put Jelly back in...so we proceeded to her home. She fixed me up, we went on our way...about one block, and the tire went flat again. I turned around, went back to Megan's home and rang the bell. She let me park my bike and trailer in her garage and even gave me her garage code, so I could come back whenever I needed to for pick up. She was incredible and I am more than thankful to this stranger, who went above and beyond for me.

Now I was still 3 miles from home with a toddler. I racked my brain. I could walk to the bus stop about a block away, call a cab, or call someone I knew. The problem with calling someone, is that again, I had a toddler, and she needed a car seat. So, I was left with a limited group of people. Who would have a car seat without a child in it. The only people I could think of, were those whose kids were at Summer Camp with Cookie. So I called one of the Moms...who came and picked us up right away, like we only had to wait two minutes, she was down the street.

In less than a week I had to swallow my pride and ask for help, not once, but three times. I wish I could say it will come easier, but I don't think it will. In the meantime, I am thankful for the people who came to my rescue last week. I know that I could never ever return the favor.

Reflection on the Past

I'm not sure why, but I was thinking back to a time when I was in Middle School. One of the darkest times in my life. I was in the 8th grade, and had been bullied on and off since 6th grade. I was not a thin child. I was overweight, and in the cruelty that is children, I became an easy target for mean girls to pick on. All of the bullying began in P.E. And after experiencing the inattentiveness of my teachers, the lack of supervision in the locker room, and then witnessing some of the same scenarios played out in the school I taught at, I am almost glad that P.E. is one of the first things they cut in education. I said almost, because I do believe in teaching our children fitness, and about different sports and activities.

Maybe because Father's Day is this Sunday, but thinking about my Dad always brings me back to the day I saw him from a different light. The day he became human to me. The day my English Teacher agreed to drive me home after I begged her to take me because some of those bullies were waiting for me on my walk home. Those bullies wanted to "kick my ass." I'm sure today those same girls have very little recollection of the torture they put me through. Of the concocted reason to be mad at me. I remember it distinctly. I can still see the locker room clearly in my mind. See the unlocked locker against the far wall near the doors leading to the bathroom. Me, asking "Whose locker is this? Did someone leave it unlocked?" You see, the year earlier my locker was broken into. All of my clothes were stolen, including the $20 I had for lunch. It so happened on that day, out of the norm, my Mom did not pack me a lunch, she gave me money, and all she had was a larger bill. I remembered that feeling of having to walk around all day in my P.E. clothes because my Mom was working and they could not get a hold of her. I remember not being able to eat lunch that day because I had no money. And I remember the shame of having to tell my Mom and know exactly what girls did it as "revenge" for them getting caught ditching. (That's a whole other story). So I opened that unlocked locker, in my mind to find out whose it was so I could tell them. I pulled out a shirt, read the name out loud and asked if anyone knew her. Another girl from class just told me to "leave the locker open, because maybe they wanted it unlocked."

Later that day, the same girl approached me, and told me she was told that I broke into her locker and stole her stuff. When I tried to explain what happened, she pushed me and told me she was going to "kick my ass. And to mind my own business." I later learned that her and her friends left the locker unlocked because they shared P.E. clothes. A whole other kind of gross that I can not fathom why you would do that....but that is really the reason they were angry, they thought they would get caught.

The tormenting began. The girl and her friends would show up at my locker and threaten me. They even threatened my friends. There was a lot of pushing and mean words spoken to me. I played a Cat and Mouse game. I would change my route to get around to my classes. I would try and walk near teachers. I would even go late to classes or hide out in bathrooms. One day the girl and her friends accosted me on my way home. Thankfully the boy I grew up with and lived down the street from happened to be walking with me. He was pretty popular, so they just threatened me. But I knew my time was limited. Somehow someone got word to me that the girl and her friends would be waiting for me on my way home. That they were going to fight me. I was a good girl. I didn't believe in fighting. And more importantly, my family was going through a rough time. My Paternal Grandmother had just passed. My Dad was home and the idea of having to explain to him that I was in a fight was more stress on my parents. Something I keenly did not want to give them.

That day, I timidly told my English Teacher what would transpire if I was allowed to walk home. I begged her for a ride home. I only lived down the street. She agreed. I followed her to the office while she "finished up something" and she drove me home. I keenly remember the awkward silence. And I remember as we approached my house, seeing my Dad at the mailbox. As I got out of the car, he spoke to my teacher and as he turned to me. I started to cry and then so did he. It is the first and only time I have seen him shed tears.

As all things Junior High, the situation eventually was resolved, thanks to my big sister, who happened to know where the girl lived. When I confronted that girl in 0front of her home with her big sister and not her friends, she was forced to listen to me. And accept my apology for whatever she perceived I did.

As a Middle School teacher, one of my goals was to mitigate the kind of bullying and treatment I had experienced. I can give examples and stories about how I think I helped, but in life's weird twist of fate, I ended up helping one of those bullies, returning the favor that my teacher had done for me. I can still vividly remember the boy. He was from downtown L.A. and a real tough kid. He was big, he was mean, and I think he really was just a scared kid from the hood. He had been kicked out of our school, sent to three others, before according to district rules, sent back to us for his 8th grade year. One day he hung back in class at the end of the day. Which, for him was out of character. He was a bully to others and my class was always a safe zone. No one was allowed to be disrespectful of others. And no one was allowed to bully. I asked him if there was something wrong. If there was anything I could help him with. He told me that there were some guys waiting to "jump" him at the bus stop. He was going to his Aunt's house and was taking the city bus instead of the school bus. He informed me that if he got into anymore trouble, he'd be kicked out of the district. I was thinking, more like reform school or Juvie. He asked me for a ride to his Aunts'. The last thing I wanted was an adolescent teen boy in my car, let alone this one. But instead I agreed. You see, I remembered my 8th grade teacher, the risk she took for me, and I thought "Universe you suck", but I have to do it.

I took every precaution I could. I called his Mom and his Aunt for permission. I spoke to the Counselor and told her. I had him call his Mom on my cell while we were en route, and then confirmed with her when we arrived at his Aunt's house. It was the longest 15 minute drive of my life. My palms were sweaty and I was more nervous I think than when I first brought Cookie home from the hospital. I have always wondered what happened to that boy. He was one of those whose future had one of three possibilities; murdered, jail, or professional athlete. I hope he has ended up closer to the last.

A Trip to the E.R. and a Pat on the Back

Friday we made a surprise trip to the E.R. Hubby had some severe chest pains. Turns out to be a huge anxiety attack about his impending trip to L.A., where he has to engage in just about every activity he hates. Thankfully nothing was really wrong with him physically.

Our trip, besides making me more than a little scared, showed me how prepared I really am for those unexpected moments. I actually for once was the Mom who had everything the kids needed. Pretty good for rushing out the door at 8:00 a.m. I managed to get Cookie to throw on some clothes, dressed myself, grabbed some snacks and drinks, and had both kids in the car in about 5 minutes. Granted, Jelly was still in her P.J.s, but I did grab her some shoes. I was pretty sure I had a change of clothes in my bag.

While we waited anxiously for any news about hubby, I was able to ply them with snacks and books. Frankly, I chose not to drag the kids into the exam room to be with him. Cookie was obviously worried, and I didn't want to freak her out any more and while Jelly was clueless, she would have just caused havoc. She is my little destroyer. The E.R. was pretty well equipped to deal with small children. They handed me crayons and coloring books right away, there was a fish tank to distract them, and they had a t.v. with VCR and DVD player and some kid movies to choose from. There were about a dozen wooden puzzles and a play table. The kids were well occupied. The longer we stayed, the more agitated Cookie got, especially after I brought her into the back to visit Daddy for a minute. I am more than fortunate, more than thankful, and more than humbled at how fast my friend Catherine came to the rescue and picked up Cookie for me. She was able to distract her with a play date and even provided her with lunch. For that, I can never repay her.

Only having Jelly there to watch and worry about was easier. She is still not cognisant enough to understand what was happening, but Cookie was. It doesn't help that all those "Mommy and Marcey" stories ended with trips to the hospital. But I told her that Daddy's heart was feeling a little sick so the doctors just needed to do some tests to make sure it was okay and get him medicine. I think deep down she knew it could have been bad...she was really really nice to her Daddy all weekend. There were a lot of extra hugs and I love yous.

But I did learn that first and foremost to always keep my bag stocked with food and drink. Second, always have crayons and paper. Third, have a change of clothes for both kids including underwear and socks and diapers. And finally have a surprise stashed away at home for those just in case moments. Because Cookie was exceptionally good at the E.R. She listened, she was quiet (well for her anyway), and she was polite. When I brought her home I was able to give her a prize. A prize for behaving exactly how I expect, and for making things easier for Mommy and Daddy. I had bought a Cars set and stashed it away thinking that I would give it to the kids for a plane ride or a trip or for something, you never know...and a week after I got it, I needed it. The Universe definitely works in mysterious ways. But this Mom gets a pat on the back for being well prepared.

This Might Not Turn Out How I Expected

I went to my favorite local toy store with Jelly yesterday. It's one of those stores that carry incredibly cute boutique clothes and wonderfully expensive toys, all that you want your kid to have. If you don't have a game plan before going in, your wallet might be in trouble. They even let your children explore and play with all the toys.....they are devious geniuses.

I had a game plan. I was going to buy gifts for two good friends, mostly from the clearance rack, because frankly their original prices are extremely high. I even knew what I wanted to buy. I was doing well, until I overheard one of the owners selling some "story dice and cards" to another customer. I was intrigued. Cookie asks for me to tell her stories all the time. She likes to tell me what to tell about and should I not tell it exactly how she imagines, my demanding monster gets upset....sometimes to the point of tears. These stories began as "Mommy and Marcey" stories. Stories about a little girl I grew up with and the mishaps and escapades we got ourselves into together. They all had a common theme, us doing something we weren't supposed to, and one of us, or both of us getting hurt or punished. Cookie loves them, but like all things Cookie, she likes to be in control. She has to be boss on how the stories should go. These story cards and dice sounded like a way for me to get her to think outside the box...and to come up with new themes and characters. Lately she wants Marcey to be jealous of Ginger about getting a certain toy. In reality, Marcey always got the cool toys because her parents had more money than mine did and I was always jealous of her.

So I bought both, the dice and the cards. Really both are cool ideas.

The story dice have nine dice, each with six pictures, like a phone or a bell, so when you roll them, you get many different combination of images to help you tell a story. You can of course use all or some of them to tell a story. But the idea of Cookie telling me the general theme and players and then letting the dice help in the development of the story seemed like a good idea.

The story cards are for younger kids about 3 to 5 years old and have a similar idea. There are 32 cards with images on them. The images are fairytale like. A Castle, a princess, a king, a little boy, and a witch. Again, the idea is to use the cards to help build a story. You can use all or some.

Cookie loves them. As a result, I spent most of yesterday telling story after story. While I love that she gets to build her imagination, she is not ready or she does not want to participate in the telling of the story herself. We spent three hours, yes three hours playing with them until I called "uncle". I just could not play anymore. I think it's cute that she calls the story cubes, "sugar cubes" and was touched when she laid out the cards to tell her sister a story.

I am a little hesitant to bring them out again today, as I am not ready to tell stories and be imaginative for three hours today. The teacher in me loves them, the tired Mom in me may need to warm up to them, or set a timer.

Coincidence....I think not

There is usually about once a month where I completely lose it. Once a month where I am an evil bitch to everyone, including my kids. Following my hormone induced freak out is the gut wracking guilt, but for about two days every month I contemplate running out the door and not coming back.

Growing up, my parents were friends with another family. This family also had two girls the same age as my sister and me. I really didn't like their little girl who was only a week younger than me, she was mean. But one day their Mom up and left them all. She packed her bags and went to Europe or something like that. She returned years later, but the damage was done. But this isn't really about them. It's just that for a split second once a month I understand their Mom. I get it. The urge to just run away from the screaming, crying, snot running, pooping kids, not to mention judgmental husband, who really means well, but EVERYTHING he says is just wrong, crosses my mind.

This week was just one of those cosmically crappy weeks. Of course it probably belongs on Reddit in the category of "What First World People Complain of"....but it is in one of the top ten worst weeks for me.

First, our stove broke. In one of my Best Mom moments of making sugar cookies with my own little Cookie, my oven stops working. We are mixing the dough, she's adding sugar, flour, eggs..I hear a popping sound. I can not figure out what it is...that is until I glance at the clock on the stove and realize it is not working. MY OVEN IS NOT WORKING. Because it is Tuesday, because Memorial day weekend is that weekend, we wait until Friday to order an oven. It will not be delivered until the following Thursday. I am facing almost two weeks without an oven. I'd like to say I plan delicious, wonderfully healthy meals to grill and cook in the crock pot...but, we order pizza, Chinese, and eat out for the most part. Well, mostly because my wonderful ungrateful family decides to not want to eat the first night I grill up steak, corn on the cob, and sweet potatoes, all cooked to perfection. I become a little petty at my family's indifference to my awesomeness. Still I am up for the World's Best Mom and Wife....but it soon goes downhill.

Sunday, I notice Jelly is running a fever as I put her down for a nap. She wakes up running about 101. And proceeds to puke all over me. Cookie, who is perpetually jealous of any attention handed out to Jelly tries her best to drive me up the wall. Let's just say there was lots of crying by both kids. Jelly, because she felt awful and just wanted to cuddle and basically crawl back into the womb, Cookie because I was not paying enough attention to her.

I spend not one but two nights on the couch with a sick Jelly. Before bed on the second night, I notice Jelly has a rash and she's been complaining that her mouth hurts. Coincidentally, I had just read a blog about a family's ill fated vacation to Puerto Rico where they all come down with a lovely virus called Coxsackie. And she described it as what Jelly had. This virus is ugly. This virus sucks, especially if you get the mouth sores. For five days Jelly would wake up in the middle of the night screaming about her mouth. All day, every five minutes she would stick her hand in her mouth and cry saying, "hurtee, hurtee." She then would cry, "hungee, hungee." I would try and feed her something and she would just cry some more. For five days my baby lived on ice cream and Top Ramen (cooked in microwave). And on day three Cookie got the dreaded disease, better known as hand/foot/and mouth disease.

Knowing that I had just spend two nights on the couch with Jelly, Cookie demanded that I sleep with her, as she was sick. Night three, I am sleeping in Cookie's bed, with Cookie and Jelly. Every two hours Cookie would wake crying for her "Neh Neh." Jelly would wake up and cry about her mouth. Three nights of little sleep. By night four, I was done. Neither kid could eat anything but ice cream, and it was 9 p.m., Cookie was exhausted, but refused to go to sleep unless I was there. Jelly was screaming and I had enough. Now we all love the book that's coming out "Go the F** to sleep" Because frankly we all of said it or thought it. And each one of us are jealous that we didn't think to write it first. And me, day four of no sleep. Day four of screaming, crying, clinging kids have had it. I start screaming, " YOU WILL GO TO SLEEP, I AM DONE, I AM NOT SLEEPING WITH EITHER OF YOU. I AM NOT CUDDLING ANYONE. I AM NOT LOOKING FOR NEH NEH. I DON'T WANT TO BE ANYWHERE NEAR EITHER OF YOU." I put Jelly in her bed screaming. I slammed the door to Cookie's room, and I laid down in my bed until I no longer heard a peep from either disease laden child.

By far not my best moment as a mom. I later went and laid in Cookie's bed and slept with her. Gathered up a crying Jelly in the middle of the night to sleep with us...and repeated the process of every two hours looking for the scrap of Cookie's blankie, calming a crying Jelly, and dealing with a cranky husband in the morning, who complained that the monitor to Cookie's room was on all night, yet he never turned it off, so he slept as fitfully as the three of us. Oh and I started my period. I'd like to say that I never once thought of running away...but on the fourth morning of waking to screaming kids, a period, a cranky husband, and no oven, I had visions of myself running down the street bra less, bare foot, and in my pajamas screaming and pulling at my hair like a crazy person. At the same time, that vision felt liberating, because I'd get to hear the birds. feel the warm sunshine that was out after a week and a half of rain (and I'm stuck at home still with two sick kids) and I would be far far away from my family whom I love more than life itself.

It's day six, Jelly is finally eating, Cookie's mouth is still a puss ridden mess, and I sheepishly admit to threatening to throw out he Neh Neh for the hundredth time. Coincidence that my oven breaks the very week my kids can't eat? You be the judge. But in my book, I guess there is a silver lining to everything.