Deep Thoughts - Why am I Writing When I Should Be Sleeping?

There's laws against drinking and driving and advice about drinking and dialing, but perhaps we should think about covering the dangers of not sleeping - and blogging instead.

I just finished reading one of my best friend's books. Yeah, I know a person who wrote a book - a real one with a cover and everything. Not just any book, but a memoir. I don't know what's more astounding, the fact that I somehow snagged such a talented friend, but that we're old enough (in fact, I'm six months older) to already have things to memoir about (that so just became a verb.) I realized, as I lay in bed last night after I finally made myself stop reading and get some sleep, that we all have memoir-worthy experiences, we just don't take the time to sit down and take stock. It wasn't until my husband (who is a very sound sleeper) turned and mumbled, "what are you doing babe?" that I realized I was lying there, in the dark, talking to myself. Perhaps my memoir will focus on my inability to realize when the thoughts running through my head are actually coming out as an audible conversation with myself. What I found running like hamsters on a wheel through my mind was how much my small circle of friends and I have been through in our lives already. Sure, you have the typical college war stories (mostly humorous, at least they are now) and the "what was I thinking" exes stories (I will admit, I have more of those than my friends, but it gives them something to laugh about, all these years later; and I'm a giver.) We have the engagement stories, the weddings - and the bridesmaid dresses to go with them. Then there were the babies, some planned, some surprises but they all never cease to provide us with ammo for great moms in the trenches stories. Then came some of the sticky, less funny, full on grown up stuff. Friends who tried to save their crumbling marriages, only to find out their now ex-husband was a total train wreck. Friends who faced major crisis in their relationships, separated then made the painful decision to divorce - only to reconcile and remarried their ex. That same friend called me three weeks into marriage #2 (with husband #1) and tearfully admitted that she may have made a huge mistake. Friends who called me and told me that, somehow all the doctors he'd seen for various respiratory illnesses the past few months had somehow missed the big diagnosis - cancer. Friends who came into my life at the same time I was dealing with my best friend fighting for his life and allowing me to sob uncontrollably, while they refilled my wine glass and reminded me that it's okay to let the dam burst every once in awhile. After going to my third funeral in five years, all for people my age, I had come to the conclusion that the universe was pretty f*%#ed up. In fact, if you had Googled "bitter, angry & utterly confused" - I'm pretty sure a picture of me giving the universe the finger would have popped up (and then probably some inappropriate stuff you never imagined would pop up, per the norm with a good Google search.) After finishing Cathie's book tonight, the thing that keeps resonating with me is change is inevitable. We age, we move, we work as hard as we can at a job and realize quitting isn't failing, it's admitting we deserve better. Would the 37 year old me have walked past the 20 year old me and thought, "wow, she really has her act together." Um, no. But the 20 year old me would probably have puffed on her Marlboro Light and felt bad for that "older lady" who obviously hadn't had time to get her roots touched up lately - and wondered why she's wearing yoga pants with bleach splatter on them. But honestly, both of those chicks are pretty damn cool, yoga pants or not. I have no doubt that, for the rest of my life, my emotional barometer will fluctuate from giggling at something that would have made Erik bust out in his world famous belly laugh to tearing up because I won't hear that laugh anymore. And there's not many days that Leslea's voice doesn't make itself heard, whether it's telling to bust out the heels once in awhile or reminding me it's okay to ask for help. The dam does tend to burst more frequently, usually when I'm questioning why I would make such a fast friend in someone who helped me deal with losing a lifelong friend - only to be blindsided by her own death less than two years later. Then I suck it up and remind myself that I was extraordinarily lucky to have Erik in my life since I was 8 years old; and just as lucky to have Leslea in my life, if only for a brief couple of years. My memoir wouldn't be worth writing without the many chapters of my life that they touched and will continue to touch. With what was lost, what I have in front of me becomes more and more cherished every day. My husband (who I am sure doubts my sanity on a regular basis), my kids (who know their mom is a huge goober) and my friends - some who have been around since the Clearasil days, others who I finally got brave enough to let into my life after fearing I had some kind of hex on me and the bestie from Texie (okay, that sounded way better in my head) who landed right in between. I can't stop the changes and I may not always like them, but I have super cool friends, like Cathie, who remind me that we are all hurdling through life everyday; but, as far as I know, Cathie is the only one who has written an absolutely amazing book about her life so far. If you are my friend, and you are reading this while you take a break from writing your own memoir, my apologies - I owe you a latte, or a shot, whatever you prefer. Depending on which friend it is, I can probably figure it out, that's not going to change.

Wouldn’t You Like to Be a Picker Too?

You’re not supposed to pick.
You’re not supposed to pick a fight.
You’re not supposed to pick scabs, pimples or your nose – or anyone else’s nose.
You really shouldn’t pick at a loose thread, you could unravel the whole sweater – well, that’s more like pulling, but go with me on this.

Hi. My name’s Tiffany and I am a picker.
Don’t worry, your nose is safe.
I pick unwanted pizza toppings off my slice. I pick at blemishes – yeah, I shouldn’t but since my skin seems to be unaware of the fact that it’s not 15 years old anymore and continues to break out at will; it will deal with the consequences, dammit.
I pick my cuticles, again, could be considered more of a tugging – but let’s not be picky.

I take my annoying habit one step further however. I am an emotional picker.
I pick apart conversations and over analyze everything.
I pick at problems until, many times; my incessant picking actually spawns a whole new batch of problems to pick apart.

It’s like my problem was a Gremlin and I fed it after midnight, under water.

I pick over things that have already transpired and somehow convince myself that, if I would’ve picked a different course of action, everything would be better, or at least different, which may not necessarily mean better – just different.

I pick at relationships that many others would just leave alone. You know, that friend you have that used to be super tight with that has morphed, slowly, into more of a “Christmas Card Friend?”
Yeah, I’m the one who can only go so long before I pick at that dilapidated friendship; I reach out and text or call or email. We have a great conversation (if I get a hold of them) and I hang up with a smile on my face, convinced I’ve rolled the crash cart out just in time to revive our flat lining friendship.
Fast forward to weeks or months later, when I’m picking at that same problem again, vowing not to keep picking a dead horse (normally people say beat a dead horse, but animal cruelty is never an option) - knowing eventually I’ll cave in and pick at it again.

If you need help with a problem and have to pick someone to help you come up with a list of pros and cons with you, I’m your girl.
I’d probably wonder why you picked me to help you. (See over analyzes everything.)

You’re probably wondering why I picked this topic – as it appears I have painted a picture of a rather neurotic, grass is always greener (or at least fairly better manicured) on the other side kind of hot mess sort of gal.

In my own defense, since I’ve been analyzing what I’ve written several times, I do pick apart simple decisions as well. Yesterday, after flip flopping for a bit, I picked a lemon scented Yankee Candle over a beachy scented option.
Tonight I picked a sugar free Paleo muffin over Thin Mints for dessert.
I feel good about one of those decisions. I really love Thin Mints.

Losing Thelma

Six months.

It’s been ½ a year since I lost one of my very best friends.

That word, “lost” doesn’t really describe what happened. I’ve lost friends over the years. We lost touch, we grew up, moved in different circles, gone to different schools and moved to different states. I lost friends who, for whatever reason, made the choice to not nurture our friendship and gradually withdrew.

It was as unexpected and as sudden as a bolt of lightening.
Last July, I went outside one morning and saw my friend getting into a car to go to the doctor. The bad headaches she couldn’t seem to shake had finally taken their toll and she decided it was time to get checked out.

A few hours later, she was admitted to the hospital.

Not long after she was admitted, she was transferred to another hospital which specialized in treatment for stroke patients.

As much as I wanted to break every speed limit law and bulldoze my way into that hospital room, I knew she had been poked and prodded by nurses and doctors and she had a very large and loving family who had been there with her. We texted back and forth and she asked me how late she could call, because once everyone went home, she really wanted to talk to me. My response, of course, was no matter what time she called, I would answer. That night, which was a Monday – the day after she was admitted, she sounded better than she had in weeks. She finally relented and accepted the help medication could bring (she hated taking medicine) and her headache had diminished to a much more bearable level.
We talked and laughed and discussed her diagnosis, which was very serious.
But, as with everything else she did, she had a plan and was ready to start at step one in the direction she needed to. I, of course, told her over and over what she already knew which was no matter what she needed – I was there.

Two days later, on Wednesday, as I was dropping my kids off with my parents,
I got the news that she had suffered a stroke.
The drive from my parents’ home to the hospital was the longest ride of my life.
I went over every possible scenario and came to the conclusion that she would be fine, it would take work and patience and time to recover, but she could do that.
My friend defined the word feisty – this wasn’t going to get the best of her.

I walked into the hospital and was met with looks from her other friends and family filled with mixtures of hope and fear, of worry and of faith.
At this point, all we could do was wait.

That night, before I went home, I went into her ICU room and saw this person who never sat still for a moment resting in her hospital bed. Her head was bandaged and her eyes were closed and I couldn’t help but think how much she would have HATED that hospital gown they had her in, not the cutest, but she could wear anything and look like a million bucks.
I said only a couple of words to her as I took her hand, and she squeezed her response back to me. She knew I was there.

Thursday brought the worst news imaginable; she suffered another stroke, now both sides of her brain had been compromised. It was determined on Friday that the only functions her brain was still capable of were her respiratory and circulatory system.
Told you she was feisty.

Her family made the selfless decision that she had fought this harder than anyone else possibly could and had the doctors take the machine assistance away from her, to let her go peacefully.
I was given the privilege of having a moment with her to say goodbye.
As I walked in that room again, I saw my friend lying there, as she had been before, but this time, she wasn’t there, not in that body. I could sense she was there, with all of us, but she wasn’t trapped in that broken body anymore. Her fighting spirit had battled long and hard and it couldn’t be contained in that beautiful vessel anymore.
It may sound weird and very Oprah-Deepak Chopra-y, but I could just sense a palpable difference in that room.

She hung in there, on her own, until early Saturday morning.

Leslea Robyn Mercer was 35 years old.

She and I had only known each other a relatively short time, but it was one of those relationships that was meant to be – we felt like we had known each other forever.
She had moved in across the street, literally was plopped into my life at a time when I really needed her. Not long after I met Leslea, I found out my lifelong friend, the godparent of my daughter, had cancer. One those days that I went to his house or his hospital room to visit, I used up every ounce of my positive energy filling my time with him with happiness and laughter and silliness.
On those days when I wasn’t with him or I felt like I needed to be worried or sad or mad about his diagnosis, Leslea would just let me vent. She’d let me be pissed off and she wouldn’t try to make it better, she’d just let me be.
When he lost his courageous battle with cancer, Leslea sat on my couch with me and let me cry, something I don’t often do.
She taught me that it’s okay to ask for help when you need it, it’s okay to play hooky every once in awhile and not feel guilty about it and it’s absolutely necessary to buy cute shoes, even if you have nowhere to wear them.

In the days following her death, I questioned why the universe would send me someone so special at such an important time in my life, only to take her away again so quickly.

Then I realized how lucky I was that the universe sent her to me at all.

Leslea was hell on wheels, full of love and the most loyal person I’ve ever met.
She pushed me to be braver, more confident and implored me to not worry so much.
She and I had made lots of plans, things I probably wouldn’t ever have thought about doing without her, but now that I’ve known her, I can’t imagine not trying them.
She was the Thelma to my Louise.
My partner in crime and the biggest cheerleader I’ve ever had.
I can still feel her elbowing me in the side, hearing her say,
“Come on Tiff, what have you got to lose?”

These Boots Were Made for Mockin’

So, yesterday morning when I was walking my four year old into preschool, I was bombarded with a feeling of total inadequacy and general blah.
I saw, across the parking lot, two other moms escorting their young children into preschool. Both had done their hair (whereas mine was pulled up in that ½ ponytail, ½ bun, just get the f*^% outta my face manner), both had cute clothes on – we’re talking actual coordinated outfits (although, if it pleases the court, I must point out there WAS some gray lettering on my sweatshirt that matched the charcoal yoga pants I was sporting.) I think calling them charcoal takes it up a notch, no?

I didn’t see so I can’t be sure, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say they both probably had jewelry on – and not just the necklace they put on a few days ago for their daughter’s choir concert and just hadn’t taken off yet (yeah, me again, but it made my sweatshirt feel fancy)
They most likely picked accessories that matched those cute outfits. I was in such a hurry this morning; I didn’t even put my wedding ring on before I left. Amazingly, I didn’t get hit on at Starbucks – even while appearing to be being single. Maybe it’s because I also appeared to be homeless.

The “piece(s) de resistance” were the boots; one had knee high black boots, the other knee high brown. They were the pictures of the perfectly stylish moms – fall edition. As I was thinking of the new knee high boots hibernating in my closet, Little Miss Brown Boots turned slightly and I noticed that, not only was she cuter than a spotted puppy in a red wagon, but she was also pregnant.
Not just sort of/early on/is that a baby bump or bloating? pregnant – she was belly button popped out the wrong way so far you can see it through her (most likely) designer maternity shirt from across the parking lot pregnant.
Darn her! Here I felt tired and entitled to my schleppy (yeah, it’s a word) appearance, but there’s no way (even with my seriously overdrawn sleep bank account) that I was MORE tired than Little Miss PREGNANT Brown Boots. Those boots were the breaking point. With every click of the heel, I felt more and more like Humpty Frumpty.
Those boots were totally mocking me. My Nikes wanted to kick their ass.

As I got back in the car to head out, I rattled off my list of reasons why it was okay for me to be in my sweats, make up-less (did I not mention that earlier?) and totally schleppy.
I tried to Stuart Smalley myself out of feeling like I the “before” to the “after” pictures.
I work from home, there’s no need to get out those, lay flat to dry or (gasp) dry clean only duds. I was planning on trying to hit the gym later that day, so wearing my work out clothes was really just trying to be prepared. I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!

Yeah – those were pretty much it.

Sure, I could have thrown on some jeans, grabbed a cute shirt and pulled on my brown boots. I would’ve looked a lot cuter for those 3-4 minutes I spent in the school.
I may have been able to give those mommies a run for their money.

Then I realized, if I did that all time, how could I possible expect to shock everyone on those rare occasions that I DO put the whole package together?
I'm all about the sneak attack. I just have to get some sleep first.

I'm Baaaaaaaaack

This is me. Blogging.
One year (and a little more, but let’s not get finicky) since my last blog.

Really? Has my life been so vanilla (no disrespect Robert Van Winkle) that there have been no “blog worthy events” in the last 12 months?
Sadly, no – my life has been very bloggable – but my creative juices have been very shriveled and raisin-like.
What little bits of creative juice smoothies I could squeeze out were used for my not-close-to-Pulitzer winning monthly articles in Search Parker and South Aurora Magazine. Hey, I’m published, I’m gonna plug it.

Tonight I was logging some much needed “adult time” – no offense to my beautiful children, but occasionally I enjoy speaking to people taller than 4 feet about subject matter that is anything BUT American Girls, the latest episode of “Good Luck Charlie” and playing the uber-fun game of “where’s my paci?”
Sitting next to a good friend, I was called out.
With no warning, I got a “You need to start blogging again!”
(Yes, she exclaimed this proclamation, it warranted an exclamation point.)
Relentlessly, she continued on, “your blogs are so funny, you should write more.” Without missing an beat, she leaned towards another buddy sitting across from her and asked, “have YOU ever read her blogs? They’re so great!” Again, exclamation point totally needed, she was excited, or liquored up, it’s hard to tell.

Nevertheless, the challenge was thrown – start blogging again.
Oh, and make it funny. No pressure.

So as I ponder where my best source of inspiration may lie – Walmart on Black Friday springs to mind – I promise you (my three and a half readers (I know at least one of you only skims the blog) this – I WILL blog more.
I WILL find more people to single out in odd circumstances and poke fun at them.
(Myself included.)
I WILL be overly sarcastic and borderline inappropriate when needed.
I WILL find uniquely absurd situations to shine a spotlight on and bring to your attention.

Here’s the first – when you’re at a restaurant and someone orders water, with extra lemon wedges, only to squeeze (half a lemon) into their glass then add sugar/Splenda/Truvia whatever to it – is that stealing lemonade or just a perk of creative ordering?

Discuss amongst yourselves, or blog about it – whatever works.

Leering Unicorns

I am surrounded by birthday carnage.
Literally, I am sitting on my couch, soaking up the quiet that comes with everyone else being asleep except me. But if I were to get up and take a step in any direction, I would step on a birthday party land mine.
My son turned 3 today. He also had his third birthday celebration today. I am hoping this trend is discontinued, as he may not survive his 21st birthday if he has 21 birthday parties. The idea of planning and hosting another party is literally making my nails bite themselves right now.
Don't get me wrong, I love parties. I love going to them, I love helping to plan them, I love hosting them. What I don't love is biting off more than I can chew, and while my mouth is full of more than I can chew, I start to choke on the minutes that tick by as my procrastination habits creep up. Oddly, I can start to procrastinate pretty quickly, which is kind of ironic if you think about it.
For party number one, I hosted our family for lunch over the weekend. Not a huge chunk to bite off, as it was our family, so there's no fooling them. I did clean like Martha Stewart on speedballs, because I like to try and shock my mom every once in awhile.
Then came the "take the treats to school" celebration on Monday morning. In the age of everyone's allergic to everything, I took the easy option and bought pre-packaged, ready-made snacks so that if someone walked down the hall and inhaled the aroma of these treats, thus causing an allergic reaction, they'd have to sue the manufacturer and not me.

Now Tuesday was rolling around, which was the actual day marking the anniversary of my son's birth and the day of his party with all his little buddies from school. I thought I had laid the ground work for a fairly simple party for my son. Just a few kids from his preschool class for about two hours in the afternoon. Post lunch time, pre-nap time. No muss to fuss. Then I Googled.
I Googled party ideas, snack ideas, game ideas. I ended up going to three different stores looking for green apple sour straws, which I never found, to cut up and become the antennae for the alien cupcakes I made. I planned two games to play in the back yard - then Mother Nature decided to deal a cold, rainy day card. I moved the games inside, but they lost a lot of luster. I ran out of time to make another game that was a version of "pin the tail on the donkey" and figured no one would be the wiser but I still felt like I jipped the kiddos somehow.
I watched a handful of 3 year olds play gleefully with several toys I had put out. They ate their cupcakes and toted their treat bags and seemed to have a good time. Still I was left with a uneasy feeling of "not good enough."
Completely self imposed, I know, but I couldn't help but think that the house could have been cleaner, the party could have had more organized games and activities, I could have had better/different/more food.
Maybe it's because I'm competitive by nature. Maybe it's my low self esteem monster that was ever so prominent when I was younger coming out to stretch its muscles. Who knows. All I know is I'm pretty sure my son had a great time. The moms of my son's friends seemed to have a good time (and if they didn't, they're too nice to tell me!) and that's all that really matters. I can tell myself that all I want, but every time I look up, my eyes meet with the eyes of a big pink unicorn (stuffed animal from my daughter's room, not a hallucination brought on by late night cupcake frosting) and I swear that unicorn is judging me. It's wondering why I haven't picked up all the toys yet. Wondering why the bright plastic table clothes haven't been rolled up and thrown away yet. Probably wondering what the hell she's doing downstairs on one of the kitchen chairs instead of being upstairs with all her plush peers.
If I wanted to get all Freud about it, I guess I could say the unicorn isn't judging me, I'm judging myself - although Freud would make this whole thing about my mother, and that's another story entirely.
So, okay, I'm judging myself. I think all moms do this. We put all this pressure on ourselves to make our kid's costume for the play as well (if not way better) than the one our neighbor made for her daughter or decorate our house as beautifully as our best friend, or throw the holiday party that people actually want to go to instead of dutifully make an appearance for. Whatever the reason, I have a feeling that unicorn will keep leering at me for a long time to come. If I had a therapist, I would tell her it's deep seeded esteem issues stemming from not being nominated to Homecoming Court in high school. My mom would say that I just don't manage my time well and offer to help me clean my house. My sister would just tell me that I'm a goober, lovingly, and then give me a hug.
My friends, most of whom are moms themselves, tell me I'm way too hard on myself. All of these people generally shower me with compliments, which then feeds my ego just enough to make me want to try and top myself the next time around. It's a vicious circle, but that leering unicorn needs someone to judge and sometimes it takes all the motivation I can muster to get through an average day, not to mention a special occasion. Even if that motivation is my assumption that my kids toys don't approve (made worse the later in the evening it becomes.)
So, with the holidays lurking right around the corner, I better get to it, cause those holiday decorating ideas and perfect pumpkin dessert recipes aren't going to Google themselves.

Crazy? Party of One? Your Straight Jacket's Ready

I had it.
One of those moments that sneaks up on you where suddenly you feel like you are really about to lose it. One of those moments that is the culmination of a million little things that when you pile them up, become a mountain of irritability and crazy that makes you fantasize about speeding down a scenic highway, top down (without your hair getting messed up) towards a gorgeous B&B - BY YOURSELF!

"Mother Leaves Children with Husband and Disappears for Days."
Yeah, if I read that headline most any other time, I would think, "What the hell is she thinking? They must be so worried about her. Her kids must miss her terribly!"
After my moment today, I am so Thelma to that mom's Louise.

Sometimes, you just need to take a step back.
Granted, most of us don't have the time, resources or appropriate child care to take off to Cali for the weekend, but you'd be amazed what five minutes locked in the bathroom with a Diet Coke and People magazine can do for you.

Fact is, this "Mom" gig is a full time job, but there's no workman's comp - so my much stepped on toes just have to make due with a pedicure every once in a great while and the always cute, "Sorry Mommy."

Last time I checked, there's no overtime pay - but I firmly believe this is why the DVR was invented. I can watch the program of my choice without commercials and, more importantly, without pleas to watch "Go Diego Go!" incessantly. I can only imagine how much my mother would have appreciated having DVR'd episodes of
St. Elsewhere and Magnum P.I. in her late night survival kit. I think she finally figured out how to use hers now, so I firmly believe the only fair thing to do is send her my kids for a few days so she can really appreciate its genius.

I take solace in the fact that I am not the only mother out there who feels, from time to time, like she has completely lost it. Who's certain that she's made some monumental error in raising her children and is convinced that the gummy bears she let her kids have will trigger a chemical reaction in her kids' brains that will increase their chances of dropping out of college.

Seriously - I better not be the only one out there.

Luckily, these trips to the dark side are just that, momentary jaunts to pretty much the polar opposite of my happy place. I guess, if I want to get all Oprah about it, I could say that the little wonderful moments that happen all the time wouldn't be as wonderful if we hadn't just calculated the cost of full day versus half day pre-school in our head. Twice.

Moments like my daughter hugging me and saying, "Thanks for cleaning up my room for me Mommy, I really appreciate it," or my son holding his arms out as wide as he can and saying, "I love you dis much Mama!" mean that much more to me after moments like I had today. And frankly, that "love you dis much" move saves my son on pretty much a daily basis.

That moment earlier, when I thought about DNA testing to see if my son's father's real name was Damien, seems like days ago. The kids are sleeping soundly. My DVR'd episode of Ellen is on in the very quiet background and I can relax and take a deep breath - without wondering if that weird smell is something the kids did or the dogs did.

So this Mom will live to fight another day. As long as I have Diet Coke in the fridge and my People magazine subscription is paid in full.

Read This Blog and I'll Give You a Latte

To Bribe, or Not to Bribe - in my mind, there is no question.

Finish your broccoli and you can have dessert. Bring all the toys in from outside and you can have a popsicle. Clean up your room and you can watch 15 more minutes of t.v.
And it's not just the kids...
Perfect attendance at work for a few months and you get a $15 Starbucks card. Finish all your reports and you can leave early on Friday.
Put in your time for a couple of years and earn more vacation days.

Do I want to make it a constant bartering session to get my kids to do everything? No.
Am I ashamed that I am already formulating what bribes will best coax my son into the world of using the potty?
Absolutely not.
Somehow, I've been passed over as mother of the year in the past, so I doubt this decision to negotiate with a toddler terrorist using fruit snacks will effect the decision of the nomination committee.

I don't really recall the tactics my parents used on me until the pre-teen/teenage years, and those years were not exactly stellar on my record.
I do know that my mother is not a fan of the "time out" method and does not really buy this whole, negotiate, give choices approach. Her household is more of a benevolent dictatorship. She loves you, and her word is law. Period.

I realize that everyone eventually turns into their mother (I'm waiting to become a killer decorator/cook/keeper of the house) and I am hoping that my mother's iron will and tough love tactics will serve me well in my childrens' teen years.
Right now I am walking that fine line between new age and old school.

I'm stretching those "time out" muscles with my two year old (new age.)
But I have been known to utter the immortal old school phrase, "Because I said so!"

I am inclined to lean towards the "every situation calls for a different tactic" approach. When you have a cart full of groceries and your next in line to check out after an hour of shopping - are you really going to pick up and leave? Most likely (unless it's an extreme circumstance) no - that only punishes Mommy because then she has to go grocery shopping all over again.

It's in these instances, you know the ones where you feel like everyone is looking at you and judging you and listing off the twenty things they'd do differently - in those instances, I like to go home and queue up an episode of Super Nanny. Nothing like an episode of an eight year old biter with a mouth like a sailor to make you look at your own children with a renewed sense of gratitude.

Are my kids perfect? Enough. Are my parenting skills perfect? Well, I can't very well go and not leave my kids something to blog about when they're older, can I? That would just be irresponsible. Their therapist would be so bored otherwise.

If I need to put my son in a time out once in a while (or once an hour depending on the day) to give us both a few minutes to go to our separate corners. Great.
If M&Ms or Skittles or Gummi Bears are the key to a Pampers free world for me, I'm all for it.
If I just try my best everyday to make sure my kids are taken care of and know they're loved and go to sleep happy, then I think I deserve a glass of wine.
See, bribes really do come in all sizes.

School's In - Time for a Trip to a Little Place Called Guilt-ville

The pile has finally been sorted. You know that pile that accumulates on your counter this time of year - a virtual forest of reminders for things that I HAVE to be aware of:

School Supplies - not wanting to seem "ghetto" I nixed my original idea to ziploc baggy up dozens of the hundreds of crayons we have and took the easy way out, bought a shiny new box along with every other requested item. I plan to unload some of those loose crayons on the school later this year under the label - generous donation.

Fundraiser notices - my daughter has been at school 42 minutes and they are already imploring me to write that "no pressure" email to friends and family to pony up some cash. At least I have a deal with my neighbor, I buy from her kids, she buys from mine - we're good.

Then there's the soccer schedules, snack schedules, volunteer sign ups, "friendly reminders" (code for - we know you didn't write this down the first time) and my personal favorite...
Notice of no school - seriously?
They just got there and already there's a day off coming down the pipe?

This school year marks my third year not working outside my house. I used to be one of those teachers sending out the reminders and the supply list and collecting all that money for the fundraiser (note to moms - it's as big a pain in the muffin top for teachers as it is for you, trust me!)

This year also marks the beginning of a new schedule for my two year old, who will now be someone else's oiled pig to wrestle with for 3 1/2 hours a day, three days a week. That first Monday after I dropped him off, I had visions of sunbathing poolside, mojito in hand, not a care in the world for just 90 minutes.
Clearly, the universe decided to send me a little reality post it as I returned home to find a disposal backed up and in serious need of attention.
Okay, fine universe, I'll show you, I'll get the disposal cleaned AND I'll raise you a few loads of laundry done! Ha! Yeah, I'm crazy wild that way.

I did manage to get to the pool for an hour his second day of school. My relaxation buzz was slightly muted by the nagging worry that I may loose track of time and be late picking him up, which resulted in me getting to school almost 15 minutes early.

By his third day, I found myself outside his classroom, having a very familiar conversation with a couple other moms. To go back to work, or to not go back to work? I know, I know, moms work 24/7, no time off - it's a full time job - I TOTALLY get that. For clarification, I'm speaking of the out of the house, wear concealer so you don't scare your co-workers kind of job.

This is where the turn on the guilt trip merry go round comes in...
I love my kids. They are smart, creative and really cute (that cuteness has saved my toddler's life quite a few times.) I love being able to be at home and see them off to school, volunteer in the classroom, go on the occasional field trip. I didn't get to do that with my daughter and I was always really envious of my girlfriends who were able to.
However, I really miss my job too. I loved teaching. I loved having a (somewhat) attentive audience of 5th graders who thought I was hilarious (or at least pretended to think I was hilarious.) I miss the camaraderie with the other teachers (yes parents, we DO talk about you in the lounge!) and I miss working in such a creative environment.
I do not miss the schedule, the stress or the less than fun paperwork associated with my job.

It's the age old question of - am I a less than perfect mom if I work somewhere where people are over 4 feet tall? Am I a less than perfect "grown up" if I spend the majority of my time with people under 4 feet tall?

Speaking as someone who has done both and now works from home (meaning I have an "out of the home" job I can actually do in the home, no 900 numbers involved, not that there's anything wrong with that) - I can honestly say to anyone wrestling with this question - stop wrestling!

It's inevitable. If you work, you feel guilty for having your kids in daycare (even though they're having a great time with their friends and will probably not be one of those kids who won't let go of your leg in public.) If you stay at home, you feel guilty for occasionally yearning to have a desk that's littered with memos and reports and not Dora stickers and sippy cups.

Here's what I think, take it or leave it. If you're happy and fulfilled, you feel better about yourself and therefore you're a better person and a better parent. If you get that feeling from balancing working out of the home and taking care of your home - great. If you get that feeling from working full time as the CEO of your household - great. If you're like me and trying to figure out how to work from home and still keep your house in order -great, send me a 12 step program on how to do that, will you?

Mommies of the world, take a breath, take a sip of your favorite adult beverage and relax. No matter what you choose to do - you'll find a way to get your kids from kindergarten to college, and no matter what, you'll be able to give them plenty of material for their shrink. ;)

The *^%$ Has Really Hit the Fan

If there's a Mom Badge for Gastoenterology, I so earned it today.
I get it. Everybody Poops. There's even a book about it
(http://www.amazon.com/Everyone-Poops-My-Body-Science/dp/0916291456)

What I never imagined was the amount of time I would spend talking about, cleaning up and generally dealing with "it."

The first time your newborn leaves you that little present, you just about bronze and shadow box it. Then, a few months later, they start eating baby food and those little newborn treasures aren't so cute anymore.

Eventually, your cute little baby turns into a toddler who, somehow, shares the bowels of a trucker but the inability to use the toilet, thus leaving nothing close to a gift for you to take care of - each time silently repeating the mantra "I will get this child potty trained, I will get this child potty trained."

Sometimes, you get an extra bonus like I did this morning.
Walk with me, won't you?

I woke up very early and immediately jumped up to let my dogs out as soon as I could possibly manage in my "no coffee yet" stupor.
Too late. Someone, either one of my geriatric dogs or my puppy, had decided that they couldn't wait to go out this morning and left me a little "present." That euphemism doesn't come close to making it less gross.
At least the slightly gnarly smell of the carpet cleaner did its best to wake me up, although I still very much prefer the wafting aroma of freshly ground coffee; or even better, the tickling bubbles of a Mimosa.

With the carpet cleaned (including the big wet spot my 14 year old lab laid down for me right when I started cleaning - I'm chalking that up to doggie senility, she doesn't usually do that and she is nearly 100 years old "technically") I headed downstairs for my morning cocktail of coffee and Excedrin Migraine. I woke up with a headache already and the HazMat clean up didn't help the situation.

At this point, I am trying as hard as I can to be a bottle's half full kind of gal (screw the glass, half a glass isn't going to help me) and I sipped my coffee, thinking of how the day can only get better from here on out. Everyone who agrees with me take one step forward - AH! Not so fast!

I look down to discover my son, who's two (see toddler entry above) grabbing a wipe from the pop up dispenser. Not too unusual, as he likes to wipe off his hands and face himself, and sometimes the couch or the table (who am I to judge, if he wants to help clean, go for it - after he's potty trained, I'm thinking of just putting Pledge dusting wipes in that dispenser and he can go to town on the woodwork.)
This time, however, does not look like the typical self sponge bath - and I say that because there is a print resembling pudding on the dispenser. It's 7:00 am. There's no pudding in the house. That jigsaw puzzle picture pretty clear now?
Yeah. We just hit Gross-Com level 4.
He's never stuck his hand in his diaper before, and I pray to the Pampers Gods he doesn't do it again. Got that cleaned up, sanitized, Purell-ed and all but hosed everything down.
(Even my seven year old, who was not involved in the clean up at all felt compelled to use the Purell, frankly I don't blame her. Gross by association!)

So, here I sit. Sipping my second cup of coffee. Thinking, again, that the day has no where to go but up from here, since it literally was in the s*^%%#* this morning.

I just keep thinking, when is that guy who hosts "Dirty Jobs" ever going to just follow a mom around for the day?
THAT would be messy on a whole new level - and mom's don't have all that protective gear to wear either. Just send us in with a ponytail and some Lysol and we're all over it.

Move Over Muffin Top!

This document will serve as the last will as testament to parts of my body that are wiggly, jiggly and quite honestly, not sore in the least bit.
In a matter of mere hours, I will begin my new weight loss/fitness adventure.
This time, the only way that has ever proven to work for me - with someone telling me what to do and yelling at me when I don't.

The last time I was in great shape was in high school. I spent two hours everyday after school with multiple coaches running me through sprints, drills and all levels of training hell. Once I graduated, those coaches with whistles disappeared and the buffet line of cereal in my college dining hall appeared. Moving into my mid-thirties, I find myself at a crossroads. This particular crossroads seemed to be paved with peanut butter candy from Easter.
A few weeks after this candy-palooza holiday, I weighed myself and found I had crept back up in the "are you overweight or 4 months pregnant" area. This is a bad, bad place to be and in my case, the final straw.
So, I will make this rather drastic move and lug my out of shape self to my neighbor, who is a Cross Fit trainer.
Yeah. Me + military style boot camp work outs = whimpering, quivering mess.

So, after today all those wiggly jiggly parts will be sore. Very sore.
Hence the double pack of ibuprofen I purchased today.

My hope is that in a few weeks, I'll be able to say - yeah, I'm sore, but I feel like I am finally getting back into shape and I've already lost a few pounds.
I have never, NEVER been one of those "I love to exercise" freaks.
I am very competitive and I love to play sports, but just running?
Not so much.
If I were in a horror movie, I would be killed off first, because I hate running so much I'd just hide in the closet, let the psycho killer find me and be done with it. No running through dark alleys for me.

So, my friends, once the muscles in my "Mom Arms" become so sore they are numb, I may be able to blog once again, virtually shouting my accomplishments from the rooftops - or at least letting everyone (by that I mean the three people that read this) that I am still alive, even if I am in a body cast.

Never Forget When It's Time to Saddle Up!

I committed one of the cardinal sins of womanhood today.
I was supposed to get my pap smeared, and I forgot. Well, it's quite possible that I blocked it out. After all, when you make an appointment, a YEAR in advance no less, and it's not exactly a home massage with Clooney - it stands to reason that it slipped my mind.
Knew it was approaching. I figured it had to be sometime this or next month. I love my doctor, but she runs a very small office and they don't do the reminder call thing. So there was no, "We can't wait for you to come in, drop trow and lay there while we have a random conversation with you about the Oscars as we excavate your va jay jay - see you tomorrow at 11:00!"
Dialing it back twelve months, I recall having a premonition that I would not remember this next appointment. Yes, I remember thinking I would forget.
It's kinda like ESP only way less helpful.
The lovely nurse handed me my appointment card, and I thought, "Yeah, I'll be able to hold onto this for a year without losing it." All I had to do was keep it safe for nine months till the new calendars came out, then I could write it in myself. Are you piecing together how well that worked out for me?
I blame my body. No, not the obvious faltering memory excuse. Not even the whole, girl parts are so much more complicated than boy parts, what a pain excuse.
Nope, I blame my thyroid.
Fueled by the constant urging of my mother, I had my thyroid checked last year. I was exhausted. I was trying to lose weight but was stuck at a plateau. Unfortunately, my plateau was not pool side with a great view of the beach. My plateau is a few mesas up, in the land of yoga pants and stretch tees.
So there I sat, ready to hear my doctor tell me that my thyroid was outta whack and prescribe the perfect solution.
Yeah, no so much.
Turns out my thyroid's fine. Good news.
Bad news is that I'm apparently slightly overweight because I'm lazy and I don't eat right. Damn. Thought surely this was my medical loophole to a whole new me!
So yeah, after all that great news, the appointment card went into the side pocket of my wallet - you know, the one that is there but you're really not sure what for? The same one you find a random receipt for a gift you bought someone three years ago. There it stayed until I switched from my summer purse to my fall/winter purse. I do recall it making the switch. I only have one wallet, so that little card had no choice.
Is it still in my wallet? Honestly, I am a bit chicken to go check. It very well may be. Or, it may have lost its way during one of my two year old's rounds of take-everything-out-of-Mommy's-wallet-then-put-it-back-wherever games. Those are fun for the whole family.
I really just feel bad for missing the appointment. Spa pedicure it's not, but I am one of those people who likes to get to the movies before the lights dim and I'm generally early for fear of keeping someone waiting. It doesn't help that this doctor is one of my mother's best friend's, so I feel doubly bad because she did me a favor by adding me to her already full patient roster.
But, as most problems turn out to be, this one is easily solved.
I just received an email, and my doctor has an opening in two weeks. My mom is going to get her a bottle of her favorite wine "from me" as a
Thanks for Dealing with my Dumb Ass Daughter Gift.
So, now I have two weeks to look forward to every woman's favorite few minutes a year. But hey, it gives me two weeks to think of another random test to ask them to run or fourteen days to fad diet my way down to a better weight - it goes on your permanent record there for Pete's sake!

Life Under the Big Top

Observing people navigating their way through relationships is a lot like going to the circus. New couples, in their blinded state of bliss gaze at the brilliantly colored tents. They breath in the sweet aromas wafting through the air (they are obviously standing near the funnel cake tent, not the elephant tent.)
Couples, married or not, that have been together awhile appreciate the grandeur, but aren't so blinded by it that they don't see the piles left behind by the parade horses, and are mindful to keep their soles clear. And then there are those who are getting out of those relationships that stepped in too many piles – those are the people in the stands with cracker jack-daniels, looking up at the high wire act, wondering how they managed to balance on such a thin rope for so long before they realized all they had to do was let themselves fall into a safety net and start over.
Are you getting the sense that I have more than a few friends who have teetered on this rope?
I've put on my ring leader's top hat and whirled around to find several friends at the circus.
Some of them had to tame lions, some of them had to ditch a clown, but all of them have a few things in common. The first of which is, with no “inner whip to crack”, they lacked the ability to say no. Important lesson to learn. Putting yourself first and saying no once in awhile will help you avoid feeling like the first one squished into the clown car. Like Nancy Reagan said, “Just Say No.” Or, if the situation calls for more of a Whitney-Diva response, “Hell to the NO!”
The second is, being the one who guesses everyone's weight at the circus is not a fun job. Granted, couples don't go around speculating weight changes much, but these women I speak of spent A LOT of their time and energy trying to read their partner's mood. Trying to guess the actual meaning behind the body language and the sarcastic comments was exhausting. I think they would agree they'd rather be shot out of the circus cannon then spend more time playing Kreskin with a moody clown.
When couples say they want open and honest communication they both have to mean it. If some clown hears honesty, but then roars defensively and spends the next three ring act telling you how negative you are – it's time to move on to another attraction.
Maybe a virtual reality booth where, instead of undressing someone with your eyes, you duct tape their mouth shut? At least long enough for you to finish a complete sentence without being interrupted or argued with.
I think the hardest lesson these women had to learn was, just like at the circus, the performing monkeys don't always want to perform. Maybe they have a monkey migraine. Maybe they ate one too many bananas the night before. Point being, monkeys have bad days too; and that's okay.
One of my dearest friends had this problem. She'd put on a whole three ring production to try and make her sad clown a happy clown. She'd all but sing, dance and make balloon animals to pull the clown out of his funk. It took her a long time to figure out that he painted that sad, pouty expression on his face, and he was the only one who could change it. (Currently, this particular clown is at clown school, learning how to paint his own smiles on, as my friend has washed her hands of his clown makeup.)
So here's the thing. Life under the big top is not always confetti and trumpets. Sometimes it's messy and confusing. Sometimes you feel like you've seen the same act a hundred times. Most of the time you're in a juggling act. But, if you find someone who makes sure you don't get squished in the clown car and helps you watch out for those piles – it makes it the greatest show on Earth. Oh, and don't forget about the funnel cakes!

Mommy's Christmas Carol

Twas the week of Christmas
The holiday was drawing near
Mom just finished cleaning
But Dad already drank the last beer

The laundry was washed, the groceries bought
The random fruitcake from a neighbor
Was beginning to rot

The children were wrestled, finally, in bed
While threats of "Santa's watching"
Still rang in their head

More wrapping! More baking!
More parties to go!
More mittens, more hats!
Who's gonna shovel that snow?

Alas, Christmas morning arrives
Brimming with holiday cheer
Thank your lucky candy canes
This only comes once a year!

Happy Holidays!

Sprinkles Anyone?

As I wade my way through what is probably the most difficult week of my life to date, I am amazed at the simplicity of what can make an otherwise tidal wave of grief ebb back a bit.
I started with a way past necessary grocery run (we're talking almost out of diapers, milk so sour it was on the verge of walking out of the fridge itself and if I didn't get lunch meat, my daughter would have been forced to take a can of garbanzo beans in her lunchbox.)
I weave my way past the pedometer wearing, fast walking moms on a mission drinking their half caff/non fat/soy/no whip fake coffee and ordered my full fat/peppermint/highly caffeinated happy thought, complete with whipped cream. Because sometimes, you just got to have whipped cream.

Later that day, I was begrudgingly mixing the sugar cookie dough for the holiday cookies I had promised my kids we make; I kept thinking of excuses I could make up to get out of decorating.
The cookies burned (no good, would stink up the house and possibly set the fire alarm off.)
The dough's no good (feasible, believable, and relatively easy to pull off.)
Spatula in hand, I debated the cookie con with myself and decided that my own funk was not my kids' funk to bear and decided that 7-9 minute baking time wouldn't infringe on my funk too much. I could be funky later.

Then something miraculous happened. Two year old perched atop a stool, frosting spread (however unevenly) on the cookies (some that looked more like internal organs that ornaments), we started shaking on the sprinkles.
Red sprinkles, green sprinkles, gingerbread man sprinkles, confetti sprinkles...
The squeals of glee from my kids combined with the unsolicited compliments on my frosting abilities multiplied by the explosion of sprinkles on my counter top and suddenly...
I was smiling.

So, even when if you're feeling so blue, you're nearly "Smurfy" - you don't necessarily need a weekend in San Diego or an all day spa appointment (although, if my husband ever reads this, those things are great too.)
All you may need is a little whipped cream, maybe a few sprinkles, and I dare you not to grin.

Lint & S*#%

June Cleaver managed to have a spotless house, polite children and an impeccable wardrobe.
Claire Huxtable was a brilliant lawyer with a houseful of good kids and a hilarious husband.
Jill Taylor held her own even with a zany, tool obsessed husband.
Granted, those are t.v. moms with t.v. set homes kept up by t.v. prop masters.
It's all fake. No one can possibly be that put together all the time. Impossible.

Those same words echoed through my hastily ponytailed head as I leaned against the wall, waiting to pick my daughter up from gymnastics. I had just set my toddler down in time out for an attempted bludgeoning of another child with their Scooby Doo Thelma action figure. I was trying to remember if the sweatshirt I had on was the same one I wore yesterday when the June/Claire/Jill mom sashayed into the foyer. Uber-trendy, knee length bubble trench, knee high black boots. Make up that looked like it was freshly applied, as opposed to what didn't rub off during the night because she was too tired to wash her face. Very cute, very hip mom haircut.
All I could think about was there had to be a spot in her (most likely) spotless home that was disheveled. Perhaps a linen closet with a toppling tower of Egyptian cotton towels. Maybe there is a sticky mystery spill in the back of her stainless steel sub zero? As her Escalade passed by me in the parking lot, I had to remind myself that, at least, my car was freshly detailed. Well, if vacuuming snack crumbs with the shop vac counts as detailed (hey, beggars can't be choosers!)

Later that evening, as I was cleaning up our dinner from a to go sack (I'm telling you, the mother of the year committee WON'T stop calling me) I was figuring there was a very good chance that uber-mom in the Posh Spice Trench was cleaning up take out tonight too.
So even as I fantasize about my closets looking like the aisles of Linen 'n Things, my reality is staring me right in the face. I take out the half full trash with the Def Con 4 diaper in it, and in order to make it worth the trip, I empty the bathroom and laundry room trash into it only to have the laundry room trash spill out over the top, causing an avalanche of dryer lint.
Well, at least the lint smells of lavender or cool breezes or whatever box was on sale and that is lowering the Def Con level of the diaper odor.

My life is messy, it's crazy and it's very, very real. It may be more "Lint and S*#%" than Linens 'n Things, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Well, okay, a few Hollywood prop masters in the house wouldn't hurt.

I'll Tackle the Health Care Reform - Right After I Make the Play-Doh

I am a college graduate. In fact, I double majored and got two undergrad degrees in four years.
I distinctly remember two very interesting assignments I tackled in college. In Non-Verbal Communication I decoded the "real" meaning of a president's words just by evaluating his gestures and eye movement (little did I know I could've gotten a job on cable news doing that for a living!) Another assignment had me assume the role of company PR spokesman, writing a press release for my fictitious airline employer in the wake of a horrific crash. Aced those. No sweat.

After college, I bounced around in a couple of short but horrible jobs that I had no prior training in, but managed to think on my feet and get things done. Including a stint as an assistant to a Financial Adviser, and anyone who knows me knows that me working with numbers or money is a dangerous endeavor. Those took me to my education career, which I started by teaching full time, finishing my certification at night and on the weekends AND I was pregnant with my first child at the time.

My reason for this barrage of background information is to grasp what shards of dignity I can manage given my disastrous failure this week.

Being the very willing-to-help stay-at-home-mom that I currently am; I am not only trying to use as many hyphens in one sentence as possible, but I am hoping to make myself as useful as possible to my children's teachers as I always appreciated when parents offered to help me out when I was teaching. Although, that didn't happen too often, as I taught 5th graders and most adults avoid loud, hormonally imbalanced preteens, even their own.

So I have signed up to volunteer in my daughter's class once a week, helping kids with reading and finishing any work they are behind on. I think I qualify for that.
The school's library also has a bit of my attention, as checking in and shelving books in a nice, quiet library is actually quite therapeutic. The job starts, finishes, and when you're done, an entire stack of books has been returned to the shelves. It's kind of the same, temporary high you get after you stand back and gaze upon a freshly cleaned room in your home. The trick is, I leave the library before the next group of kids stampedes through, so I can imagine that the pristine condition I left it in remains (and then I go home and look at the aftermath of my own, personal stampede that my children left for me.)

This leaves the vacant volunteer slots hovering on the sign up sheet at my two year old's nursery school. I resisted the urge fill the void left next to "room mom" as I knew that would be biting off more than I wanted to chew. However, there WAS room to autograph next to "making play-doh." They use a new batch every month that is whatever the color for that month is, and the recipe was right there with just a handful of ingredients necessary so...
How hard could it be? Double major. Fifth grade teacher. Piece of cake.

I should have sensed impending doom when I had to send my husband to the store twice for supplies. The first time was for flour, which I knew I was out of, and Cream of Tartar, which I knew I didn't have. I am assuming this is the secret ingredient of the dough to make it play-worthy as there's not anything real special about flour, salt, water, oil or food coloring. The salt was the second run. I was 1/4 cup short of one batch worth, and I was attempting to make two batches.

I'm no Ace of Cakes, but I've done some recreational baking and I have to say that mixing dry ingredients in one bowl and wet in another was less than challenging, elementary even.
The next step in this process was to combine the ingredients in a large pot over low heat and stir. Got it. So I combined. And I stirred. And stirred. And stirred.
The directions stated that I was to stir until thickened, and then a bit longer.
Remember when President Clinton pointed out that it depended on "what your definition of IS, is?" I felt the same way about "a bit longer." What was a bit longer? Ten minutes, half an hour? I lost track of time and eventually took the pot off the heat to let the blue dough concoction, which looked like the soup Bridget Jones made (you know, the leek soup that turned blue because she used blue yarn to tie the leeks together?) sit and magically become dough.

A bit later, pun totally intended, my husband decided that the dough needed to be kneaded. It was needy dough, but turns out, not real kneadable. He called his mother, who used to make her own all the time, and she assured me that hers was always a bit sticky until it was kneaded. I held out hope that my efforts were not in vain and the aqua blue sludge in the bowl was just in the tadpole stage of development. Yes, it was aqua, because no matter how much food coloring I put in, the albino flour/salt/Tartar mixture lightened it up to aqua. (but these kids are just learning their colors, and I figured it was in the blue family, so good enough, right?)

Several hours later, after lumping the sticky mess into large balls and resting them on parchment paper (hoping that being on actual baking material might encourage them to embrace their inner doughy-ness) I decided that leaving them out overnight would be the essential component in completing this process.

Um, yeah. By morning, a thin, lighter aqua/white crusty edge had developed but no real improvement. Remember when ET, at the end of the movie, gets sick and gets all pale and gross? Yeah, like that, but the color of a 1984 prom dress.

With hopes still high that my son's teacher knew some magic trick to make this stuff usable, I dumped each gooey ball into a ziploc and took it to school. I apologized for the consistency problem and, as sweetly as you can imagine a preschool teacher being, I was thank you'd but no thank you'd - this dough wouldn't work. Maybe if I put it back on the stove for awhile longer? His teacher told me she leaves it on there for a long time, long enough to make it hard to stir it's so thickened. Her "a bit longer" was a lot longer than my "a bit longer." Oops.

So I left school, baggies of aqua blue in hand and headed, after two good friends assured me it didn't make me less of a helpful mom, to WalMart. I was in search of blue Play-Doh. Already made, in the container, not the least bit aqua, blue.
My slow filling ego balloon began to spring a small leak when I stood in the arts and crafts aisle, only to gaze upon everything EXCEPT single containers of Play-doh. Packages of 12 colors, 24 colors, neon colors, but no single containers. Shot down yet again, I was walking out when, at the end of the aisle, I spied a wire rack of, you guessed it, single containers of DOH!
Redemption! Salvation!
Or not.
No blue. No dark blue, no light blue, not even any aqua blue. There were a few containers of yellow, white and black. Apparently, I was not the only person who needed Play-doh this week, I was just the only person who tried to make it at home while everyone else was buying it for eighty-seven cents a pop. Sadly, the cost of my sanity was less than a dollar.

With a glimmer of hope that what I needed was out there in the universe, I steered toward Target and with great confidence strode right towards the toy aisle, maneuvered into arts and crafts and saw, yet again, everything BUT single jars of Play-doh. I would NOT let the "Doh" get the better of me. So I grabbed two generic four packs containing blue, white, red and green. They could use the blue and then they have extras for when those colors and their corresponding months came around.

A bit embarrassed, I picked up my son and dropped off the play doh. I explained that I tried to get single jars, that I went to two stores and I could get more if they needed it. Again, as sweet as you imagine nursery school teachers can be, they thanked me and told me I shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. Honestly, trying to make the stupid stuff was way more trouble than driving to two stores. But I just smiled, told them they were more than welcome.
And then, like the dumb ass I am, I offered to try again later in the year when a different color rolls around.
Better hope Wally world restocks that stuff, because I am buying it in BULK!

It Could Be Worse

You want to know why restaurants don't play the sound of a toddler crying nearly incoherently for a cookie as background music while you're eating? Because it's not fun to listen to a toddler crying nearly incoherently for a cookie while you're eating. Trust me, I tried it at lunch today. It will, however, force you to finish your food and clean up quickly, doing everything you can to avoid caving in and giving that baby a cookie.
Turns out, he was exhausted. As was I by the time he finally gave it up, succumbed to the drama and fell asleep; without lunch, but sleep trumps lunch when you can have a snack later.
It could be worse.

Every time I find myself thinking that the day is just not what I had planned it to be, that I was not going to have any chance of getting everything I wanted done; I begin to feel the slightest tug. After the seconds pass and I realize that tug is not the elastic giving out on my Victoria Secret's, I realize my memory is trying to recall something important, something buried deep in the folds of gray matter. Somewhere amidst my mother's secret for getting grout clean (no, REALLY clean), my childhood phone number and the name of the really good pedicure place is a fuzzy anecdote just waiting to be recalled. The little morsel of information that I seem to keep stored for days just like today, when the best laid plans get blown to smithereens.
As with most juicy morsels of information, this one came to me via the Oprah show. I was either very pregnant or I had just had a baby, which is where I lay the blame for my brain storing this info away. Those damn hormones are potent little suckers.
I don't remember the theme of the show that day, but I do remember seeing a woman who had contracted some horrible disease in the hospital after giving birth to her second child. In order to save her life, they had to amputate her legs. Now, I think I am remembering this correctly; remember I saw the show when I had serious baby brain. I just remember watching her do everyday tasks that I have on my list, but for her they were painstaking - for me, I dismissed them as pretty easy, just a pain. Watching that made me realize that I was (am) so lucky to be able bodied to brush my daughter's hair or even reach the counter tops to wipe them off.
As much as I occasionally (alright, frequently) loathe mundane household chores, I find myself remembering that woman, and marveling in how much she can get done, with much larger hurdles that I have.
It could be worse.

By some wonderful twist of fate, I have managed to dupe many people into not only becoming my friend, but due to my mediocre ability to crack an opportunistic joke, and that I often offer to drive when carpooling (and, I hope, a few other hidden talents) I have roped several of these poor souls into an ongoing friendship with yours truly.
My circle of friends is as diverse. But I can tell you without a doubt, I am not friends with many people who don't have a good sense of humor. This is for two very selfish reasons.
1. I have very little tolerance for those who take themselves too seriously.
2. I like when people laugh at my jokes.
See, I told you it was selfish. At least I'm honest!
I tell you this not purely to make you jealous of my fabulous friends (but you can be if you want to, they are pretty great) but I feel it necessary for you to know that the fabrics of my friendships are woven with some tough ass material.

Next time you don't feel up to a challenge, consider this.
Earlier this year, a friend of mine went to the doctor for what seemed like the millionth time for unexplained aches, pains, and minor illnesses he'd been plagued with for months. He left that doctor's office and was checked into the oncology floor of the hospital with bone cancer. In an instant, he went from thinking about deadlines at work and paying the cable bill to learning more than he ever wanted to know about cell counts, CAT scans, and how no matter how many doctors are on your team - none of them are as good looking as the cast of Grey's Anatomy.
It could be worse.

Next time your spouse does that thing you can't stand and you want just want to pull your hair out, consider this.
One of my girlfriends kissed her husband goodbye for work and the next conversation she had with him was in the ICU after his horrible motorcycle accident. Days later I talked to her, at his funeral. Two years later, she is raising their three beautiful children and showing me, and everyone who has the privilege of knowing her, that truly remarkable people are out there. Of course, she'd be the first one to tell you she's a wreck most of the time and politely deflects accolades bestowed upon her; but that's just another reason she is so remarkable.
So your husband left a water ring on the coffee table you just refinished.
It could be worse.

As your tiny world seems to be falling down around you, just take a moment to sit back and think about those people who have a virtual avalanche around them. Who aren't whining.
Laundry could be piling up, your AmEx bill could be twice as much as you thought it was, the dessert you try and make for the neighborhood potluck may be a total disaster. You might be bickering with your sister, disappointing your mother; hell, you could even be contemplating whether or not to get divorced...
It could be worse.

Cheers, Tears, & Back to School Fears

If you are a parent, chances are you've seen the movie "Finding Nemo."
Chances are you've seen it so many times, that you've contemplated filleting a few cast members and serving them with drawn butter and a nice chardonnay, but I digress.
There's a scene before Nemo gets lost, when he wakes up exhilarated at the prospect of going to school.
"First day of school! First day of school! Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
His father, Marlin, reluctantly drops him off to venture out on his own and, in true Disney fashion, an incredible adventure ensues. After dueling sharks, riding the EAC with surfer turtles and mass transit via a pelican's mouth, Marlin is reunited with his son and learns the value of letting your children out into the world to experience life on their own.

Talk to (almost) any parent mid-August and you'll find they've not so secretly started a countdown to the first day of school. They can't wait to get their kids back on a schedule, and if they are stay at home-ers, they are envisioning all the projects they started over the summer that they can now actually finish. Or, more realistically, at least catch up on the laundry.
All those days when I was pulling my hair out, tripping over toys, praying that those Playhouse Disney songs would somehow find their way out of my head; all I could think about was how much I was going to get done once my daughter was back at school. Plus, I had the added bonus of my toddler starting nursery school, which meant two days a week, for two a and a half hours, I was on my own. All moms know that two and a half hours child free is like 10 hours to most people!

First day of school and I don't know who's more excited. Me or the kids.
Outfits picked out, lunch box packed, and I send my newly minted first grader on her way.
I think she waved goodbye before virtually sprinting toward the school bus. I guess the fact that she was dressed and ready almost two hours before the bus came was a good indicator of her excitement level. I know she's going to love everything about school, so the pulls on my heartstrings are limited and overshadowed by my pride in having such an independent, self assured little girl.
Then there's my son.
He's almost two and desperately in need of some peer group time not to mention time away from mom. When we get around to finishing our basement, I want it to be enjoyed by all, not the future home of my 40 year old son who lives down there and hosts Dungeons and Dragons tournaments. It's time to start slightly severing those ties that have become knotted as he's been at home with me for two years.
He's met his teachers, seen his classroom, which is a virtual wonderland for those three feet and under. I drive there Monday morning, confident that this is going to be so good for him, that he'll become more like his independent sister and his emotional and cognitive development have nothing to lose and everything to gain from this.
Two whole hours on my own! The possibilities were endless!
I could plan more elaborate meals using those dusty cookbooks.
I could finish (okay start & finish) some scrapbooks that I have been putting off for, well, ever.
I could be all Martha and reorganize my closets by color or season or at least what fits!
I could hit the elliptical and be Angelina's stunt double by next month! (then more would fit!)

As I pulled into the nursery school parking lot, I was giddy with the prospects of all my accomplishments that were just waiting to be achieved.
My son was excited to be there, literally ran to the door, his tiny personalized back pack the only thing slowing him down.
This is great! This will be a piece of cake!
He ran into his new classroom overwhelmed with the choices. Let's face it, it's hard to decide between the plastic kitchen, puzzles, and sit and scoot toys - just ask some past presidents.
I stood back by the door, so proud of him and ready to walk away feeling nothing but sheer joy (both for him and me and my coveted alone time.)
Then, of course, the inevitable. I literally see the realization cross over his face that I was, in fact, LEAVING him there.
THE HORROR!
So yes, there were tears and lots of cries for "Mama!"
But still, I left - not wanting to be one those mothers that stays, and stays and stays.
I left, knowing that, just like with babysitters, he'd be fine seconds after I left, probably knee deep in play-doh and happiness.

So, imagine my surprise, when I got into the car and felt the tiny stings of tears behind by sunglasses. What? You're going home to sit on the deck and soak up the sun, oh yeah, right after the hour long elliptical set. What's with the waterworks? This is the same toddler terrorist who bursts into the bathroom, interrupts every shower, takes EVERYTHING out of your make up drawer EVERYDAY, violently swipes magnets off the fridge in a rage over snack rationing... so what's the deal?

Here's the deal. As cool and collected and ready for some "me" time as I appeared to be. I couldn't help but feel the slightest bit, oh, ship adrift on the empty house ocean. As elated as I was that both my kids were going to make new friends and be learning things other than what I have been teaching them (like when I nearly broke my toe on the coffee table and taught them a whole list of words NOT to say at school); I had a bit of a mushy, Hallmark moment.
I remember hearing someone say that having kids was like having your heart walking around outside your body. I realized that as excited as I was for them, part of me would really miss them while they were gone.

Well, I'd miss the sweet, snuggly, freshly bathed kids that squeezed my neck and told me they loved me so much.
Those dirty, cranky, "Can't I have just ONE more cookie" kids can stay at school as long as they want.
To all you mom's who have released your Nemos back into the world, or who are still counting down the days; I say to you, go ahead, shed a tear or two and remember when they were just your tiny babies.
Then wipe those frickin' tears away, make a pedicure appointment and eat the rest of the raw cookie dough for lunch. That bus will be back before you know it!

Expressing myself - or trying to anyway

Express; adj. without unnecessary stops

There are unlimited ways to speed up life's little mundane tasks. You can pay your bills online, you can renew your car registration online, 24 grocery stores with self check out lines, ATMs, drive through (almost) every kind of food there is and most people have a phone that doubles as their computer, GPS and address book.

What I find irritating and therefore blog-worthy, are those individuals who appear to want to utilize these convenient short cuts, but have no business attempting to do so, as they have no "express" etiquette. Go with me on this...

Let's start somewhere simple. The drive thru (I hate that spelling error, but you KNOW that's how they are referred to) at the bank.
Personally, I only use the bank drive thru when I have to cash or deposit a check. I either fill out the slip before I go, or I pull off to the side or get in a line with a few cars already in line so I have time to fill the slip out before it's actually my turn. On those rare occasions that I am ready prior to pulling into the bank, I inevitably get in line behind someone who is already at the "tube" but apparently, they missed the memo about being prepared. They don't have a slip, they didn't sign the slip, they didn't send a photo id with the check, they want to know about mortgage rates, they have five different transactions to make, and they are sending them all separately. Oh, and they pulled up too far away from the "tube" so they have their door cracked open and they have to hang out the open door to reach the "tube." Seriously? There are bored tellers inside begging these high maintenance customers to come inside, plus, there's a good chance you'll score some weak coffee or at least a dum dum sucker.
Anyone else catch the irony in that?

Don't even think about the people in line for the ATM next to you that are digging in their stuff for their card, trying to figure out what they want to do... hmmm.... withdraw money maybe? Really? You didn't have a plan for how much or out of what Swiss or Cayman Island account you wanted to withdraw from? Just hit the quick $20 button and call it a day. Thank you. Drive through.

One of my new favorite petri dishes of dysfunction is the self check out at the grocery store. For those of us grabbing a few items we need for dinner or a quick birthday card and a coke for the ride home, these lines are a God send. If you've never dared to venture to this new land of "express" check out, let me be your virtual guide. There are usually 2-3 checkouts per side, with an grocery store employee manning a lookout like post in the middle of these check outs. It is supposed to be understood that you wait in ONE line, each person in the front of the line going to the next available register. So if you are one of those people who walks past those of us in line to an open register, you are NOT following unwritten grocery store law.
Here are a few ways to know you should not be in this line:
You have multiple produce items, you have a coupon for every item in your cart, you have to write a check, you can't easily find the bar code on your items, you are the person who was next to me in line at the bank, and you couldn't figure out the ATM - trust me, the self checkout will be slightly more complicated than the ATM. These people should feel free to move one line over to the manned express check out line, behind all those people trying to sneak 18-20 items into the 15 items or less line.

It goes without saying that those people who use the drive thrus at fast food restaurants should do so if they are truly getting a quick bite on the go. If you like me, you've got children in car seats and the thought of unbuckling them, walking in, ordering, carrying all that out with your children without getting sucked into the vortex of the indoor playground is pretty much mission impossible. If you are the person in front of me at the drive thru who is ordering 12 different meals for all your co-workers with special instructions, extra napkins, sauces, drinks with no ice and, oh yeah, then you've got to figure out what you want to eat - know that I may very well hit you with my car. I've got hungry kids in the back and my two kids meals and a vat of diet coke takes 15 seconds to order. GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO INSIDE.
Your order is too complicated for the drive through.
Thank you, drive through.

Now, my favorite new express vestibule. The Automated Postage Machine (yes, another ATM) at the post office. LOVE THEM. I loathe long lines at the post office, especially when the person who finally greets me on the other side of the counter is not exactly thrilled with their job. There's a reason the phrase "going postal" exists people.
If this machine has intimidated you, don't let it. It's so easy. Get your envelope or package, slap it on the scale, enter the zip on the touch screen answer "no" to all the questions, unless of course, you are mailing hazardous materials and you would like delivery confirmation on that.
Scan your credit or debit card and BAM! Postage printed, no scary postal worker to not piss off. Beware the tentative screen toucher. Those people who look like they're afraid every time they touch the screen it may electrically shock them or they may somehow initiate WWIII by pushing the wrong button. Also, never, NEVER get behind someone with more than 3 items. They'll be there forever. And you will surely go postal.

What would be the greatest is if they had more drive thru windows for those of us who
(a) could really use them and (b) know HOW to use them.
Imagine a whole drive through shopping center. You get your kids in the car and go, your first stop might be to drop off/pick up your dry cleaning. Then you go over to a Starbucks and get a little caffeine injection before you head through the car wash and then it's off to the drive through at the grocery store, where the groceries you purchased earlier online are loaded into your car while you finish your latte. Hey, I know it sounds lazy, but it would save me a bunch of time and you wouldn't have to hear me tell my two year old to, "hold my hand, hold my hand...no HOLD MY HAND!" Crying, yelling, slobbering - and my son isn't too happy either.

I'll get my exercise some other time. Give me an express lane or some kind of automated vestibule any day. But don't you dare get in front of me if you can't roll with the express lane!