The Search for Scout

As a "writer" I pride myself in my ability to articulate my feelings accurately into words, but I've never had to convey before such a deep sense of loss. I can't seem to find words intense enough to describe the immense pain I feel. Sad, heart broken, torn, depressed...none seem fitting for the way my heart feels right now. It has been a week since my dog of three years went missing. At midnight or a little before I took the trash out, which by the way, is something I never do, and I think this is a lesson to my husband that even the slightest change in roles can lead to disastrous results. As I went down through the basement lugging the garbage, and out through the garage, apparently my dog followed me, and took off into the night. She is so small, and it was so late, I hardly noticed anything but how cold my bare feet were and how annoyed I was that my husband wasn't the one doing it...By the time I noticed she wasn't in the house, thirty or more minutes had already gone by. In an absolute panic, I threw some boots on and an oversized hoody and drove around the neighborhood screaming for her. 
   "SCOUT!!!!!!!" I furiously chain smoked cigarettes, texted my husband some mean, vile threats and accusations (we don't handle strife in what you would call a "healthy" way), while rolling my eyes at the ones I received back, and hollered for her for an hour, effectively irritating and infuriating everyone within a five mile radius of us. I had to go in for the night. My two year old was awake and crying, wondering where his puppy had gone, it was very late, and my 11 month old daughter would greet me at the rise of the sun. I had to get some sleep. I said a desperate prayer for Scout and fitfully fell to sleep.
   The next morning I posted Scout's sappy, smiling mug all over social media. If you live in our county, you knew my dog had gone missing. The whole township was on a code red alert. I had one thought and that was to find Scout. The image of her wet and cold, shivering from cold, hunger and terror gripped my heart in fear. I did nothing but search all day whether on foot or in the car, dragging my two babies along for the miserable ride. My phone became an appendage (ok, it already was...whatever) and I checked incessantly for leads and tips strangers left me on the endless lost and found pages I had found on Facebook. My husband made flyers and I bought a staple gun specifically for hanging them. I have to include here that if you've ever been in pain or have been frustrated, there is something extremely soothing about slamming a staple gun into a telephone pole 57 times per flyer. It's rather decent therapy for 11.99 at Drug Mart. 
   I visited the pound and called them over and over. What a bleak place that is. For the most part, the workers seemed nice, but the smell and those tiny canine jail cells will haunt me forever. I tend to be overly descriptive when telling a story, tricks of the trade, but in this instance, I really felt that as I walked down the cold cement strip between rows of cells, holding my children's hands tightly in a maternal grip, passing every scared, sad and possibly mad with fear dog, I couldn't help but envision a scene similar in the movie, The Green Mile.  I prayed so hard, some of it came out of my mouth in an audible whisper. 
   "Please be here Scout, please...please..." 
   We left dejected. No Scout. The search continued day after day. The Humane Society had heard so often of Scout's disappearance when I called them about a missing dog, they asked for me by name.  The woman on the phone told me she checked her Facebook page 50 times a day for updates on my little pooch. As the days went on, and still no Scout, the only thing that kept me from scream-weeping alone in my garage all day ( which I allowed myself to do a few times), was the massive outpouring of support and encouragement. Hundreds and hundreds of people shared Scout's story, strangers, people I had never met before spent their afternoons in the freezing cold rain to look for her. A man left her food and treats in the park where she had been spotted, several women had seen her and even while they were on their way to work, stopped and tried to catch her. The second woman who did so, even sent her poor husband out to circle the block.
   Friends and family, and strangers alike rallied behind me. Some made flyers, some went door to door, some called vet's offices and shelters for me. Not to mention the hundreds online who helped me just by sharing her story. Several people called me with no information but simply to pray with me over the phone. I was sent on a wild goose chase one night, very late, and the neighborhood I was in was sleepy and dark and cold, and a couple who heard me yelling, came out and helped me look. I had a wrong number for a lead I found in the paper and even the wrong number wished me luck. 
   People from all walks of life have come together in the search for Scout. Smoking teenagers hiding out in the back of the high school parking lot, men and women, older people, younger people, friends and family. They have all expressed feeling my pain. The community weeps with me. They have done everything they can to assist us. I mentioned at one point I didn't know how I could possibly ever repay everyone for what they meant to me. I am not sure some even grasp what their small act of kindness has done to me. It has touched me in a way I can never describe. The community as a whole working together for one little pup...it's truly something I will carry with me for life, with or without Scout. Most have said they won't even take the reward money we are offering! 
   I started this blog post to vent my intense pain, and ended it, floored once again as I remind myself of the wonderful thing we call humanity. There are so many amazing humans out there. Our hearts beat as one as we go through this crazy thing called life. The compassion displayed towards me this week has been overwhelming at times and eye opening. If nothing else comes of this I will never doubt that this world as a whole is not such a bad place. The few evil people there are, are far outnumbered by the kind hearted ones. Thank you so much to the countless people helping me look, the ones sending me kind words, handing out flyers, going door to door, spending time walking in the woods, the police stations who have expressed sympathy, and to everyone who, like me, waits on baited breath for a happy ending. Even if, God forbid, we don't get the story we all want, I would say a little dog who has brought a community together, like Scout has, leaves behind an amazing legacy. Her goofy grin and ridiculous bat ears have shown me that people are good, and the community in which I live is a wonderful one. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. We won't give up hope. 

Genius Parenting Hacks

I am not a child rearing expert, nor do I have a PHd, although I DO have a cosmetology license and I was an STNA for 3 months, so I would say I know a thing or two....In my experience this advice is golden and has proven time and again to show exceptional results. Feel free to take these words to heart for an easier time raising your precious little ones.

1. Do you have issues getting your toddler to eat nutritious meals, three times a day? I have a simple hack that will surely fill their bellies. Make an intricate and complicated meal, spending hours or even all day on it, offer it to your baby 17 times, lose your cool a few times, arrange it so that is perfectly resembles Thomas the Tank Engine, and after they have had one or more major melt downs, give up and pack it away, and clean up the mess they made when they threw half of it at you and the kitchen floor. After you have your kitchen spotless again and the food is cold in the refrigerator, THEN they will want to eat it. EASY!
2. Sleeping problems? Does your toddler not want to go to bed at an appropriate bedtime? Does he or she leave their room five minutes after you spent an hour rubbing their back, gazing into their eyes lovingly while singing You are My Sunshine and reading Go Dog Go ad nauseum? Here's a tip! Make sure their perfectly safe and comfortable bedroom is absolutely terrifying. Allow monsters to inhabit their closets and spend hours trying to figure out what in their bed could be causing even the slightest of discomforts, only to come up short so that they never want to enter their sleeping quarters again. Now you must let them fall asleep to the Polar Express, but ensure that the volume is too loud, then too quiet, then too loud, then too quiet, then too loud...then too quiet for good measure. The last, and simplest step is to learn to sleep comfortably with fists and feet assaulting your face and kidneys all night long on a thin one inch by seven inch strip of your own bed with no blankets or pillows. You're on your way to a peacefully sleeping tot!
3. Many a mother has complained about her house being disheveled and messy. This one is by far the easiest fix. As soon as you have one room in order, proceed to the next. Then go back to the previously cleaned room and do it all over again. Repeat this process to the point of madness and give up just in time for company! 
4. Are you worried your toddler's vocabulary isn't on par with his or her peers? Get angry ONE time, mutter a vile curse word, barely audible under your breath and two weeks later be amazed your two year old uses the "F" word in it's correct context at Sunday School!
5. This one is for my progressive parents. Are you concerned your little boy is being forced into societal gender stereotypes? Accidentally leave your make-up bag out and watch in awe as your boy experiments with lipstick and eyeliner. The first through one hundredth time he may decide to flush your products down the toilet and paint the walls, but eventually he will get it, and will be a man ahead of his time! 
6. Sometimes as parents we worry we aren't stimulating our children enough. My advice is to plan countless child-friendly trips and events, and then make them as agonizing and as miserable as you possibly can. The obvious ways to do this is by inviting their little friends, letting them have soda and candy, and buying them 500 dollar souvenirs that cost ten cents to make in China that they can smash to pieces on the car ride home. It's not a complete adventure till you've spent your entire savings and put all your energy into making it memorable while your sweetheart convulses on the floor, screeching like he's been burned with a white-hot branding iron.
7. Little kids, especially boys, sometimes in their toddler stage refuse to wear clothes. My advice is to dress them 800 times a day and then enjoy the unsolicited advice and snarky comments from parents not yet to that phase of childhood or who happen to be lucky enough to have a child who tolerates clothing. I am a huge advocate for offering opinions to struggling parents, and the more righteous and snobby the opinion, the more likely it is to be helpful. 
8. My last gem will help you in deciding which toys to get rid of when your toy room, toy box, the kid's rooms and the rest of your house is cluttered with toys, pieces of toys, blocks, happy meal trinkets and infant toys. The answer? None. Toys that haven't been touched in months, or years will suddenly become top priority and their favorite of all time, when they catch a younger sibling even glancing at them. Also, their memories (and sometimes imaginations) can be tenacious, and you could spend an entire day searching for that "blue/yellow/red/purple ball that looks like a car that makes noise and doesn't make noise." You may as well hoard every piece of plastic that has ever dwelled within your home. 

I hope this helps fellow mommies! Happy Parenting! 

Six HAPPY months of marriage!

   Can you think of the worst person you know? The meanest, nastiest person you've had the misfortune of having to come into contact with. Now multiply that person's attitude by ten and you will have a fairly accurate picture of me when I'm hungry. And no, I'm not pregnant. I'm just impatient and want what I want, when I want it. The other day we took a family trip to the zoo, and my husband planned on eating there, and I was having none of it. 
   "We have to go past the penguins, bats and jaguars before we even come close to the cafeteria. You are the dumbest person I've ever met. I want a sandwich right now. I want fast food. Go to Chic-Fil-A."
   I proceeded to carry on about how stupid and selfish he was, how he never plans for anything, and how I was on the verge of emaciation....140 pounds and shrinking by the minute. I may have dropped several "F bombs", punched the window, and rolled my eyes till I strained an ocular muscle. I can't be sure though, I blacked out. My blood sugar was low obviously. After having put on a Grammy-worthy production he finally conceded and pulled into some "dump, hole in the wall" to buy me a cheeseburger. It wasn't what I wanted but I supposed I could make a cheeseburger with everything, no pickles, add lettuce and tomato work. When he ordered it for me, the muffled voice of a teenaged drive-through attendant announced they can't add tomatoes to burgers....Aaaaaand that's when I really lost it. I trashed the restaurant, the town we were in, and my husband. All the while stuffing my face with the burger, and as painful as this is to admit, it was delicious. 
   The most disturbing thing about this entire debacle was that my kids were in the backseat and witnessed the entire escapade. They heard and saw mommy and daddy fighting and calling each other names. I am ashamed of my actions, and I am ashamed that my children now probably think it's alright to pitch a fit the second they don't get what they want. What I'm not ashamed of though, is my kids seeing us fight. We may need to brush up on our fighting skills, but I will never hide from them the fact that mom and dad don't agree on every single thing, I won't hide from them that couples fight, and I won't hide from them my imperfections. 
   If they go through their lives thinking marriage is a perfect, happy love cocoon, it is dooming their future relationships. I am sure one hundred doctors will give me a thousand reasons why us fighting in front of them the other day has permanently scarred them for life, but I saw my own parents have knock-down, drag out fights, I saw my parents not being perfect, and I also saw them make-up, and stick it out through 30 years now of ups and downs. I learned from them that husbands and wives don't get married and instantly agree on everything, and that while marriage unites two into becoming one, there are still two very different people working to mesh their personalities together and sometimes it can result in wild fire.
   The reason why I am not scarred and the reason I believe my children won't be is because no matter how bad the fighting gets, no matter how loud the yelling gets, they know nothing will tear the family apart. The might've been first hand witnesses to a serious boxing match (figuratively of course) but they also are always present when we make up, apologize and move on. I can't think of a better lesson to learn by example actually. Forgiveness is the ultimate key to any long lasting relationship. Every fight is not the end, and sometimes it's the beginning. In fact, this fight made me acutely aware of my vicious sailor's mouth, and my severe lack of impatience, and it's something I'm working on.
   If you expose you children to your flaws, while similarly showing them that you are working on changing them daily, that is a better teaching experience than letting them think you are perfect and watching them fail to keep up. I have been married now for exactly six months today, been a parent for two years and have been with my husband for four, and we learn something new everyday, but I will continue to argue in front of my kids, and I will continue to apologize in front of them as well. We are rookies, and I know that, but I stand firm in this particular area. Teaching my kids that people aren't perfect, marriage isn't perfect and mommy surely isn't perfect is something I want ingrained in their little minds. Only hard work and dedication make for a happy family, and I believe that's what we are showing them. Mommy and daddy might throw things at each other and pinch each other and call each other "dumb a**", but we will never leave each other and we are always on the same team. Happy 6 Months of marriage babe, and here's to many more fights, and even more make-ups! XOXO

Top 10 Reasons to hold onto your last 10 Pounds of Baby Weight

Fat girls make lists like this to make themselves feel better, and in the spirit of self love, I too, have made one. 

1. While I sometimes fantasize about the waif I once was, so small, in fact, that I very nearly by law, was required to sit in a car seat, my extra ten pounds provide a very comfortable heated insulation during the winter months.
2. Losing it would mean being forced into being on a diet. That would mean no more snacks at midnight, and by snacks I mean full meals, because midnight is the only time I, as a mother can eat in peace without someone throwing ketchup covered fries at my face or being spit-up on.
3. My children's favorite toys are my bingo arms and my jiggly belly. What kind of a mother would I be, nay, what kind of PERSON would I be to take that away from them?? 
4. Do you plan on ever having more kids? I don't, but since I am not a fortune teller, I don't see why I would lose weight only to gain it back and more. Why would I want to torture myself like that?
5. In the event of the apocalypse, when there is a shortage of food, and rations are fought over like gold, technically speaking those ten extra pounds could carry you over weeks longer than your skinny counterparts. Do you want to survive the end times or not?
6. Chubby girls are smarter. That is a fact. That I made up. 
7. If you're like me, you gain weight in your face, and if you're ten pounds over weight that's just a nifty excuse to buy more make-up. One can of spray paint wouldn't cover an entire wall. Think of your face like a giant, round wall.
8. Since having that handful of extra weight on you everything ends up being a work-out anyways, therefor making actual working out a non-necessity. Clomping up the staircase, breathing laboriously, heaving a 600 pound basket of laundry just cost you major calories. 
9. My cannonballs trump your swan dives any day. 
10. BOOBS.

If you are addicted to stamps, fabric paint and yarn, this blog is for you.

   I think I may have come across an unpleasant truth about both myself and a handful of other mother's I know. I recently found out that Pat Catan's, a magical world of crafting supplies, home decor, candles, ribbons, baking and cooking accoutrements, and scrap booking, was having an INTENSE sale. It was advertised only through word-of-mouth and went against their corporate office's wishes. I was told to enter through the store's recent addition that houses painting and art supplies, walk straight to the back of the store and to the left I would find a spare room. No flashing signs, no flyers... just one employee manning the entrance like a bouncer manning a speak easy from the prohibition era. Upon entering I saw boxes and boxes lining the walls of everything from yarn, to holiday decorations to shopping carts full of rainbow colored spray paint. 
   The woman guarding the doorway didn't explain what to do, or the purpose of this room, but in the middle was a table covered in gigantic trash bag sized bags. I knew from my friend that the intent was to rid the store of as much clearance and over-stock as possible, so you grabbed a bag and just started cramming as much SH*T as was earthly possible into the plastic bag. Whatever your sticky fingers could stuff into the bag was yours at the register for FIVE dollars! The moment I heard about it, my palms started to sweat and my breathing became labored. I started unrealistically planning in my head countless holiday parties, crocheted hats, (I've never crocheted, but for five dollars I could learn) homemade floral arrangements, rainy day crafts with my children... I was feigning and it would seem the only place to get my fix was Pat's. 
   As I frantically grabbed as much as my arms could handle, flying from one box to the next, rifling through Christmas ornaments and Valentine's day heart shaped candy molds, I quickly realized I wasn't alone. A girl who announced she had heard about it via Facebook snatched up a giant box of while chocolate doves clearly meant to be used as wedding favors, and said if she couldn't use them for her wedding, she would, at the very least put them on her cereal in the morning with milk. We were a pathetic group of degenerate addicts, our choice of drug being the crack-cocaine of stay-at-home moms and crafty women alike; cheap foam letters and felt. 
   Even worse, were the mom's like myself, who had dragged their children along to witness the frenzy of a sale never seen by the likes of even the most advanced extreme coupon-er. I witnessed an apathetic teenage boy being forced to guard the cart while his mother fought tooth and nail to find the perfect Christmas wrapping paper, and my own children, caught up in the hysteria, left the store with faux snow embedded in their hair from when their own mother found a gigantic bag of it and tossed it into the bag, not realizing it had been previously opened, and as it soared over the car seat and my two year old, they experienced life as a snow globe figurine.
   I was instructed by the crafting bouncer not to divulge any of the details I had seen that day, specifically referring to Facebook. It was so cloak and dagger I wondered if I had just partaken in the sale of the century or some kind of deviant drug deal. She told me to pay at customer service, so as I walked through the expanse of the store towards the service desk located at the other end, I kept furtively glancing at other customers, desperate to broadcast my secret...DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE MISSING?!?! 
   As promised my heaping bag of goodies was a mere five dollars and after I had paid I was so thrilled I didn't know whether I should get my heart palpitations examined or run to the bathroom with diarrhea. I practically skipped out of the store and immediately began texting my mom friends, who responded with much of the same crazed feigning I had displayed an hour before. "God bless your soul, I am on my way now!" "We are going to be in the area, I am going to talk my husband into going!!" "YAY!" We were hooked to cheap crafts, and nothing could help us. I reached this conclusion as I was also starting to experience the "come-down". 
   I became depressed I hadn't been able to fit more into my bag, and I angrily instructed my husband to go back and get more. I clearly understood the shame that would befall me to be seen in the back room twice in one day. This is when I decided we as mothers need to stand strong together and fight this addictive battle as one. With the guidance of crafting greats, David Tuttera and Martha Stewart, I say we start a support group. We can meet, and discuss openly in a safe environment how we don't sleep at night picturing the perfect mason jar, and how we can't seem to throw out a single wine cork.
   Ladies, the unpleasant truth is, we are obsessed with colored pipe cleaners and delicate pastel shades of tissue paper. And Pat Catan's the other day enabled us. We behaved like monkey's in the zoo, throwing our feces at each other in the sheer excitement of discounted buttons. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and in this blog, I have done just that. Who is with me? Who will be the next to admit you drove 85 miles per hour, your children's faces still covered in that morning's breakfast to get there before the rest of the goofs took everything? Know that I am here for you and also know that if anyone needs Hanuka themed window clings, that I have four packs.... 

The War on Terror

   I have become the unwilling focal point in a vicious vendetta against both my sanity and my physical well-being by a filthy hoard of arachnid thugs. They've infiltrated my home, and have been seen scuttling around the dark corners and closets of the one place a person should feel safe. I've taken a stand against the terrorism and made small steps in eliminating the source of the criminal activity, but for every three I dispose of, six more crop up in their stead. Most recently I was attacked in my sleep, the epitome of dastardly, plotting against a foe in their time of utmost vulnerability. I woke this morning to a near gangrenous wound, caused by dirty fangs. The carnage was unimaginable. My husband told me it rather resembled a mosquito bite, but he has never fallen prey to such an evil enemy, what does he know? I took photos of the crime scene with my iPhone from all angles and sent them to various family members, none of which responded in the shock and horror I expected of them; alas! I am alone in this world. 
   The pain was excruciating. The pain young Bella endured as Edward turned her I assume is similar to what I felt, and I am still checking the mirror periodically for changes in complexion and hair radiance as well as any signs of glistening, sparkly skin. Still nothing as of yet. I made several frantic calls to health care facilities in the hopes that someone could help me. When my regular doctor wouldn't clear his entire schedule for me, I desperately decided to go to stat care. 
   When I arrived the receptionist was yelling at everyone to sign in on the computer mounted on the wall, and I was forced to limp behind a slow moving, possibly diabetic man using a walker. I wondered to myself why this place hadn't employed a triage nurse to separate the non-emergency patients (this man) from the immediate care patients (me). After having signed in using technology that was cutting edge in 1997, I was then asked to wait for what seemed like five hours for a foreign, impatient resident who would see me for five minutes. No wonder this countries health care system is spiraling out of control.
   The nurse briskly called me back after I had apathetically perused seventeen issues of Seventeen Magazine, and I was asked a copious amount of questions regarding my menstrual cycle. Why is it, that because both my children were accidents they automatically assume every time I come in, it's regarding a pregnancy scare? Again with the disaster we call American health care.... I answered obligingly however, and soon we got to the point. I have always been one to smile even in the face of great calamity and tried making several (hilarious, if you ask me) jokes about my situation, none of which Nurse Ratchet even smirked at. Was she working for the arachnid gang? She inspected my wound with bored eyes, and told me the doctor would be right in. 
   As the minutes passed in silence whilst waiting for the doctor I contemplated what had led me down this road...Was it my mother's fear of all things spider, passed down to me? Was it truly a conspiracy to terrify me into fleeing my own home? What had made me their mark? My thoughts were interrupted by a young, attractive doctor who entered the room.  For a fleeting second his bulging biceps made me forget my predicament as I mentally tried to remember the last time I had received a pedicure. I was poked and prodded under the glaring lights of the surgery lamps, the horrifying diagnoses was revealed! I would need a week long prescription for antibiotics to quell the poison coursing through my veins. Relieved to hear that there was an anti-venom available but I still had a problem on my hands. 
   The monsters who induced all this agony were still on the loose in my home. As I sit here writing this, my foot soaking in a very rare, very healing solution of salt and water, I can't help but feeling that thousands of tiny eyes are watching my every move. I've made the decision to be strong and courageous in the face of possible annihilation. I refuse to give up the good fight. I refuse to be yet another casualty in this little spoken of war. I will rise to the occasion, spider and centipede spray in hand and I will destroy anything that attempts to harm my family or myself. If you are reading this and you have more than two legs, know this, I am coming for you with a vengeance. This isn't over.

DHS Class of 2007

   My youngest cousin Kacy is nearing her own graduation from my Alma mater in just a few days time and it has made me nostalgic for my own graduating class and all those I grew up with. My hometown is very close-knit and we all basically went to Promise Preschool together all the way up to our last days as seniors in high school. It is such a close-knit community, in fact, that if you came to Dalton in fourth grade, you were still the new kid eight years later. As we approach our seven year mark from Mr. Kaserman directing a miserable version of Pomp and Circumstance, I thought I would catch everyone up! 
   Even though I was on the ballet every single year, but was still never voted to become Prom Queen or selected as a member of the homecoming court, I went on to become a famous super model. I am sweet like grapefruit on never being chosen because in the past seven years, I've traveled the world in my private jet....(That means I'm bitter people...BITTER!) But I digress...I truly appreciate Facebook for allowing us all to stay updated on who has become fat, which, as you all know, is the sole purpose in getting together for a reunion. I still plan on attending though, when the time comes, but sadly I won't be a part of the planning committee. I was kicked off by a majority vote from student council for never showing up to any of the meetings. Which is a real shame, if I was allowed to plan it, it would be a glorious occasion full of chevron mason jars and twine bows. Has anyone seen my Pinterest boards?? If anyone is interested however, I hear the Junior High is vacant now. We can use the gym as a dance floor and grind twelve inches apart from each other to Lil Jon's Get Low. Plus nothing brings back memories like the nostalgic smell of asbestos. Some may even still have lingering memories of it, like lung cancer.
   As far as discussing the achievements of my classmates, one in particular jumps out at me as a true accomplishment. No one that I know of became a drug dealer, and let's face it, if anyone would know, it would be me. I also see that many of us are now parents, and even if we didn't speak during our school years, nothing brings us together like being fat, tired and poor, the general result of having kids. No one has died yet, but we are all on the short slope towards being 30 now, so it's coming. No one became sports stars either...well maybe one or two, but being a division 27 school didn't give us much  of a chance. 
   I still talk to many of my old classmates, and the .1% of black people in our class are still basically the only black people I know. You will all be happy to hear also, that unlike my egg from Home Ec I was supposed to take care of, my children are not rotting in my locker. They do however smell sometimes.... In other news, after extensive stalking via all social media websites, I see some of us have moved out of state, some have become teachers and nurses, financial planners, journalists, health care professionals, military members, parents and unemployed bums... ( the last one was me).
 I am actually proud to say I'm a Dalton alumni, and I love bumping into old classmates. After seven years it's safe to say old grudges and cliques have seemed to melt away into the past. I've never seen anyone from my class that hasn't excelled in life and has become quite the adult...( is that a compliment coming from me?) And regardless of our differences then and now, we all seem to agree that someone who doesn't pronounce Dalton right needs to be immediately corrected, that Smithville sucks, and that our class was the best Dalton has yet to see. We paved the way for all other classes. We were always in trouble, and you know, I kinda like that. We had personality and character, and we were almost not allowed to go to Camp Wanakee... Here's to DHS class of '07, the past seven years, and to the next 43 where we will be asked to attend the graduation for the class of 2057. May there be as many chairs that day, as there were in 2007!

Wisdom from my MOM

   When I was younger I used to think my parents were so lame and backwards and that they were out of touch and literally didn't know anything. I however, of course, had all the answers because I was 21 and had a boyfriend. HA! My mom used to say some of the most aggravating things, and I hated when she would say them to me. My Mother's Day gift this year is to finally admit she knew what she was talking about. You were right, I was wrong, let me kiss the ground beneath your feet..."I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy!!" Forgive me, mommy, if I had listened I wouldn't have experienced half the heart ache I did.I want to share some of her more profound bits of wisdom, to either save some of you from tragedy, or to commiserate with me for also not listening to your mother.

1. Looks don't matter, it's the inside that counts.- I was obsessed for a long time with looks. My own and everyone else's. I reasoned that as a student in beauty school, if I didn't focus on looks, then what would be the point of my future job? I have come to find that no matter how beautiful someone is on the outside, if their inside's are rotting, they usually don't amount to much as a person. Some of the most beautiful women I know are pretty, but what makes them gorgeous are their kind hearts. I, over the years have been betrayed deeply by women (and men) who are physically extremely attractive, and what good were their looks to me? A broken heart and hurt feelings. And as far as my obsession with my own looks, I ask you, what good is a perfect body, flowing hair and a flawless face to my children? Those features don't change their diapers, gentle hands perhaps with chipped polish do. Beautiful hair doesn't hold them tight at night, a messy pony tail allows for them to wrap their little arms around my neck with ease. So mom, you were right, looks don't matter. 
2. It is better to lower yourself and allow others to raise you up instead of putting yourself on a high horse for people to tear you down. (Pride goes before a fall)- There is nothing worse than bragging incessantly and moments later, life brings you back down. It never fails, the second I start to brag about my perfect, wonderful children they poop their pants, throw a fit or use a cuss word I swear they didn't learn from me! Countless times I have been excessively proud of my own accomplishments and I blab all over town about them, and next thing I know something mortifying or horrible happens to me and I have to quickly do damage control. People love to see you fail, especially if you've gone on and on about how you don't. My mom knew that. Humility will save you from future humiliation. 
3. Family first.- I used to love to go out and party. I didn't want to spend time with my parents and my little brother at all. But the people I danced with at the nightclub, snuck shots with underage in the bathroom, and even the boyfriend I had at the time are not even remotely a part of my life anymore. The people who have been there through thick and thin, the ones with whom I would want to be on a deserted island with are the ones who share my blood. My children will grow up making friends and starting relationships, but NO ONE will be there like mama. NO ONE. The girls who you referred to as "sisters!" grow up and start their own families. And you are left with who? Your relatives. Treat them nicely and spend time with them. They're all you have and will ever have. 
4. Drinking makes a fool of you.- This one used to bother me greatly. Why couldn't my mom be like the "cool" moms who drank with their kids, allowed their friends to come over and drink in their basement and were OK with their kid's tales of debauchery after a night out? What a square! Well it turns out she wasn't strict and making rules to ruin my life. She spoke from experience! It's hard to imagine your parents having a life other than the one you knew, but they did, and they drank, they smoked, they made bad decisions and everything they learned through those times, they want to impart onto you, minus the embarrassment and regret that actually living the mistakes leaves you with. Many a time I made myself look foolish drinking too much, and I would hate for my kids to think anything of me other than a secure, safe and steady hand to hold. I look back now on the mothers I knew, the ones who I thought were "sooooo cool", and I see something very sad. Their kids can't lean on them when they're already leaning.
5. Don't buy anything unless you can pay in cash.- When I was 18 I stumbled upon the dark, dark world that is credit card debt. I stupidly paid for things with my magical little piece of plastic and dressed in a wardrobe far outside my means. I received the monthly bill and paid the minimum and then proceeded to buy more, and more and more. Before I knew it I was the best dressed broke person around. I maxed my cards out, paid the minimum and the interest just stacked on and on and on...It was misery. I fell asleep at night knowing the debt loomed over me. It never went away. One of the cards I just quit paying for all together. Then the calls started. 5 times a day. I started to hate the sound of my own phone. My mom was right, if you can't afford something, don't be an idiot. DON'T BUY IT!!! She helped me pay them off eventually, and the day I was free, I cut them up into tiny little pieces and never looked back. 
6. Write your thank you notes.- I can't stand ungrateful people and neither, for the most part, can anyone else. I used to loathe being made to sit and write them out, but now as the adult in the situation buying gifts for children with money that could've been used on a pedicure, it makes me feel much better receiving a handwritten note expressing their gratitude. The adults in my life spent their hard earned money on Polly Pockets and Barbies. Did they want to? Probably not really, they had bills to pay and things they wanted for themselves. Showing that you liked it and that it meant something to you, makes the purchase a little bit easier to swallow. Not to mention, if I'm being honest, the nicer the note, the nicer the gift was the next year. People like to be appreciated! If you don't say thank-you, it's very likely you won't ever get anything from that person again, and if you do, their heart's won't ever be in it again. Thank you notes are tedious and boring, but so is buying a gift for a kid with money you would rather use on yourself. Be considerate. My mom understood that if you love your children you want others to love them as well, and no one loves a spoiled brat. Thank you mom, for not letting me behave like one. (Pun intended there...)
7. Pray.- Sometimes growing up, I used to feel like religion was being shoved down my throat, but now I see that nothing is possible without God. My mom taught me about Him and I plan to do the same with my children and hope that they know that when life gets dark, when you are at your lowest, in the rare situation mom can't dig you out of the hole you're in, that there is a heavenly parent who can and will. 

   Happy Mother's day mom! I can only hope to one day be as wise and looked up to by my children as you are with me. I love you, smart lady. Nothing is quite as good a gift as a know-it-all fessing up to their short comings, so enjoy it, because this is the first and the last time I plan on doing so. :) Love you! 

An Exerpt from a 4 Month Old's Diary:

  I never wake in a foul mood. It's mommy's morning breath that shocks me. She comes into my room with this terrifying robe on, her hair is flying in ten different directions and she smothers my face with this atrocious dragon breath. It's horrifying. I don't know how to react because she seems to enjoy putting her face into mine, which, if you ask me, is a fairly invasive disregard for my personal space. She then carries me down the steps and I hear the other human that is smaller than the parent humans loudly shouting and mommy sighs...again, in my face. I don't know how to tell her she needs a mint or something.
   We round the corner and that blonde, small human is naked and slinging dog food at us. I don't understand this guy. He seems to me to be somewhat of a sociopath. He loves to destroy everything in his path. And the worst part is, mommy is constantly encouraging him to touch me and when no one was looking I saw him pick his nose. She calls this second form of invasion "hugs". I am so far not a huge fan. Mommy sets me down and makes both I and that blonde monster some breakfast. Here's the thing though, that crazed dog food thrower gets pancakes, bacon and eggs whereas I am force-fed, yet again, some whitish powder water. It fills me up, yes, but one can only tolerate the mundane for so long. She used to feed me delicious liquid I saw her extract from her own body, but that stopped and I don't know why, however I notice it has hugely impacted the size of her chest. I need to speak to someone in management about this. Daddy is under the impression he's in charge, but from my observations it appears the female parent is the one who runs the show, so perhaps I am out of luck.
   I finish my "baba" (I don't know what that means, mommy seems to speak nonsensically quite often. I wonder if it's a health issue connected to her morning breath?) As a show of my distaste I regurgitate half of it back up onto her robe. I don't know why is is surprised, or upset for that matter. This stuff is disgusting and anyways, her robe is covered in ketchup thanks to the short human she insists on referring to as my brother.
   Next she takes me back to my room and dresses me and forcefully shoves the most ridiculous head piece onto my skull. Large humans seem so thrilled to see me wearing this contraption so I chose at this time, not to refuse it, but it makes no sense to me. They make me hot and impede me from nap time. Speaking of, I am suddenly becoming very tired....
                                                              ONE HOUR LATER:

   I wake in a different room, but see that mommy still wears the robe. I wonder if that's her uniform and thats why she wears it so often? I see that daddy is here now. He walks towards me and I realize what he's going to do! I reach out my hands to stop him and he takes that instead as an invitation to come closer! I don't even realize when it happened but my face bursts into flames as he rubs his sandpaper cheeks onto mine! Why does the male parent have short, black spikes sprouting from all over his head? The small "brother" who is also male doesn't...There are so many things I just don't understand. 
   tedious hours pass with nothing worth mentioning. The brother continues his quest to rampage, mommy has yet to change from her uniform, "baba" after "baba" is eaten and to no avail, spit back up..  I find solace in my thumb which eerily reminds me of the bottle, but is also somehow attached to me. I wonder why mommy and daddy laugh as I try to tell them things...I am starting to question whether or not they understand me. They speak in a gibberish I don't recognize as any language. What is a "sissy" or a "diapy"?
   The day goes on like this, but then I find there is something hot and disturbingly squishy in my pants!! It's happening again! I have no idea how or why, but approximately three to four times a day I am, without warning, struck with an agonizing and uncomfortable sensation. I scream in panic!! Mommy frustratingly makes reference to my digestion, as if that has anything to do with this. GET IT OFF ME!!!!!!!!!!! She mockingly laughs but she does cease the misery with some damp wipes and a new pair of pants. As fast it came the agony stops and I am again put at ease. I can't help but assume the white powder water I am made to ingest has something to do with these episodes. I don't even want to discuss the malodorous stench associated with the issues.
   I am still shaken and decide it is again time for some shut eye, but instead mommy starts to prepare a bath for both I and my "brother". I enjoy bath time, however the small monster similarly enjoys splashing me in the face with water, and it is severely annoying to say the least. I am taken from the warm water and she dresses me and to my chagrin demands upon brushing my hair. I endure for the most part and am then laid down where a magical spinning ring of butterflies serenades me to sleep. Mommy calls it a mobile, I call it heaven sent. As she rubs my back and sings to me I decide on two things, one being that her voice is horrible, but that I like it, and that I also kind of like all three of the humans I live with. They seem to mean well and for some reason in their presence I am comfortable and safe. I drift to sleep and my last thought of the day is how nice it is to be in this bed with these blankets, surrounded by these crazy humans....zzzzzz
  

A letter to my friends without kids

To my friends without kids: 
   I know we used to hang out all the time, and I know we both have demanding jobs that keep us busy, but I also come home to two kids, an exhausted wife and never-ending bills. Your jobs pays your bills too, I know, but the money I make has to be stretched to the limit to buy diapers, baby wipes, my wife's pedicures, fund her scrap booking obsession, pay all the bills, put food on the table, and for the record, did you know formula is 27 dollars a tub? While you have some leftover for a night out on the town, my leftover money goes to two college funds and maybe take-out from Olive Garden so my wife doesn't have to make dinner tonight. I miss you, and I wish I could meet you out for a wild night like we used to have, but after working all day, coming home and immediately helping to set the table, playing some hoops with my son on the toddler basketball hoop, changing my daughter's diaper, getting online to pay for the electricity, having a family dinner, doing the dishes while my wife bathes both kids and finally being able to lay on the couch, I pretty much just want to stay here till I pass out and start all over again tomorrow. 
   I also help my wife with middle-of-the-night feedings. My daughter is up every two hours and I take over the first half of the night, and if I'm not home, she has to do it all on her own. And if I come home drunk at 3 in the morning, and wake either my daughter or my wife, I basically will be missing two key genitalia the next day.... I'm not whipped dude, my wife is the glue that keeps us together, but I'm the grease that keeps the machine running. Without me here, production ceases to a halt and pandemonium ensues. I pay for everything and everyone here. It's a tough job that puts a lot of unspoken pressure on me. No one says what they're thinking, but if I don't do my part, we have to live in a box. But not only that, I am expected to help with child rearing, some of the housework and any and all "man's work", "honey do" lists. I am exhausted at days end and I literally don't have enough hours in the day to work AND be a decent father. But I am. I manage to pull it together for my kids.
   I teach my son how to be a good man, and I show my daughter how she needs to be treated someday when the time comes, I'm thinking sometime in her 40's. My wife has the luxury of breaking down sometimes to cry out her worries and her stress, but I don't. I am expected to be strong. I am the rock, the provider, and the protector, and no one wants to see me cry. So when I ignore your texts, or don't get back to you right away, it's not because I've moved on with my life, separate from you, it's just that I have so many things on my mind, I sometimes forget. 
   My wife also is able to have "play-dates" during the day, but I can't invite my bachelor buddies over for the game. The kids are napping and my wife just cleaned for the five-hundredth time this week, so I guess I could meet you somewhere for lunch, but only if I have time during my work day, and I probably won't be able to pay attention much to what you're saying because while the kids nap, my wife uses that time to fill me on on every little accomplishment, heart ache and drama she and the kids have experienced that day, and I actually am interested to hear my son asked about me all morning. Not to mention, if I ignore her she sends a text containing 35 question marks, and proceeds to tell me she has no adult contact all day, and why am I such an a-hole? 
    I appreciate your friendship and I really do care about you, but this season of life, I am busy and under a lot of pressure to "perform" and when I do have free time I want to use it to show my son how to throw a football and listen to my daughter repeatedly giggle at me when I rub my beard on her face. Just know when your time comes, I'll be there to offer you bad advice and zero judgement. 

                                                              Sincerely,
                                 A hardworking, loving dad of two

12 ways to improve your Facebook image

   I have created a list that will vastly improve your social media experience and image. Consider this a lesson in PR. 

1. If you are a civil, decent person you won't argue with anyone via your page. Instead you'll screen shot said unpleasant comment, privately text a friend and viciously discuss how stupid that person is.
2. If you have something to say to someone, you won't say it to them, instead you'll post a passive-aggressive inspirational quote that directly applies to the person in question and hashtag the word truth. Sometimes it's acceptable to tag a friend who will excitedly agree. "Soooo true, OMG!"
3. Never post real struggles because as far as social media is concerned you live a perfect life full of unicorns and rainbows. 
4. If you take a personality test only share the results that color you in a unique way. Or even better, retake the test ten times till it says you are a born leader full of wisdom and class. "You were Jesus in your past life!" 
5. Progress pictures of your fitness journey can and should be deeply photo-shopped and filtered.
6. Never delete people whose lives are train wrecks. They must be carefully followed and discussed with your friends who have it together.
7. Screen shot texts where you've said something especially clever because everyone should be privy to your comedic genius.
8. Egg on and encourage your average children to do and say "the darndest things" so everyone thinks they're prodigies.
9. Always post gourmet meals you've cooked and arrange the food perfectly for the picture. Don't ever photograph your plate after you've heaped another thirteen helpings on because...#portioncontrol.
10. Annoy everyone with your political and religious beliefs. Before posting your thoughts make sure you include a warning that you'll be offending everyone, because that's polite. "Be warned this is gonna offend some of you, but if you voted for Obama, you're a moron." Finish with #sorrynotsorry, so while displaying online etiquette, you're also showing you can and will make an unashamed stand.
11. If you post a selfie claim you did so out of boredom because vanity is only acceptable under extreme apathy.
12. Share my blog. ;)

Please don't ever utter these words to a pregnant woman.

   When I was pregnant, almost everything annoyed me. The sound of people breathing, skinny people, rainbows, puppies...But there were a few things that irritated me more than others. I was inundated with comments, advice and opinions from everyone under the sun, and I have created a list of the opinions held by some that put them at risk of physical injury.

1. It takes two to make a baby.- this one was usually said to me after complaining that men don't do anything during pregnancy and was usually stated by a man.Without specifying particular gender roles, one member contributes by downing 5 shots of whiskey and a maximum of 7 minutes, while the other endures 40 weeks of torture and 13 hours of intense labor. (Babe, if you read this, I'm totally kidding, you're the man.) 
2. It's all worth it in the end. - This one was like a cheese grater applied directly to my nerves. It's as if by saying this you're suggesting I don't understand the value of my own child's life. Chemotherapy is worth it in the end too once you're in remission, but no one said it was enjoyable. 
3. You look like you're ready to pop!- Shockingly enough, I own a mirror and while I'm only 15 weeks pregnant, I too have noticed I've transformed into a beached whale, but thank you ever so much for noticing!
4. When I was in labor, much like the movie Saw, I was torn to shreds from one hole right to the next.- Dude. Why? Why would you tell me that? And for the record with modern medicine it's possible to forgo all pain with an epidural so I don't feel bad for you. (And to the ladies new to pregnancy, maybe you WILL need stitches, but your body was made to heal. You're not a zombie and wounds don't gape wide open and profusely bleed for the rest of your life.)
5. I went all natural and loved every minute of it!- Well your darling husband begs to differ. During one of your more excruciating contractions you blamed his very existence for your pain, and then demanded a divorce and a gallon of morphine.
6. If you slather vitamin E all over your belly you wont get a single stretch mark!- Not true. Stretch marks are genetic, and the only way you won't get them is if you are lucky enough to have been born to a mother, have an aunt or a grandmother who also didn't get them. 
7. You do know you're allowed to have a glass of wine or a beer once a day during pregnancy?- I could also ride roller coasters all day, go tanning and sumo wrestle if I felt so inclined, but why are you peer pressuring me? In case you've forgotten an untoasted, plain piece of bread made me nauseous, so what do you think alcohol is going to do to me??
8. The first trimester is the worst, but don't worry, it goes by quick.- I don't experience life during pregnancy in weeks and days, I count time by ingested meals that didn't come back up, and seconds until the next nap. So, no, it's not going fast, and are you suggesting the third is easier? I weighed 200 pounds, I couldn't sleep, I peed every 6 seconds, I couldn't climb my own stairs, and there was a small human performing a kickboxing routine against my ribs, bladder and spinal cord. 
9. Get all the sleep you can before the baby comes!- During my last trimester with both babies I slept on average 2-3 hours a night. I didn't get any more sleep before the babies then I did after, and telling me to rest just infuriates me. It's 3 am, I'm running on fumes, and I HAVE TO PEE AGAIN!!! At least after the baby, when you are able to sleep, you can blissfully lay on your stomach. It's truly heaven for all of 15 minutes. 
10.  I never bought a single pair of maternity pants.- Ya, we know. Your belly band is stretched to the limit in an attempt to hide your unzipped, unbuttoned size threes you've barely managed to yank up over your butt. 
11. This one is a silent opinion, but annoying nonetheless. The silent judgement you receive for having the baby blues. First of all everyone is hormonal after a baby because your body is raging with...hormones. I would never take postpartum depression lightly but insinuating a new mom has it because for no reason, she starts to sob at the dinner table is nothing short of ignorant. Postpartum depression is a diagnosed form of clinical depression, whereas the baby blues are similar to a severe bout of PMS. Either way, if you even vaguely suggest someone is suffering from it, your head will be ripped off and used as a new diaper bag. Just. Don't.
12. What if you poop on the delivery table?- Oh please, this doesn't happen. Just kidding, it does, but when you are in the middle of squeezing a human being out of your V, does it really matter? 
13. Any advice on jump starting labor- None of it works, I have literally tried it all. Your kid is stubborn and will come when he or she is good and ready. Similarly two years later when you whisper hiss at them to climb down off the grocery store shelves, they will do so when they please. 
14. Any advice regarding pregnancy and child rearing in general- the moment a woman expels a kid from their privates, they've suddenly ascended to super nanny status and know everything there is to know on mothering. Especially when it comes to women just a mere two weeks behind. They just know. (Rolling my eyes...)
15. You shouldn't be so ungrateful, I would love to be where you are right now.- Perhaps that's true, and my heart goes out to you, but would you please trade me places when I am vomiting so violently I simultaneously piss my pants and start bleeding from my nose?
16. I was all belly!- I hate to be the one to break it to ya sister, but you were belly, butt, thigh, boob, face and ankle too. 

    17. Pregnancy isn't as bad as you're acting (unspoken part here: MAN UP)-I think in an attempt to   keep the human race from going extinct, nature blocks certain gruesome memories from a woman's mind in the hopes she will procreate again, but out of respect for current and future mothers out there, I have forcefully willed myself to remember each and every detail. No one likes a sanctimonious idiot, and empathy means so much to a woman whose intestines have been turned into a human factory. It's all she can do to roll out of bed, go to work, clean the house, take care of the other kids, and she can't have a drink or take anything to relax, so the least you can do is keep your opinions to yourself. Then again, go ahead and say what you're thinking. Nothing would feel better to a hormonal pregnant woman than to poke your eyeballs out.

WWCD

   I profess to be a Christian, and I try to lead the life of one, however, we are all human and we all think and act like humans. That means that we are outrageous a-holes most of the time. I have been taking my kiddos to church with me, and for the most part I really enjoy it and so does my son, who I send off to Sunday School. The church I attend is rather large, so all the kids get special badges with special codes imprinted on the name tags and the parents then receive matching codes so that no one can steal your child while you are in the sanctuary. I think it's great, but for some reason the kiosks and the badge printers never seem to work for me, so I spend fifteen minutes punching letters into the touch-screen, swearing under my breath, forgetting where I am.
   After everything is printed and documented and sent off in plain manilla folders to CIA head quarters, your next step is to sign your child into their specific classroom. When I first took Dominic I clearly gave our mother-son bond far too much credit, because I expected a tearful good-bye where the teacher would have to pry him from my arms, but he ran away from me, stood at the doorway and reached his arms up waiting for the Sunday school teacher to lift him up over the baby gate and into the classroom. I waved farewell to the the back of his head. He didn't even remember who he came with. Standing in between the one year old and the two year old classrooms is a rotund woman with peroxide blonde hair, a blue tooth piece in her ear, a clip board and just enough power to be truly infuriating. She barks at the parents and taps her pen impatiently trying to herd little toddlers into their appropriately aged class. It seems to me like perhaps any literate parent who knows how old their own child is can easily perform this task on their own but "Maude", ( I rechristened her. She reminds me of the mean lunch lady from elementary school... totally not cut out for work with children. Pit bulls, convicts and perhaps sharks are more her calling.) stands there each Sunday pointing and yelling. 
   As I dejectedly walk away from the first-born who has completely abandoned me, I remember I need to sign him in on a paper that asks for information that may be needed during the time they are in charge of my son. I sign his name, his age and in the spot reserved for allergies and other important medical history I write, "He's a punk :)". Maude will enjoy that I think. I then follow my dad, who is with me this week, to the small cafe the church houses where he buys a muffin, takes a bite and tells me how gross it is. 
   "It's banana! Ew!" Apparently instead of asking what kind of muffin, he just pointed at one. Maybe he was hoping for manna, given where we were. He finished off his coffee and his muffin and we entered the gigantic sanctuary that is quickly filling with people of all kinds. I love that my church is lax on dress code, but if you don't have time to brush your teeth and hair and change out of your pajamas, maybe Bedside Baptist should've been your choice church today. I am completely for worshiping just as you are, but I'm not sure it is meant to be taken as literally as some take it. I flip my hair and think to myself how on top of things I am, showing up looking decent, with two perfect children and my dad, ready to get my spiritual fill for the week. 
   Just as I am congratulating myself, my husband's ex girlfriend walks past us, and sits very nearly right behind us! I can't be positive it was her, we have never met, and I've never seen her in "real-life", but after some moderate Facebook research, I can be fairly certain, it was her. Well now what? I have to spend the entire hour sucking in my gut and flexing my buttcheeks. And for those of you reading this and thinking to yourselves how disgusting it is of me to participate in such petty behavior in church of all places, well, good for you, for being the most perfect humans alive! I made you some gluten-free, all organic eggplant brownies for your outstanding personalities!
   I tried to whisper to my dad what was going on, and he pointed and stared excruciatingly obviously, and whisper shouted "what?!?!" ten times. I decided to myself that I was acting like a 13 year old, so I let it go, and paid rapt attention to the sermon, which would've been wonderful had it not been marred by my three month old spitting up all over my super cute, yet conservative, jean jacket. I swung my hair over the puke to hide it, only to smear the regurgitated formula into my locks. Things were not going as planned. Here I was being the epitome of religious, I showed up, I judged the people who were literally wearing pajamas, I was passive-aggressive with Maude and I was attempting to show off when I saw someone I felt threatened by. I wouldn't even take communion today because the bread was all clumped together in one gross, bacteria and virus-filled basket and I reasoned that now was not a good time to get sick. 
   When all was said and done the last song of the sermon was being sung, I realized what today was even about. Christ coming to Earth to pay for our sins. All of us. Mean, old Maude, those without fashion sense, all of us. I had wasted the entire time acting like a complete brat, instead of being truly grateful for what God had done for us. I made fun of everything, including the banana muffin. I was ashamed. As the saying goes, pride goes before a fall. My daughter throwing up on me was a way to bring me back to Earth. I was just like every single person in the room with me. I felt humbled to have realized when I did how I was thinking and acting. Even worse was getting my son from his class and see him happily waving a palm branch around. Like the palm branch, we are to lay our insecurities, our judgements, and our agendas down and focus solely on Jesus. I realize we as people as far from perfect, and life is a crazy roller coaster ride, but this Easter think of my jean jacket, and Maude and remember what and who you are celebrating, and why. Happy Easter readers!

Easter Bunnies, tantrums and Lo Mien.

   The day started out positive enough. We were going to go to the mall, visit the Easter Bunny, capture the adorable memory in photo form for 76 dollars a piece, and then eat at the food court and buy our son some new birthday shoes. While I primped in the bathroom, my husband was wrangling the kids. I sent him a text from two rooms over listing several things he would need to remember to pack, because in a matter of two hours, you always end up needing 7 diapers, 4 bottles, the sippy cup with Spongebob on it and baby wipes, the cure-all for every mess imaginable. When we were finally set to walk out the door, luggage in hand, the dog, who has severe separation anxiety, prepared herself for the panic attack she was going to have before we even left and took a dump in the hallway. So I set everything down, and cleaned it up, all the while muttering unspeakable curses to the dog, who was shaking in the corner like some kind of mentally ill canine weirdo. Once that was taken care of, we all had to slowly step-by-step go down the basement steps, because my two year old son is Mr. Independent and likes to descend the steep staircase on his own. If you attempt to assist him, he will thrash and kick until you drop him on his head and let him roll down to the bottom. Broken bones not being on the agenda, we just sigh loudly and allow him to tyrannize us. 
   We all then piled into the car where the two year old converted himself to a two-by-four, refusing to use any kind of flexibility to help us strap him into his car seat. The seat-belt song I sing didn't even work this time. "We all have to wear seat belts, yes we do! We all have to wear them, it's safer for you!" He then had the audacity to cover his ears, which implied my singing voice was bothering him. As if his stubborn, anti-seat belt act of defiance wasn't bothering me in the slightest! At this point in the trip we were still in our own garage and I was panting and sweating already. I don't know why I ever bother to attempt to look decent, I always sweat my make-up off before we even leave. As we pulled into the mall's parking lot, my husband circled the place three times, hoping to snag the parking spot reserved for pregnant women and young families, and as we hone in on one, a young twit pulls in, with no belly bump, no kids, and a cigarette hanging from her lip glossed mouth. As I curse her under my breath, worse than I did my dog, my husband parked three miles from the entrance. 
   We have one stroller designed for one child, which means that my son has to be a big boy and walk everywhere on his own. Thankfully, usually this isn't a problem, unless he decides to inspect chewed gum on the ground or jump into a filthy puddle. We were now an hour into our journey, and we had just entered the building, like a miniature parade. We load the stroller with so much STUFF, it nearly could pass as a float, and since my son likes to throw things at people, we truly are a parade of four when we go places. We made a bee-line for the Easter Bunny because I wanted darling pictures of the kids with him before they ruined their hair and clothes with ketchup and other stain-worthy condiments.
   The Easter Bunny is a massive costumed man or woman, who besides being a heavy mouth-breather, is disturbingly mute. Even to the parents. I tried to ask him a question and his vacant eyes stare back in silence. The photographer speaks for him, and tells me to place both kids on each one of his knees, and then she will take the picture for me. My three month old complies, mainly because she can't move, and has no choice, but my two year old runs wildly in the opposite direction, terrified. Understandably so, the bunny was a monstrosity and his silence was giving me the creeps. While I attempted to chase after him, my daughter's pacifier fell out and she began to wail. So what did my husband do?!? He sanitized it by sticking it into his own mouth from off the mall floor, and then shoving it back into our daughter's mouth! 
   The "photographer" had given up pretending to think my son's behavior was cute and started to sigh and roll her eyes, so I gave up on him being in the picture, and had her snap one of just my daughter. We paid 94 dollars for an atrocious photograph of my three month old and the Bunny, and walked away, defeated. Our next stop was the shoe store. Our son immediately moved all the toddler shoes within reach off the shelf and replaced them with men's running shoes. We found a pair we liked for him,on sale of course, and while my husband tried to get him to try them on, my daughter started to scream. I grabbed her diaper bag, thinking it would be an easy-fix. I would make her a bottle and she would settle. 
   Well, wouldn't you know, because I had forgotten to specifically include bottles on my text-list I sent my husband that morning, he had only packed formula and water, and NO bottles. Through gritted teeth, and in hushed tones, we fought with each other over who was to blame for this massive screw-up. All the while, my son is running through the store barefoot and my daughter is screaming still, only more urgently. We had successfully irritated every employee and customer in the store and once we had gotten shoes back on our son, we left the store dragging him along by the arm behind us, still fighting bitterly over who caused our daughter to go hungry. 
   What had started as a fun family outing had turned into a family brawl in the food court. I was starving to death at this point so I ordered my food and sat down, pretending not to know any of them. I did however, have to figure out how to feed my daughter, so I mixed formula and water in a Styrofoam cup and spoon-fed her. My husband was mortified I was publicly displaying such white trash behavior, but when I hissed at him, reminding him who had forgotten the bottle, the insults ceased. He refused to eat, apparently too worked-up and embarrassed, but I shrugged it off and enjoyed my Lo Mien. I offered some to my son who threw it to the floor and fought tooth and nail to escape the filthy mall high chair we had practically tied him to, so again, I ignored him, and proceeded to also enjoy my egg roll. 
   The trip had been a disaster. I had no positive way to end my story, because we left furious with each other, and the teenager at the door who callously ignored us and wouldn't hold the door got an earful. We threw everything and everyone into the car and drove home. Then we put everyone to bed for a nap, and didn't talk to one another for an hour. I had no way to positively spin the day into some kind of cutesy life lesson. Sometimes having kids just isn't fun. And sometimes it's too soon to laugh it off, so I waited a few days before I wrote it all down, and like I hoped, I now can look on it with affection and  I guess days like that, make the good days that much better. Already the memory is a funny one, and I did end up with a hilarious picture of my daughter and the Bunny. Sometimes you just have to take a breath, wait a few days, and look back with fresh eyes. And would you look at that! I was able to make it a happy ending!

Kidney's for Sale!

   My children have been blessed with a mother who would allow herself to enter a seedy motel room, be put under with an anesthetic from Mexico, and have her kidney put on ice in the bathtub to be sold on the black market if it meant they could eat. However, they also have a mother who makes countless mistakes. I try really hard to be Super Mom, but I continue, daily, to fail miserably. I think with each child we get better, but unless you plan on having 100 kids, you will never be perfect. First born children aren't born Type A, they're made to be that way because we as parents fall short so deplorably they end up having to fend for themselves. My list of inadequacies far outweighs my list of attributes. That isn't to say I don't learn and grow as I go, but the debacles that have ensued due to my blunders are embarrassing, sometimes terrifying, and always humbling. 
   When my son was two months old, I was invited to a water park with another mom with a child several months older than mine. I was told repeatedly that he was far to young to drag to an amusement park, and that, of course, further fueled my stubborn streak, and I dug in my heels and proceeded to pack my bags. We spent the entire day there, and several things happened. My bathing suit didn't fit (shocker! Your body is weird after only two months post-partum...OK, it's weird 24 months post-partum), I had nip-slip after nip-slip, and lastly, and most horribly, I forgot to re-apply my son's sunscreen and at the tender age of 8 weeks old I had given him a sunburn that left his poor little nose shiny and red and grotesquely bacon-like. I tried to play it off on his Italian dark-skin heritage, but I  don't know any Italian's who resemble Rudolph.
   Another time, too recent for comfort, I rubbed his baby lotion in all over right before bed, and didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing. My favorite show was playing downstairs and I wanted to hustle through bedtime routine to see what happened next. Well, without realizing it, I had created my own little drama. I had mistakenly rubbed BenGay all over his skin, and it turned purple and splotchy, and he screamed like a vampire in the sun. I threw him in the bathtub and spun the nozzle to turn on the shower and rinse it as quickly as possible. Apparently children under the age of 12 are not to use BenGay without the advice and direction of their pediatrician and yet I had slathered it all over the poor darling.
    Sadly my myriad of mistakes doesn't end there. One time I fed him too large of a bite on which he choked, gagged and projectile vomited onto the dog's head. At another point, my son was playing in the sandbox and shoveled a whopping handful of the stuff into his mouth and swallowed. I turned my back for all of six seconds! Granted, it was to re-apply my tanning oil, but still... For three weeks after I had to diligently dig through his poop on the look-out for pinworms. It possibly was one of the worst mistakes to date. 
   I try to follow the book, the advice columns and the motherly wisdom of family matriarchs, but sometimes I diverge from the norm and create my own rules. When my son was at an age where he could be fed pureed food, I couldn't for the life of my get him to use a spoon, and I hate messes. So what did I do? I put the baby food in his bottle, cut the nipple tip off and fed him that way. Seems so clever, doesn't it? Well, it isn't. It was a wretched idea. It took that much longer to teach him to use utensils, and to this day at two years old, he still has trouble with silverware.
   The point I'm making in revealing all these mortifying motherly blunders is this: not a single person is perfect. We as parents grow and learn right along beside our children. I was so hard on myself for so long, and now with my daughter, I allow her to suck on her binkie, and if that isn't available, sometimes matches and knives. I'm totally kidding CPS! I really am though much more lenient on myself. My kids are alive, they're healthy and most importantly they're happy. They'll never remember you dropping them in the bathtub, or forgetting them outside the changing room at Target. What they'll remember is a mom who loved them more than herself. Try and forget the mistakes, and remind yourself of the things you would do for them. That's what matters. And I promise, in as little as a few weeks time, it will be a hilarious tale, and not a shameful error. If you can't laugh at yourself, you're in for a long haul. Smile, and think about that motel room. You (WE!) are good parents. :)

Paint the Town Red

   It is a very rare occasion indeed for my husband and I to be spotted out on the town, painting it red. There is however, a blue moon now and then and sometimes the stars will align just right for us to have a night to ourselves and a baby sitter willing to watch the kids. Last night was one of those nights. We got our hands on some free tickets to a basketball game in our hometown from my brother and sister in-law, and not only were they free, they were VIP. I should've known what I was getting myself into, but I went not even knowing the basketball team's name, so it is of little surprise things went the way they did. I was allotted exactly 6 minutes and 45 seconds to get ready from the kids, so I wore jeans and a hoody and wore my hair in a messy bun, and of course I ran into everyone I have ever known. They were dressed to the nines, and I was in my dumpy "mom uniform". As usual, I was embarrassed, but I boldly carried on, not willing to let my fashion faux pas ruin my evening away from the heathens.
   The VIP section was set up like a small cafe. We had a small high-top table to ourselves, with a very important "RESERVED" sign placed on it. While I was thrilled to have space to set my 700 pound purse on, what I didn't realize was that we would be on display for the entire arena, like animals at a zoo. I began to neurotically check every three seconds that my underwear was safely underneath my jeans, and every bite of food I took I was convinced was chewed and swallowed like the cud of a cow. Being VIP meant free food and free drinks also. My hubby was so excited for an alcoholic beverage he took a swig of my brother-in-law's beer accidentally, totally losing control, with nothing but the thought on his mind that he hasn't been allowed beer in public for 2 years. I was starting to realize being out with him was nearly as embarrassing as being at the grocery store with the kids.
   When we arrived at our little table, he began to obsess over the fact that it was wobbly. He wasn't going to let it interfere with his good time however, and quickly balled up the paper container our popcorn was in and shoved it underneath the short leg. So handy, he is! After that little stunt, I began taking notes into my phone for this very blog, every time he did something bizarre. He caught me, so for fun, I started to pretend document something every action he took. I think it made him uncomfortable, which was nothing compared the discomfort I felt when he decided to make a scene with the bartender. He came back to our table after a "beer-run" triumphantly describing how he had told the girl who poured his beer he wasn't going to tip her, because the time before that she hadn't smiled or said thank you when he did. Little did I know, not only was he handy, my husband was a true advocate of etiquette! 
  All that politeness was forgotten though, shortly after the cheerleaders arrived on the scene, twerking on court in their underwear. Where are these girls mothers, and excuse me for not clapping, I don't cheer for girls sixteen pounds thinner than me, I just don't. My husband didn't seem to share my views on the matter. For some reason, he thoroughly enjoyed their half-time strip tease. Also on the line-up for entertainment was the team mascot. He was a gigantic, furry mammal of some sort, and when he was air-humping the table beside us, I noticed his T-shirt said, "Child Abuse Is Preventable." Ok then, pedophile, whatever you say!
   At our neighboring table sat two brothers my husband and I know, and they were a riot. They were loud, drunk, and hilarious. They built a tower out of their emptied beer cups, and everyone that passed either openly or covertly snapped a picture of it. While they cheered and hollered, my husband did as well, specifically for #44, a giant of a man he loudly referred to as "Big Whitey". Sadly, that actually isn't the weirdest thing he's ever uttered in public. Not even close. We won the game, though, and on our way out, we stopped and perused the souvenir shop. The goal was to buy our son a foam pointer finger, and we left with buyer's remorse and 55 dollars worth of merchandise. Apparently, even a night without them ends in presents for them. 
  On our way home, we received an ominous text from my mother in-law asking, simply, "Is it OK if your son doesn't get a bath tonight?" It was an hour past bedtime, and we weren't sure what that meant. We called her phone, to which we got no reply. When we arrived at the house, both kids were still up, unbathed and our son was playing with his toys. My husband's mother is far from being green in the area of child-rearing, so for her to have unsuccessfully gotten the kids in the bath and into bed, meant that my heathens were as bad as I suspected. I verbalized my shock at their behavior, and in a true grandmotherly fashion she swore it was no trouble at all, and that she loved every second of it. That's because you get to go home now, lady! 
   So we didn't have a night out in the way that we used to, so my husband is embarrassing and weird, and my kids didn't do what they were supposed to. I still got to leave the house, Tony got to drink some beers, we were able to hang out with the in-laws, whom we love dearly, and the kids got to play Gramma like a fiddle, who pretended not to notice and loved every minute of it. I would say the night ended as a success, and as a bonus, our team made the winning touch-down! Or is it field goal? Basket? Whatever the term, everyone was a winner that night!

Hustle and Flow.

   The definition of a hustler is a stay-at-home-mom. We are the ultimate multi-taskers and we are bitter we don't get paid for it. Maid services, a laundress, nurses, entertainers, cooks, and teachers are all moms for hire. Society tells us it's not a job unless you clock in somewhere, so to compensate we do things like sell crafts on etsy.com. The problem is our ACTUAL job is so daunting, time consuming and HARD we get side-tracked from the hustle and become severe sufferers of ADHD. We tell everyone we've started a beaded bracelet company and when our darling angels get their hands on the kit and eat all the green beads mistaking them for M&M's we quit. The next week you'll find us advertising our beef curing business, (it's all natural!). We clip coupons, we offer to watch the kids who belong to moms who have "real" jobs, I've even cleaned apartments for the realty company my husband works for...I've become a bleach and Windex expert, I may as well make a couple bucks doing it.
   I have been asked multiple times what I do all day, and worse, single women with no kids tell me they wish they could do what I do all day ie: watch their soaps and eat bonbons all day in a bath robe. While I might wear a bath robe all day, I certainly am not on a forever vacation. We are made to feel small, and we are made to feel like hard work is defined by a paycheck. Sisters, please don't buy into this myth. You are doing something no other human on Earth can do. You are a people company. You make them, and perfect them for market. Your "product", when finished, cures diseases, becomes President, runs businesses, and becomes pilots and engineers.You don't get a paycheck bi-weekly, but this is your life's work! The world literally can't go on without what we do. Not to mention the job security your career offers. Your babies will ALWAYS need their mommy. You don't have a retirement plan that ends in a time-share in Florida, but you will someday see your children have children and from what my mom tells me, there is no greater joy than grand babies.
   I would never fault anyone for bettering themselves, and money makes the world go 'round, but what needs to be understood is what you do now is enough. It is more than enough. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Your children being alive and breathing everyday are testament enough to what you do. I would never turn down extra cash, and I will continue to hustle from home, but I am doing it now because I want to, not because I feel I have to. Not because someone has made me feel like not getting paid means I'm not pulling my weight. Keep up the good work ladies! You make me proud. You are giving your children a rare blessing, and don't stop selling your baby headbands, but do it because you enjoy it, not because you feel like you need some kind of "real" job. What we do everyday is the most important career of all.