Fits and Starts in 2015

I've been off of the blog-sauce lately. Apropos for my first and very tardy blog post of 2015 - I'll make a super-obvious statement: it's the middle of February. And... I am just getting around to it.

This is an anti-resolution declaration. This is instead, a list of items I would love to accomplish in 2015. You see, once I label something a resolution or a goal, giving that something I strive for a title - I am toast. Sort of like saying that you are not on a (shhhh...diet) - you are making healthier food choices.

I've read many 'new-year-how-to' articles over the past month and a half, and have created a loose strategy of all of the advice and plans into a list of goals for myself. What I have gleaned is this: I am going to plan to do my best at successfully conquering the following:

1. Read more books. There are 3 waiting on my Kindle, as Amazon reminds me, anyway.
2. Less mindless browsing 'on the line.' Home decor sites and flash fashion and shoe sales are my downfall. BAD. Quick check-ins only. Then it's time to do more of #1. 
3. Find ways to restore depleted energy and not feel guilty when I can't do it exactly when I think it needs to be done. Because actually, Downton Abbey and a glass of Moscato is very relaxing. Make time for today, tomorrow will come.
4. Raise my voice and fuss less with/over the kids. It turns out that those things give me complex migraines. Ha, go figure! The kids already think I am crazy. When I am in 'count-to-ten-and-try-not-to-yell-mode', I get this affected, slow, monotone voice and the boys say, 'Mom, why do you look like that and why are you talking so weird?'
5. Hug more. Well, maybe hug more after flu and croup and strep season is over. 
6. And smile more, too. Can I help it if I have Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome? My dermatologist offered to assist, but I will stick with the bi-annual mole check, thanks.
7. Keep a focused eye on the prize, and remember how I got here. Whether the prize is 2 minutes, 2 days or 2 years away. 
8. Take a lesson from hubby - when he needs a lift, he shifts his mind to 'boat time.' That 5 o'clock somewhere attitude that can help you climb out of any mood. 
9. Contribute more where it matters to me, but know that whatever I can do is enough. Period. No regrets.
10. Remember to pack healthy snacks for the work day. That means no trips to Insomnia Cookies at 3 p.m., I suppose. But peanut butter cup is my Kryptonite.
11. Schedule more face-to-face, meaningful, time with friends, family, mentors. Repeat.
12. Use the chilly days I stay in during lunch to really 'get 'er done.' i.e. Today: breathe, blog, pay bills, make appointments. Or just meditate; maybe get out of my chair and walk somewhere.
13. Stop feeling anxious when I don't get ALL of those things done in a singular lunch hour, because, well, it's OK. 
14. Start baking again. Not sure when, but it brings me joy. So does eating brownies and milk. Refer to #10.
15. Be more spontaneous. Writing this blog today and surprising Hubbie with dinner counts. 
16. Drink fewer Starbucks lattes. Yep, I said it out loud. There is the cost and the calories and probably the gas money since I strategically plan my weekend errand route to include the SB drive-thrus and Target SB stands. True story! Plus, they took away my only hot drink, the fated #SCM. Pay $5 for some other drink I only like a little? Suze Orman would slap my face. This shall be part of my 'be more financially healthy in 2015' plan.
17. Find a way, come hell or high water, to get to the gym or the yoga mat or the pavement at least 2 times a week. Even when I don't feel like it and its 12 degrees. And I just want to watch Fixer Upper. Because am just a better mom and friend and hugger and smiler and human being when I am running. :-)

I feel better already. 

I don't do Tae Kwon Do...

But I can breathe. That, I can do.

Tae-kwon-do is a Korean martial art. It combines combat and self-defense techniques with sport and exercise. I don't practice this activity, however, I admire it's controlled, masterful movements. I also dream about using these moves someday when I am cast as an extra in a Broadway adaptation of Charlie's Angels. 

I tend to gravitate toward order - so it would make sense that I would appreciate this sport. What's making me a little bat-*&%) crazy lately is that fact that my #1 coping mechanism, running, has been virtually non-existent. Schedules, weather, germs, daylight savings, stuffing from Thanksgiving, now Christmas cookies, and a persistent injury have been thwarting my usual 3x per week jogging schedule. Adjusting to life without this go-to stress-buster has been interesting. When my 10 year-old notices that I look harried and asks, 'mom, are you going to go for a run tonight?,' it's obviously become a serious part of my therapy ritual.

But a few weeks ago, I decided to go outside of my comfort zone and meditate. Stay with me here, people. I was intrigued about the practice, and wondered if I would be able to calm myself and my brain enough to get lost in the breathing and clear my head. A dear friend told me that even though I had found a stress-release physically in running, and that it was fantastic...  what I really needed was to figure out how to also be still. 

What? Wham! Say that again? Splat! And as I tried to ponder this it clicked. Be still. Oh, be still. OH - BE STILL. Duh. But it's not as easy as it sounds. Friend says, 'tell someone you are going to run for an hour, and the reaction is, 'great!' Tell someone you are going to go be mindful or meditate or relax for an hour and it seems selfish.' 

To hell with it. I was going to be out with my selfishness. I filled up on lost time with my two best friends and then scheduled time to 'relax.' When is the last time you penciled 'Be Mindful 1-2 p.m.' on your calendar? Right. Never. Because it's not in our DNA. And putting that on your office whiteboard may just freak people out a little bit. Hmmm. I may try this on Monday. 

The problem is that we don't know how to be still. We have to do this-and-that and it just has to get done because of well, all of the THINGS! But if you allow yourself to clear the clutter from your mind, you'll find a bunch of stuff in there later that you forgot about. Like that person you forgot to add to the holiday gift list - drabbit! Thank goodness for gift cards and those cheesy radio commercials with the borderline creepy dad who is obsessed with getting them and fuel points for every holiday. 

But when you can pave a clean path in your brain, oh, what a feeling! Making an appointment with yourself to just breathe. I am not saying that you will be magically absolved of everything that is nagging at you. What I am saying is that when you come back to the present, you'll surely be seeing things through a different pair of glasses. They could be rosy, they could be clear, they could be cloudy, but the view will most certainly be different. As in, 'wow - I can tackle this crap like a boss now,' or 'I wonder why I hadn't thought about that before. Huh.' True story.

And, for me, the film was peeled back to reveal a different perspective. 1. Being still always came with guilt. Like, still is boring or lazy or unproductive. Still is healing. Still is what our minds need to recalibrate. A mental reboot if you will. The key is not feeling guilty that you've taken the time to hit the 'refresh' button. 2. I was introduced this new world my friend is creating to not only fulfill herself but serve others. In doing this, I saw her in a new light. The one I believe she was meant to bask in her entire life... watching someone you care for deeply undergo a metamorphosis is wonderful and humbling and a gift.
Sometimes we feel that what we say or do does not make a bit a difference, or it's just background noise. And out of the blue, in a movie-perfect moment, it comes around. YOU affected someone else. It could be big or small, quiet or loud. It's important. Your story, your passion, your contribution - could be just what someone else needed in that moment. And you know, the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear. Just sayin'. Buddy's right. 

Now I am off to meditate so that things like Christmas trees falling over and unfinished shopping lists and unbaked cookies and uninteresting Elf on the Shelf shenanigans don't make me feel less than this holiday. 

Namaste, fellow ninja holiday warriors trying to make everything jolly. Let's all just B-R-E-A-T-H-E.

Re-fried Beans Spilled on the Carseat

That pretty much sums up the last few months. On any given day over the last 120, that spill (volcanic re-fried bean situation on the car seat from a carry-out run in Hubbie's work vehicle) could have represented or ignited for that matter, a complete and total nuclear meltdown, or just another silly little thing that happens to trip us up in this marathon called life.

A pal of mine mentioned that she hadn't seen any posts in a while and I claimed writers cramp. I told another friend that I hadn't blogged all summer because, well, I didn't think that people would be interested in what's been marinating in/on my brain these days. She called BS, or Shenanigans, for the South Park fans out there. I've just plain been putting it off for fear of being off-putting.

After all of this lamenting, I am at a point where I just need to let it all out and get on point. There are many. Some pokey, some refined. Plus, I used this blog as the point of a personal success story at a leadership conference recently and kinda of need to walk the talk.

Recently Hubbie and I have felt like we've been participating in one of those insane ultra triathalon obstacle events in, say, Alaska or the northern woods of Maine, but its just been: Life with a capital L. It's like a recurring dream I have had since age 8 or 9: It's too foggy to see in front of me while running downhill; boulders rolling after me, then I am at school/work (depending on my age), in my pajamas (if dressed at all)... and suddenly valleys and volcanoes appear. Flash to my neighbor's house on the street I grew up... grilling hamburgers with my dad who's donning a '70s mullet and a vintage Tennessee State tee. But, then I realize - I am awake!

We had a fantastic, live-it-up 'til the sun went down, play-in-the-sprinkler summer. We took a restorative vacation. (Long live Fripp Island!!!) We caught up with extended family and friends. But around the edges... come mid-September, things started to get a little tattered. It was a literal and figurative season of water skiing or inner-tubing: isn't-this-the-greatest-oh-my-gah-this-is-crazy-I'm-holding-on-for-dear-life-and-I've-just-wiped-out. 

I know it's not supposed to be easy, Life, parenting. Being working parents. But it's harder than that. It's grown-up difficult. Master Class. Wimbledon. Championship Series. So every few days, I pull up my knee socks and read another Joel Osteen quote and verse. Which seems to work. I need a little JO bobble-head in my car and on my desk at work and in my kitchen. When I bob his head, he'll give me inspirational advice.

The hamster wheel of parenthood is as tedious and exhausting as ever. I've been saying for 5 years how lucky and blessed we are not to have more significant or debilitating health or learning challenges to manage in our family. What would we do? Well now that we are doing it, with two... it's harder that we could have ever imagined. These invisible disorders with quirky front-facing characteristics are difficult for family, friends, teachers to understand. Explaining is nearly impossible. Autistic spectrum disorders are complex and wide-ranging and possess a certain social stigma. I'm aiming to be an advocate. I talk about my kids' struggles openly. It sometimes catches people off guard or makes them uncomfortable.

Even good friends try to make jokes. It's OK. I still love them. They just don't know what to say. Hubbie rolls with it. And I need to let it go, but it wears me down. It's a part-time (some would claim FTE) job to manage the schedules, the diets, the therapy, the emotional toll. Research has proved that the pressure and emotional distress on a parent with a child on the Autistic spectrum and/or related disorders is equal to someone suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I was so relieved to hear this that I almost cried. Well, if you know me, we both know that I actually yelled, 'BOOM, $%^&*(!' at my computer screen. And then I teared up and let myself have a quick ugly cry.

Some people assume that kids with phantom challenges are lazy, or spoiled, or ill-behaved poor listeners who have tantrums. OH YEAH? Just kidding. They do have real issues that prevent them from reacting and interacting like "typical" kids. I put that in quotes because, what in the hell does typical mean anyway?

I'm frustrated. Hubbie is a rock, but also trying to hang in and hang on. The kiddos are drained. We're like a bunch of short-circuiting bumper cars going in circles. But singing and dancing to Afro-Circus around the living room helps, too. Gotta love Madagascar.

This work-life balance thing? I'd love to be writing more SNL-style satire around those concepts, but I'm not sure what 'balance' looks like. At home it's a laser-tag or paint ball approach. Dodge this situation for the moment, tackle that one head-on. Hubbie and I arrive home and try to put on our game faces, exhausted and short-tempered during a 2 and a half hour session of common core math homework. Thank goodness for Google. These assignments can be challenging for any family, yet stack new math on top of an already maxed-out 9 year-old with ADHD and auditory processing disorder, and well, running a 1/2 marathon is easier. Unless you're Gweneth Paltrow. She's probably on top of this. Well rested. Serving up vegan after-school snacks and a bi-lingual tutor as needed.

Despite all of this... Big Kid has done his best at settling in with a new building and lockers and teachers and protocol with mom and dad peeking worrying over his shoulder. But he still forgets books and papers. There are a lot of folders (AND PAPERS AND MORE PAPERS) to manage, and he's doing his very best. We hear that he makes a whole lot of people laugh. He now interjects witty comments with impeccable timing. We're proud that he's picked up the sarcasm gene and knows how to use it appropriately. He's pleasant in class and working his tail off. But it's a roller coaster. Good and hard as G would say over on Momastery. Apparently my reputation precedes me in the school district, for being a proactive, legal-savvy advocate for my son. Because before Labor Day rolled around, I was labeled as a 'very involved mom.'  Think I need a Facebook badge for that. I'm not the Helicopter, Soccer, or Pinterest Mom, but you bet your sweet ass that I am hyper-organized and know my 504 from my IEP.

And then there is Beetle Bug. Master at Minecraft and a veritable human GPS. 4 years-old going on 40. Giving pre-K a run for its money. (Don't dare call it pre-school or daycare!) Telling trick-or-treaters that they've made a good choice on candy selections and riffing on his favorite TV commercial - 'It's Jake, from State Farm' - Bug likes to say, 'Well, she's a guy, so...' This little guy is the antonym of his brother. But oh, how he love thy brother! As much as they bicker and push each-other's sensory buttons (Bug: 'STOP TOU-CHIN-GK ME!!!! // Big Kid: 'I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I WAS, GEEZZZZZZZZ!!!)

And thankfully in spite of all of this... When the dust settled a few days ago on a random Tuesday after the kiddos were tucked in bed... Hubbie and I found ourselves in a stolen quiet moment. Me: nursing a sinus headache and a Moscato. He a enjoying a Yuengling and Alaska Fish Wars, we discovered a nerdy brain-and-body control game on Facebook. We tried it like a couple of giddy, goofy 7th graders. It worked and it made us laugh like we haven't laughed in a very long time. And when I realized in that slow-motion replay what we had been missing, it almost hurt. It was so needed. A definite release.

It's OK. It is going to be okay.

Five Minute Friday: Grateful

Go.

4 blue eyes and 2 sets of matching thick eyelashes. 20 sticky fingers and dirty toes.

Half a dozen smooches and hugs and day. 5 sideways looks, stomping feet and flailing arms.

8 long limbs throwing balls, kicking stones, running bases, swinging swords.

3 smart remarks, 2 tantrums and 1 tired but grateful mama.

Sometimes, within the same 10 seconds, I am completely, over the moon caught up in a deep conversation with a 3 year-old and his amazing preschool accent, explaining to me how a raffle works. (His art show is tonight). And then in the next breath, I start to sweat as I try to calm his outburst when he realizes that we just don't get to pick up the Nerf gift basket and take it home tonight, that 100 other parents and kids put tickets in the hopper to win, too.

Often, I am fascinated by the keen ability of my 9 year-old to rattle off baseball, football or basketball stats. I am always up to date on breaking ESPN news. Just ask me, I'll probably know the answer. A curse and a blessing, that kid's brain moves so quickly, processing so much information through it at lightning-fast speed, it's hard to imagine how on Earth he can retain and re-explain those sports facts faster than he could begin to break down a simple story problem. Cleveland Browns + Johnny Manziel = one hyped up little football fan.

20 years growing together. Almost 15 as an official married couple. Hubbie and I still argue that the other is the better 1/2 of the equation. And we're both right.

For all of these little numbers add up to one very grateful mom and wife this Mother's Day weekend.

Stop.

If Betty (Draper) Francis Had a Mommy Blog

Oh, Betty. You never fail to fascinate me with your roller coaster of emotions, Grace Kelly-esque beauty and quotable mom moments.

Mad Men's matriarch-in-the-making: old-fashioned Betty Draper Francis, wants to be a good mother and thinks she knows all the right things to do... But times, they are a-changin'. And like so many of us, she doesn't have a flipping clue. More coddling and comforting to neighbor kids than her own children, and confused/personally offended when they 'ruin a perfect day,' (um, you've met children before, right?) Betty Draper, the matriarch-in-training of our beloved Mad Men, gives us an endless supply of epic fails from which to learn, shake our heads and say - 'ok, what happened to me yesterday was nothing!' 

After lunching with her former neighbor-slash-fellow-housewife, Betty leaves feeling less-than adequate and confused because her friend has started working outside of the home. Betty decides that she will make good on her pseudo-sentiments about children being 'the reward' of raising them. She arrives home to the maid helping Bobby with his homework, and announces that she, herself, will chaperon the class farm field trip as opposed to the maid attending. She is very proud of her decision.

All is well on this bucolic farm, a symbolic outing for mom and son, when Bobby offers to trade the second sandwich in his lunch bag for a sack of gumdrops with a female classmate. Betty returns from washing up and discovers the sandwich missing. Instead of swallowing down the surprise and growling stomach, she makes Bobby suffer for his faux pas for the rest of the day. Fast forward to that evening, and Bobby is still getting the cold shoulder from his mom, pushing the food around his plate and shrinking in her disappointment. When Henry, his step-dad arrives home and asks how it went/what happened, Tommy replies: 'I wish it were yesterday.'

Don't we all wish we could have a take-back? I can remember a slew of moments, some I've been brave enough to blog about. Some that haunted me all day. If Betty had a do-over, and was blogging about her adventures the day before, what would she be sharing?

She could be kicking herself for not going easier on Bobby. An entertainment blogger broke down every detail of last Sunday's episode of Mad Men and offered that Betty was hurt and resentful about the gumdrops, because like his dad, Don Draper, Bobby chose someone else over her. Pretty deep, but right on. Unfortunately, Betty doesn't distinguish between adult and child when it comes to her feelings. She holds her older children to the same standards she would an adult. I, too, find myself getting caught up and realize that my expectations are way out of line when it comes to my kids. They start talking and walking and all of a sudden there is this pressure for them to speak and behave a certain way overnight.

Betty and I are both plagued by good intentions. Like Betty, I want my children to grow up and be good people, that's all, that's the motivation. But to be fair, I need to keep reminding my over-zealous self that kids don't get all the little nuances that we have had years and years to grasp. I was being challenged by Big Kid the other day because he was not listening in the store. I had asked him several times to stay by me and stop wondering off. He's at the age where he has all of his own favorite aisles in Target and feels entitled to trail off to electronics or clothes or books. Sorry pal, not yet. This is not a Nick Jr. tween show where you and your friends get to go to the mall food court. "Sam & Cat," you may have won a Kid's Choice award, but mom votes N.O.

When we finally got checked out and were walking in the parking lot, he took an interest in a couple of cool -looking, sporty college-aged friends walking into the store, being goofy, joking around, practicing some sort of fraternity handshake, or playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Not sure. He was staring, slowed down, turned to keep starting as we were walking away. They were still in half-uniform. He is obsessed with sports. I kept asking him to come along. I took his arm and tried to direct him toward me because he had stopped in the middle of the parking lot. He is sensitive. He yelled in the middle of the parking lot 'Owww! I HEARD YOU AND I WASN'T STARING!' loud enough for the patrons back inside the store to hear us. I caught myself explaining that when I talk to him in lower volumes and ask him to do or stop doing something, there is a reason (and probably ended that sentence with a muffled sigh). It would also be helpful if he did not speak so loudly. His ADHD sometimes prevents him from recognizing some of those nuances. Just like when I ask him for the fifth time to put his shoes on in the morning, all in the same tone. When I change my inflection on the 5th go-round, he snaps, screams back at me to stop yelling at him. And when I clearly have not been yelling, he insists it to be true. He only registered that I was talking to him on the 3rd ask. By the time I got to the 5th ask, he was annoyed and so was I. Luckily, I counted to 10 and braced myself before simply ending my silly one-way conversation. The two friends on their way into Target weren't offended by his staring. It was me who was uncomfortable about it. These are the moments when I want to shake myself. Get a re-do. What I don't do enough is say 'I'm sorry' after one of these clumsy parenting moments. That is what I am striving to work on this week.

Would Betty ask herself why she's not that great at weathering the storm that kids naturally bring with them? You can love them to pieces and feel like your head is going to pop off all in the same five minutes. Kids don't care if it's perfect, Betty, as I have slowly learned over the years. They just want you to show up and listen and be interested and understand when they give your sandwich away to the girl who's mom didn't pack one. They do love you. Sometimes it doesn't feel that way and that can make you wonder if you are worthy of being their mom.

I am guilty of building up this grand plan in my mind of how an activity with the kids is going to go and inevitably, those pipe dreams come crashing down. Why? Because I was setting myself up for an epic fail. Expecting perfection, when all my kids really wanted was a little fun with a mommy who is not so stressed about the fun going exactly as she had envisioned/obsessed/whatever out of whack expectation she was dishing up that day.

Betty, it's OK not to be a perfect mom, really.
Here, a martini will help. (That's my avatar counseling Birdie).

If I were Betty's BFF, I would tell her this when she asked if she was a good mother: you do the best you can. You give all of yourself, whatever that looks like. Whatever you're capable of. You're going to fail a gazillion times and it's not picture-perfect. It's not Stepford or the idyllic little town of Ossining, NY. Betty has been so afraid of failing that she pushes her own children away.

It's questioning if you're doing it right so many times that eventually you just throw up your hands and decide to love them. Love them so much it hurts, get an ugly cry or two in there, fix your makeup like Miranda says and enjoy a cocktail or ice cream or latte, and ask questions later.

Please Pardon the Imperfection – My Messy Beautiful

My hubbie and I watched a comedian the other night who said that as he gets older, his depression gets more creative. He'll look down at his beautiful daughter and think, 'I am a great dad, look at this awesome creature I made, that's so cool. I am OK.'

Then it will be 11 a.m. on a Tuesday and he's in the grocery store looking at Lean Cuisine, Toto comes on the Muzak system and it's all over. He developed his story and got inappropriate and morbid (and lots of laughs). It didn't bother me that he was joking about this - I mean, it's his bit but it's real. He was brave enough to go on the comedy channel in front of a live audience and lay it out there. That's brave. That's cool, that's uncomfortable. Good for him. When do you hear a man offering up his deep, dark stuff to a crowd of people? Hardly ever. Unless it's a Dateline special and his PR people have insisted he do it to squelch some sort of torrid tale.

There are two things I learned by watching his story unfold: 1) How true about our demons/insecurities/anxieties as we get older. We have more distractions, more experience, but sometimes, they sneak up on us and manifest through a microwave meal or song on the radio or something someone said. And snap. You were walking along, feeling OK and then wham - there is that voice in your head or a feeling that takes over your being. 2) Even though that comedian was performing, you could tell that his joke came from a place of truth. It was authentic. The self-deprecating style he's known for has made him famous. The honest way he shared it with the live and TV audience showed me that he needed to. It was his therapy.

In my life, I play the role of harried working mother trying to 'have it all'. (Yes, I know that this sitcom is often cancelled after the pilot... but I keep auditioning.) I was cast almost 10 years ago and perform my skit daily: get kids to school(s) - remember all of their required documents, projects and reports; get my self to work - remember all of the required items, clothing, watch, shoes that match, functioning brain... in front of my family, co-workers, friends, passers-by who think I'm a nut job... Much like the comedian, I'm cruising along, have made it through what feels like a full marathon having shopped and checked-out in Target... and bam - someone has dropped a $6 gallon of Tru-Moo Chocolate milk on the floor on our way out and it has splattered everywhere. Yep, there's that sneaky anxiety again. Don't yell, don't cry (I'm talking to everyone in the situation, including myself). And - if Oprah, Suze Orman, Dr. Oz, Jimmy Fallon, Dr. Dre, Rayna James from Nashville and Sheryl Sandberg were in this situation, what would they do? Exactly. Chill out. Step back. It's a-OK. I can berate myself about always being in a rush, moving the kids along too quickly - their little legs just don't move that fast - but I really just need to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. Slow down, de-stress. Target gave me another gallon and did not charge me for it by the way. Nice move, seeing as I am there three times a week.

The bit I like to try out on new audiences is this: 'Hi, I am Jennifer - I'm really accomplished, interesting, efficient, in-shape and healthy, happy and sweet all the time. My family is perfect, my career is amazing, my house is as organized as an HGTV editorial spread, I go to church every Sunday, cook full meals every evening and my kids get to practices on time.'

My icky-sticky truth is this: 'Hi, I'm Jen. I know we just met and should keep it to niceties and appropriately conservative conversation, but I'm so exhausted that I don't have the physical energy or brain power to make chit-chat. I really just want to close my eyes, nod and sip this latte while you tell me about all the crazy shit that happened in your week; (you're a stay-at-home-heroine and I am a working-mama-maven and we always want to play Freaky Friday) then tap me on the shoulder when your done and I will respond with a similar recap, we can give prompts and adulate, 'uh-huh', 'amen sister' and 'omg, that happened to me last Tuesday!' Then I'll confess my obsession with Mad Men and Downton Abbey, and talk about them for at least 20 minutes. You'll catch me up on all the Real Housewives shows since lately I am in bed lately when they come on and my DVR is full of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and bad Disney XD Movies and pre-teen sitcom specials. When you ask what/where my home church is, I'll tell you that both of my children went/go to church day cares and know more about God than I remember and teach me new lessons daily. I don't get to our local Methodist chapel anymore, but I miss the contemporary services where I could show up in jeans, nurse a Starbucks and rock out to the amazing band and pastor who spoke to our generation. My belief in God is strengthened every time I go for a nighttime or Sunday morning run where the mist is still hanging in the air and magically my mind is clear, I am humbled and grateful to be able to have that quiet time with Him. Or see Jesus in the big blue eyes of my boys when we are reading Skippy Jon Jones before bed and praying. My believe is never stronger when I melt into tears because my little one looks up at the night sky and points to the Northern Star - 'Look, mommy, there's Papa.' Precious family and girlfriend time is my therapy and my church and I don't apologize for it. It works for me. What about you? Next, we'll share work war stories, complain about sports practices cutting into homework time that neither of us know how to do any more. Core math, and state testing, wtf? And although our loving modern-day husbands are rock stars, dads who coach and clean, too, they contribute at least 50% to the household and parenting responsibilities but we think our half is the more difficult set of chores and are mad at them but don't know why.'

I read a post in the last few months where the blogger admitted that she too, had a tough time with the 'small talk' - weather, sports, vacations, etc... and wanted to dive right into deep issues with moms she just met that day at a kid's little league game. She was a premature, over-sharer. That's me. So I also hide behind my blog when I am chomping at the bit to share big, complicated stuff with new friends. Last week I met a new contact at a conference, they emailed when we returned and said, 'I enjoyed chatting with you, like your style, it's refreshing.' I knew it, I'm an over-sharer. Then then sane part of me said, 'Score! You were yourself and they did not run off.'

So that's it in a nut (job)-shell. I am a hot mess on the inside (my gooey center - everything can be compared to chocolate, OK?) I am usually over-caffeinated and sleep-deprived. I forgot about my older son's picture day a few weeks ago because now there are apparently two photo taking times during the year, fall and spring. When did that start happening? Big Kid was in his favorite college sports team shirt, his hair wasn't done and I fretted, but they turned out really nicely. Except that he looked 17 and my mind and heart flashed ahead to senior pictures - gah! I rebelled the system by only purchasing 1 sheet for $13. At least he wasn't the kid who's mom mixed up pajama day and picture day and sent him in a Sponge Bob sleep set... or something like that. It was on Facebook, so it must be true.

Gotta run. My next bit is in 20 minutes, lunchtime is over.

Messy Beautiful

Daycare Dress Code

Let's get caught up in the 3-1/2 year-old department.

My little beetle bug has been kinda bad lately. Bad is relative and not a word I like to use to describe my own flesh and blood, but ahem, he's been sorta rotten at school. It's daycare, but we call it school. Since we came back from Christmas break, things have been, well, 'rough' at old daycare. All of his teachers say the same thing: he is the sweetest little thing... but boy, is he stubborn.

I get daily reports in his tiny owl-print notebook that say stuff like this:

'Bug had an OK (usually written darker, as to emulate 'bold') day today. The morning was rough. We were not using gentle hands with our friends and we were ignoring our teachers. Our car was moved to Red for throwing a toy.'

It think that about sums it up. And when I arrive at daycare and get to the door of the closing room (it has one of those half-doors so you can look in and down on your little precious sweethearts, giving you a moment to decide if you want to let them out yet), I see his itty face staring up at me, usually fashioned in a silly smirk, frozen like a statue until he busts into a fit of giggles when I say... what on Earth is that face you're making? How was your day? I missed you so much! Let's help Miss Heather clean up and get your coat on.

Bug's daily reports in his tiny cartoon-character voice go something like this:

In the closing room doorway:
Me: 'How was your day?'
Bug: 'Dood!'
Me: 'Hmmm. Well, I read in your notebook that your car was on red today.'
Bug: 'Is dat wat miss sawah or miss mewanie said? Betuzz, my tar was on wed, but dat's otay, wight, mom, betuzz, well, I was ownwee a yittle bit bad (using his fingers to make a 'yittle' measurement), so I tan still have chocat milt and watch Mittee, wight?'
Me: 'Ummmm, well, I think that you... wait, what?'
Bug: 'Otay. I yov you, mom. I tan still pway Skywanders when we det home. You are da best mommy in da whole wuurrld. Yet me dive you a hud. I don't want my hat on, jus my hood. Otay, mom? Yet's go. Buyeeeee, miss hea-der.'
Me: (Sigh.) 'Let's talk about this more in the car.'

Car:
Me: 'Ok, bug, tell me why your car was on red.'
Bug: 'I don ra-membur (shrugs shoulders, raises teeny eyebrows and smirks). Do I have any dummies (gummies) in da car?'
Me: 'No, there are no gummies left in the ca, bug. Let's discuss your behavior at school today. We only use gentle hands with friends. If someone is not sharing, you walk away and play with something/someone else. And we always listen to our teachers, right?'
Bug: 'But... Otay...'
Me: 'What are we going to do tomorrow?'
Bug: '(Sigh) Mate betturrr deschizions...'

After several weeks of cars on red and some random great days in between (I have no idea how those suprisingly intersperse...) it culminated in this note last Tuesday: 'Bug had a rough morning and his car was moved to red for not following center rules*. (There was really an asterisk). At the bottom of the page, it read: *'Please see Mrs. Smith tomorrow when you drop bug off.'

Me: OH, sugar honey iced tea!!!!!

And, so I show up early to do the 'hold my hand-let me show you-I need another tiss-and a hud-wait-don't go to work-I want you to stay here' drop off dance. Then I'm able to sneak away into the director's office. Both the assistant and head director of the daycare center are present. I am nervous. (And if I spoke that it would be with a high-pitched voice for effect - NERRR-vous!).

They shut the door (never a good sign) and proceed to tell me both the most hysterical and comforting story I could have endured that morning. I was sweating, worrying if I'd have to switch centers and find a place to take him mid-year, where would that be? (Who wants an angel-faced, teacher-hugging, yet insubordinate toy-chucking, rough houser)? Would tuition be higher? But he'll miss his friends and teachers and I-am-getting-a-migraine! At last, they deliver the news:

Daycare Director's Office:
Director 1: 'Yesterday during circle time, around 9 a.m., when parents were droppiong off the half-day kids, we realized that Bug was sitting there without any pants on.'
Me: (GASP!) 'Oh. My. Goodness.'
Director 2: (chuckling)
Director 1: 'Yes, soooo, we were wondering if he ever does this at home? Because this was about the 4th time.'
Me: 'Oh, dear. Wow, yes, he likes to surprise us every few weeks and he'll just go streaking through the house. And just this weekend at his cousin's birthday party, actually. Heh-heh. Luckily, most everyone was gone by then.'
Director 2: (giggling)
Director 1: 'Ok, well, that makes us feel a lot better that it's not just here. And so, it's not a huge deal, but as he gets older, it will be, so if you could just talk to him and let him know that he needs to keep his clothes on.'
Me: 'Yes, yes. Of course, ummm, we will talk to him. That's important. Clothes. Yes.'
Director 2: 'Hee-hee.'
Me: 'Lately, he's been a little funny and freaky about socks being too tight on his toes, jeans being to scratchy or stiff...'
Director 2: 'That's what he said, maybe he's developing a sensory thing, where he doesn't like certain textures against his skin...? At least he had an answer. Most kids are like, 'I don't know...''
Director 1: 'All right, we appreciate you staying to talk about this. We know you are busy. Thanks very much.
Me: 'No problem, thank YOU. We will talk to him tonight and explain the importance of... clothes.'

Car:
To myself: Pwaaaah-heee-heee-haa-haa.... ooooh boy.
Hubbie: (on the phone) Is everything ok, what did they say?
Me: 'OMG... haaaa... you won't believe this one. Our... child... is... streaking... at... school! Yesterday, during story time... during parent drop off, they looked over and there he was, listening intently, with no pants on!'
Hubbie: 'Thank god. Gotta go. Love you, bye.'
To myself: 'Sigh... ahhh. Never. A. Dull. Moment. Priceless.'