Today I am... Reflective. Nostalgic. Thankful.

It is the one-year anniversary of my father's passing. One year ago today we experienced tragic loss when a brain tumor took my dad after a mere 5 and a half weeks after his diagnosis with Glioblastoma - the Tsunami of brain Cancer.

It seems like yesterday and it seems like 5 years ago that all of this happened. The images are blurry and truncated and edited haphazardly in my mind. But the mind, ironically as we're discussing, is an amazing instrument. My brain conjured up a moment-by-moment recount of every scene that took place one year ago today.

5:45 a.m... we were waking up from our non-sleeping stupor at the hospital, anticipating the inevitable.

9:15 a.m.... hearing someone wailing and shuttering and realized that it was me. My dad was gone.

3:45 p.m.... picking up our son from school and telling him the news and feeling like I punched myself in the stomach while watching his poor little face contort and attempt to comprehend this ridiculous story we were telling him. How could it possibly be?

All 364 days after... trying to piece together the new normal. It's not easy. We were a close family. We lost our rock. A healthy, vibrant, young mountain of a man who seemed impossible to break. How do you rebuild your life when your king of the mountain falls? How do you sketch a picture of the grandfather your young (and unborn) children, nephews and nieces will never know? How do you continue to answer mind-blowing, spiritual, medical, philosophical and non-sensical 7 year-old questions from a grieving grandson who idolized the very air that his hero-Papa breathed?

I don't pretend have solved the riddle or had some big epiphany and now magically possess the answers to any of these questions. What I do know is that I've tried to emulate how my father lived and it has helped me heal a little more each day. My dad was strong and stubborn and smart and so very supportive. He was beloved by his family and friends and co-workers and neighbors. He was honest and lived life to the very fullest. He stopped to smell the roses and his glass was always half full.

Capturing that vigor, zest, joy and adventure and infusing it into my life a little bit has been a particularly challenging effort, but I am not giving up. My parents also gave me the type A personality gene which means (and close friends already know this!) I am pretty high-strung, a neat freak, a worry wart and like things just so. I've pushed harder and tried new, difficult things, worried less, called old friends and let the dishes sit for a minute. I am still working on 'uni-tasking', as a guest author so comically described in her short essay in this month's Real Simple. That is going to take some time but I am getting there. (As I sit here, eating, writing, checking email, cleaning out my purse, making a Thanksgiving shopping list and picking out a paint color for the dining room while on a conference call).

There is not really an adjective to describe how I am today or how I feel. All I know is that I feel differently than one year ago, hiking through this, as my sister called - life lesson. We're learning as we go and are trying to grow. Grief doesn't have a stopwatch, an hour-glass, an expiration date. It also doesn't have a face, as Cheryl Strayed said in Wild (just finished this morning, btw). So you never really know how or what or where or when someone is grieving because it can take on an immeasurable array of styles, forms, stages and expressions.

I decided that today my face of grief is appreciative, thoughtful and hopeful. A friend has said that he thinks 2013 is the year for good things to happen. He's been repeating this mantra for a few months now. It's starting to catch on.

So here's to you, Dad. I'll miss your gigantic smile, your killer cooking, your infectious holiday spirit, your amazing energy, your larger than life love for our boys, your incredibly generous heart and unconditional support.

What I never said or even thought to say when you were here was how proud I was of you for all of those things. We said 'I love you' regularly. We knew how very honored you were to be our father, but I wish I could have told you how proud I was to be your daughter and was lucky enough to be loved by you.

Cheers from down here.

Suffering Sugarplums... Where Did I Put That Blanking Elf on the Shelf?

Every stinkin' year my husband and I play this accidental game of 'where'd we stash the Elf'? You know who I'm talking about right? This little imp:

We introduced Noah to the Elf concept around age 3-1/2. I thought it was brilliant, what perfect candy-coated holiday bribery to assist us in our discipline and behavior model. I was seduced by his cute facial expression and playful story. We enjoyed moving his magical little self around the house and reveled in Noah's adorable reactions when the Elf, tada, had appeared the next morning in another silly and peculiar location. Pwah! I giggled but was surprised a few years ago when a friend said that 'those perfect Elf on the Shelf mommies' were annoying. Hmph, I thought - this is cute, fun, the kids love it. But then I had my second child. Our elfin spirits (Skinny Girl White Cranberry is nice for the holiday season) went down the drain.

This effing E.O.T.S. has become nothing more than a pint-sized pain in our rears every time the holiday nears. Cringe... Sorry, I did just say that, friends who really look forward to this tradition and have six kids to my two and think I am a humbug. Not exactly, I adore the hap-happiest season of all! Especially the parties for hosting and marshmallow (martinis) for toasting.

But back to the Elf-capades in our family. See... Noah got older. We got lazier. Noah became almost hostile (hands on hips, curled up lip) if the elf remained in his current location we forgot to move the elf. It was tramatic. We felt enormous mommy-daddy slacker guilt. And, we started running out of perfectly reasonable reasons why the Elf did not move even though Noah was well-behaved that day. It really started messing with the kid's head. Poor guy.

Courtesy of ElfontheShelfideas.com

Same story every year in our house - Elf (a.k.a. Mickey-Mouse-Baby-Elf, a.k.a. Chippey like in the 2011 E.O.T.S animated feature...) arrives from the North Pole around Thanksgiving (some years we considered Easter if Noah was being particularly persnickety), with the same game plan: trick the children into thinking that this rosy-cheeked spy is keeping tabs on them all day long and sending his TPS report (cover sheet included) to St. Nick daily.

Yet, over the last two, here's a sneak-peek into our house:
Me: Oh, crap, where did you put the Elf?
Husband: I told you to remind me where I hid it.
Me: Where did you hide it?
Husband: I don't remember, I asked you to remember to remind me!

Then insanity ensues as we argue over where it could be and might be and I moved those boxes to the other storage shelf and why I did that and no, don't look in there that's just holiday decorations from 10 years ago and why am I saving them and OMG why do we continue to put up with the chaos around this Elf?

It ends up this way... around December 5th-ish...

Husband: Look what I found in my sock drawer?
Me: Wow, didn't you see him everyday for the past 11 months when you got your socks?
Husband: I think this thing is possessed, I opened the drawer this morning and he was peeking out at me with those beady little eyes.
Me: That is just creepy. Clown-creepy.

Courtesy of ElfontheShelfideas.com

And so, we begin the Elf on the Shelf tradition all over again. I cannot wait to share these stories and memories with Noah and Rowan when they get older and how one year I debuted the Elf in our mailbox and scared the living daylights out of the postal carrier.

The Trick's on Mom

Halloween is my silly ramp up to the holiday season!

Goofy, giddy, gory, whatever. The dressing up, decorating the house, choosing pumpkins from the patch and carving them up - mess and all... I've had a blast doing all of these creepy cool things with my little kids over the last 7 years.

Noah was rearing to go, in his dirt-bike costume and skeleton bucket, which he traded in for a Target plastic bag because it held more, lol. Despite the rain, he and our little neighbor friend were on a serious, strategic, candy-finding mission. And efficient, those two! We were out and back in 45 minutes. At times, yelling at us parents and my mom to hurry up - ha! They practically ran the entire way. Those houses participating despite the storm were few and far between... about every 5 or 6 houses and the wind was blowing and well, it was kind of miserable. But, all in good fun. It's a tradition, and I was happy to participate with my son one more year... until he outgrows this and me and because the years, they are whizzing past me and cackling like a witch on a broom! Don't look now, but another year has almost passed us by. What's next, the great Santa conspiracy and cover up? Ugh, my heart aches just thinking about it.

A good friend at work just told us the other day that he thinks his son doesn't believe, or has caught on and may be trying to hide the fact that he knows... and it made us all so very sad to hear that. Luckily, unlike the neighbor boy, Noah is not embarrassed to be seen with me and (cross fingers) he is still wide-eyed and excited about the prospect of old St. Nick.

So the neighbors. Poor parents. Their child, the youngest of three, told his mom and dad that they needed to stay back when he saw a pack of kids from school. They smiled, but ouch! It had to hurt. I don't know. With two older boys I guess that they've had their share of this 'growing up' behavior, but from the baby of the family... I would have cried. Sniff, sniff.

Now let's talk about Mr. Rowan. 2 going on 42. Remember last year? Yes, well. Buy, cry, repeat. The 2011 garden gnome was a bust as you may recall. But I still get whoops and hollers when people hear that he was a gnome last year. OMG! THAT IS THE CUTEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD/SEEN... THERE WERE EYE BROWS, AND A BEARD?  I know, I am still this excited about that costume and I am saving it for my sister's children. Like it or not, we are dressing her future trick-or-treaters up as a monkey, a gnome, Woody and... this. It already has an eBay tag, "Never Been Worn."

What Rowan was supposed to be for Halloween.

Ok, he had a cold and was a bit out of sorts and I wasn't about to take him into the rain anyhow. But I really just wanted one little photo of him in the costume. Granted, he picked the thing out himself. Thought of the idea all on his own. He wanted to be "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse." So when the costume came. I opened, slide the package in front of him (yes, while he was watching Mickey on TV) and let him get used to it slowly. I peeked from around the kitchen doorway to see the progress. He looked to his left, down at the package, pulled it closer and stared for a minute, then continued watching Mickey. I gave him another few minutes then went in to make the pitch. I had to be joyful and easy-going, but not too over-the-top excited or this would all blow up in my face. I just went for it and asked how he liked his costume and did he notice that it was like Mickey's on the Halloween special. He didn't say he didn't like it, but the ears? They were a non-starter.

Costume manufacturers, please listen up: infants, toddlers and pre-schoolers do not like in any way shape or form, a head piece, hat, etc... with a tie string that goes under the chin. Not having it, no way, no how. Why do you continue to make these? Ugh. So the ears ruined the whole thing. But, um, you kind of need Mickey ears to be Mickey. So I removed tie strings and fashioned the ears on to a regular snow hat and we were golden. Carousel costume shop veterans, you would have been proud!

Right, so we're back from trick-or-treating with the big kids and Rowan wakes up. I give him about 20 minutes to refresh and approach him gently about putting on his costume to finish handing out candy to the kids. Without looking up from the iPad... watching, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, of course... he gives me a curt 'no.' I think I asked maybe 6 different ways from Sunday to get this kid into the costume. I bribed, my mom was the wing-nana, offering up even more elaborate ideas and bribes as we go desperate. I think she offered him money at one point. Hysterical. Now, mind you, we're doing all of this like someone trying to catch a dangerous animal. Not getting to close, not making any quick movements. It was like Honey Boo Boo meets the Discovery Channel up in there.

I think he looked up one time from the iPad and gave us a 'nope. I don't yant to, mom.' And so my dreams were dashed. No, seriously. It's all good, and my mom and I had a great time cracking up at the length to which we stretched ourselves to con this headstrong little 2 year-old into a costume. It was truly a sitcom. Good memories.

Maybe next year?

Shades of Pink

You've had to be living under a rock if you haven't noticed
that (the new mini iPad is coming) and October is
Breast Cancer Awareness Month. 

 

My husband and I caught this site over the weekend in my hometown and it inspired me to write a little about Breast Cancer today.

I've been lazy.

It got colder and a little rainy after the Akron Marathon, and my knee is still a little achy... which was a fantastic excuse to cut back on running. So naturally, I've been eating lots of Insomnia Cookies in the middle of the day. And it's budget-training-end-of-year time (I left 25 other 'times of year' out to save space) at work so I've been drinking more coffee and getting headaches and back-aches from not getting up to walk around enough. I will not give up the heels, sorry.

The work-home-wife-mom-thing is exhausting. It just is. I'm not exercising as much and eating pure crap (Motts gummies are really good, ok?) so of course, I have less energy. I am irritable when the chocolate milk spills and when the dog wants to go out for the 5th time in two hours. Do you see where this is going? Exactly. Nowhere. So while wallowing in my own self-pity about being a lazy-junk food-eating, grouch... I went to my source of zen: my blog list, to see what else might be happening in the world that could be a bit more interesting than me. It turns out there is a lot.

As you know, I follow AndersonFamilyZoo on my blog list - a fellow mama blogger who is battling breast cancer. She has opened my eyes wide to this disease, the horror of the news, the trials and tribulations of treatment, the tragic, raw emotion of living with Cancer and still trying to be a good wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend... I read her posts several times a week and wonder, what can I do? And how does she do it? How does she find the energy and gumption and bravery to keep writing - well, I get it. It's therapeutic for me, too.

On top of this, our good friend Jaime Lenhart featured a young family on her photo blog, This Is Life, with a new baby girl who's mama underwent a mastectomy while pregnant and just started chemo after the birth of her daughter. What amazing memories they've captured in these photos, and you look at the love radiating from her face and her husband's smile and their daughter's beautiful expressions and the emotion of it all just reaches out and shakes you through the computer screen (as my pal B in Columbus would say).

I would say that 2012 has been a banner year for promotion of Breast Cancer awareness and infiltration of pink in sports, fashion, media... I've seen and heard more about Breast Cancer awareness than ever before, which is so amazing. "Pink" is front and center this year in the NFL. What a great move to get the message out there.  Nothing better than seeing big dudes crashing into each other with pink socks and gloves on. Why they didn't incorporate pink tutus is beyond me. Now that would have been MUST. SEE. T.V.

All of this pinkness got into my system and since I've been strapped to my chair-computer screen-keyboard (compound word because it feels like I am one with the chair-computer screen-keyboard these days... Dell should just sell corporate units with an espresso machine built right in... yes, it's like that lately). But I digress. I've been zoning out lately, that was a moment. I think that once you or someone in your family has experienced any kind of Cancer, you feel this kindred connection to others who also endure, suffer and are impacted by the disease. Any Cancer that you, a family member or friend has endured is the worst kind. We're all in this together.

I thought I'd take a break to write about Breast Cancer and what pinky things we can learn, do and make others aware.

Here are some facts, thanks to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. In 2012, it is estimated that among U.S. women there will be [35]:

• 226,870 new cases of invasive breast cancer (includes new cases of primary breast cancer among survivors, but not recurrence of original breast cancer among survivors).
• 63,300 new cases of in situ breast cancer (includes ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) and lobular carcinoma in situ (LCIS), of those, about 85 percent will be DCIS). DCIS is a non-invasive breast cancer and LCIS is a condition that increases the risk of invasive breast cancer. Learn more about DCIS and LCIS.
• 39,510 breast cancer deaths. ]
• Don't forget, men can be diagnosed with Breast Cancer as well.

And there are many variables, including age, ethnicity, family history as well as a myriad of other health factors to consider. What we do know is that there is much more research to be done to help find a cure for this disease and its many forms.

Before the end of the month, I wanted to share some local things that you and your family can do - little things that won't break the bank, to help this battle that affects at least 2-4 people you know. Seriously. It's very sobering to think about just how many family, friends, acquaintances, co-workers, you know who are dealing with this devious disease. Let's get out there, buy pink, walk, talk, run, and of course, ladies - doing the monthly check. It's a necessary evil - but get to it.

Here are some fun and fashionable things to check-out... cool products to get your message of support across and some in which proceeds go to breast cancer research: (I've ordered them my what I think is the chicest or most fun and unique.).

1.  Rockin' BC Awareness Tee-Shirts from Cafe Press.
2.  Aveda, Bobbi Brown and Scunnci all have pink products to benefit Breast Cancer Research this month. Search any of these products on-line, or check our Marie Claire, which featured some of the cutest in their October issue and at Marieclaire.com/
3. Local retailers and organizations with official Pink products, including the University Hospitals gift shop.
4.  Cream cheese with that? Cleveland and Pittsburgh Panera's have been battling it out all month with their Pink Ribbon Bagels. Go grab one before they're long gone.

Breast Cancer is not just an October thing or a spring-thing when the 3 day walks pop up, but an all-the-time, all year-long thing and an every day thing for many women (and men). I admit I don't think about it a lot and we all should. For you and the ones you love and even for the ones you connect with through the computer screen.

Pink it up!

Monkee Love & Mama Warriors

I was feeling a little, oh, whoa is me today. You know, tired, stressed, worried about meeting deadlines, did Noah remember to return his library books and his mouthguard for football practice.

The plan was to work through lunch because I am up to my eyeballs this week and I decided grumpily that I would take a quick break to read up on my fav bloggers. I didn't have the energy to write anything significant or remotely interesting on my own today.

So, I share with you, tears still drying - recent posts from three amazing mom writers and warriors on my blog roll.

Go ahead. Read and try not to be moved today. I still need to compose myself before I open this door.


http://andersonfamilyzoo.wordpress.com/

http://jendawnscowgirlup.blogspot.com/

http://momastery.com/blog/


Kind of puts things in perspective for a grouchy working mom who didn't get her Starbucks today.

I'm doing just swell and that grimace has turned into a healed, humbled smile.

Anatomy of a Sick Day (with a 2 year-old)





Photo courtesy of National Geographic

The 5:00 a.m. wake up call was not my alarm blaring, but a 2 year-old siren through the fog... mommy, CROUP, the siren barked. Ugh. He didn't speak this to me at that point in the morning, but the seal-like sound coming from his little voice was enough to confirm.

Sick days are ridden with guilt from missing work, a little annoyance for giving up another PTO day that could have been used during the holidays and all of that work you're getting behind on at the office.

As I set my 'out-of-office' assistant for email... I gulped and wondered how wild the day would be. The drop off of the older child with sick child in tow is always an interesting dilemma. Take sick child into school while dropping off older child and risk getting others sick... um, no choice, really. It was only 2 minutes and we did not touch or breath on anyone, truly!

We made a pit stop at the pediatrician to get all fixed up and my sweet little monkey fell asleep in the car. He took a decent nap and I did things like, open up my iPad to check and REPLY to work email, without crying in the background clouding my judgement and causing me to overlook auto-text... resulting in a very inappropriate email to a superior... Nope. None of that thankfully.

I made an actual pot of my fav flavored Decaf and drank it, while it was hot. I did some laundry. I put away some dishes. I responded accurately to some more work emails. This wasn't so bad.

So that crappy croupy, start to our sinus-infection day was not going to a be a nightmare after all, but would be conquered by lots of love and affection and a little blue blankie. Row was cuddly and despite his running 'lil button nose, he was in a decent mood. I think he hugged and told me he loved me 10 times that day. My sick-day stigma was melting. I admit it, I had my guard up, ready for throw-up and snot and tantrums for no good reason other than he doesn't feel well. I was in my 'ready-to-fend-off-grouchy-stance'... and deflect and re-route and all of those home-with-sick-toddler methods. But I didn't need them. I always wonder when the sickie isn't so bad (no fever, fairly decent mood) to send them to daycare. But I am always so very glad that I keep them home. That day with extra-special attention from mommy is what speeds up that healing process, don't ya think? That and Toy Story, 12 or so times.

What I got to ENJOY, was lots of just be-ing time, Rowan and me. I got to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Did you know that Martian Mickey talks with auto-tune? Hollywood, hmph. He's green, BTW.

I got to share grapes out of a Lightning McQueen bowl. I got to play Sponge Bob Connect 4.

And, I learned that my child is sort of a pro at Play dough. Not impressed? OK. Well. It never occurred to me to drag the Play dough out of the playroom in the basement. It was on the high shelf.

Noah grew out of it about three years ago. When Rowan asked me to play Play dough, I though - huh? We've never done that before. So I took a mommy-pass and sort of ignored the question. When he asked for the third time, I reluctantly said, okay and we went to grab it from the basement, pushing down all of my obsessive tendencies and picturing neon pink and green putty smashed into my light tan carpet... I know, I know. Relax a little, right? The kid wasn't feeling well... I get it.

And, laugh if you will, but while shaping old, practically disintegrated Play dough, I had a mommy-epiphany, that I was seeing my little baby (2 year-old toddler) doing something well, something that I didn't know he could do. Yes, it's just Play dough. (He's also a pro on the iPad, BTW). BUT, I had this pride swell up inside of me and got all teary-eyed. I thought - what a schmuck for taking this day for granted. Your baby boy likes Play dough and asked you to play with him. And you did and you had fun watching him. And he was over the moon that you sat in the little blue chair at the kid craft table for a half and hour rolling colored dough and sticking funny faces on them while periodically stopping to wipe his nose. It was a moment. As lackluster as it may seem, it touched me. Watching his little fingers make shapes and use the tools. It was really cool.

Jason burst my bubble by telling me that they probably have been playing with it in pre-school for months, you know, once they could almost guarantee that everyone in the class had grown out of the urge to eat it. Thanks, thanks a lot. I was thinking we had a Michael Angelo on our hands. But still. Row made some ultra special Play dough shapes on our special sickie day. Really. Good. Times.

I am still envious of moms who get to be with their kids for more hours of the day than I do on a more regular basis... and know that their 2 year-old is a pro at Play dough. And yet, how in the Sam
hell do you do it? Every day, all day? The hours simply evaporate. How does that happen? The day just literally happens TO you and then it's time to make dinner and then you're giving baths and starting showers after sports practice or playing outside, and what a minute? Didn't I stay home today? Exhausting...!

All in all, thank you Rowan, and all your sniffles, for giving mommy a lovely day to open her eyes and enjoy what she complains about missing while she's at work... more time with you.

Signs

We're back in session, but the road to the first day of the 2012 school year hasn't been easy, if not downright difficult. Not like Prince Harry's-privates-on-the-Internet-stressful, but kinda hard.

The nervousness stemmed from a few places.

What 2nd grade teacher would Noah get this year? Would he or she be... kind and patient AND still be excited about her job... AND understand/have experience with ADHD? Would Noah learn and grow this year under her guidance? Would the school system cooperate and get the darned IEP in place so he could have the help he needs to excel? Our boy is a smart little dude and over the last year and a half, he hasn't felt like it, and that is so very sad. Mama bear's agenda this year is to change that, soon!

After Noah's 12-week session at Brain Balance, we took a little break, and picked up with once-a-week tutoring sessions with a retired teacher from his school system. She had substituted for his class a few times in 1st grade. Not knowing what to expect, and having lackluster experience the past two years, I wasn't anticipating much, to be perfectly honest. Can I just say that Miss V. is absolutely wonderful? Lord, I wish she was still teaching. Her rapport with Noah is fantastic. She gets him to open up, relax, try new things and, it just really blew me away. Miss V. is the one who asked which teacher Noah would have and when we weren't sure she suggested a new teacher coming from another elementary school in the city. By some divine intervention we were able to make that request and were granted our wish: Noah has Mrs. Amazing for 2nd grade.

We met Mrs. Amazing on a steaming hot Thursday evening open house. Never mind that her second-floor classroom has no air, that she had probably already been there for 4 hours setting up in that heat, spoken to almost all 24 of her students and their guardians and there at 5:40 p.m., she was bright and cheery and just plain rolling with it, as I tried to fill her in on Noah's situation, chase a 2 year-old around the classroom, and look like I was a mom who had it all together. My thoughts going in were this: Please please, like your job. Please, please still like children. Please, please have a good attitude and please, PLEASE don't treat me like I am an idiot. Oh, does Mrs. Amazing fit the bill. Yes, she already knew about Noah and what tips did we have? Yes, they filled her in on the testing and she'd be sending in the evaluation soon. Of course, she would happily try everything I suggested and, by the way, there were some other great ideas she would try. And, there were other children in her class with IEP's and she was ready to roll with whatever she needed to do. Can you say that again, please? Um, THANK YOU! Thank You. Thank you. thank YOU. THANK you.

I think a hole opened up in the ceiling of the classroom, to the roof of the elementary school building. Then a fuzzy, washed beam of light shone down over her head, a halo appeared and I saw my dad's smiling face - giving me the thumb's up! He-he. At least that's how I felt and it was a magical moment.

So. Freaking. Cool. I can't describe the feeling when you've been advocating for your child and keep stubbing your toe and tripping over roadblocks and then some amazing person comes along and says, 'Hey, it's going to be fine, here, let me help you.' It feels good by the way.

I think, I know that Noah is going to have a good year. I can just feel it. Mrs. Amazingly-Wonderful and her Wise Owl theme, her welcoming ways, her open-house party gifts for the students, and the way she was not bothered by Rowan drawing all over her instructions on the SmartBoard... (the kid is obsessed with technology... what can I say?) was my tangible sign that things are going to be good this year. Noah is going to feel like he belongs in the classroom, with his classmates, learning new things and enjoying it along the way. Yeah!!! I'm just little bit excited.

The next bit that had been gnawing at me was the fact that our school system cut busing to and from all daycare centers, as well as nixing many local bus stops. Daycare had kindly offered to walk their before and after kids to and from a bus-stop a few blocks down the road and were denied; that bus-stop was cut as well. A whole community of moms and dads and guardians and grandparents took a collective sigh and said, 'really?' Like our lives as working caregivers to our children is not hard/wild/crazy/exhausting enough?

Because of the busing cut-back, the lovely, lovely, wonderful daycare where Row goes every day, where Noah got on and off the bus for the past two years, had to close their before/after program for school-agers, making a painful dent in the revenue for the church. Sad and inconvenient as hell for parents. (I just realized that I used church and h-e- double hockey sticks in the same paragraph - sorry about that.) Now I am doing morning drop-offs at two different locations, in opposite directions. Go, Mommy, go!

Luckily for us, after about a 4-week freak-out period, the school told us that the YMCA would be coming into the elementary schools and doing a before and after program. Deep breath, OK, there was somewhere for my still-little-but-practically-a-big-kid 2nd grader to hang in familiar surroundings until class started and until I picked him up after work.

Um, I have to admit, though, that I was a little nervous. I pictured a big, stinky, noisy gym with dozens of kids of all ages running around and little supervision, and the ability to easily slip into shenanigans and sex talk and DS players with Internet access... need I say more?

But, as they say in daycare, 'you get what you get and you dont' have a fit.' So, Monday was the day.  Noah is officially a second-grader. He was handsome-as-heck in his summer cruise wear slash early school year garb: white polo with surf graphic images and checked shorts. He even let me (barely) do his hair. This means I was permitted to wet it and put a tiny amount of gel, comb to the side and spray it with a tad bit of spray and not an ounce more of prepping. Back away mom, back away.

Our morning cruised along (not at break-neck speed as usual), everyone was up, fed, dressed, teeth gleaming and out the door by 7:15. I'll have you know that this is a world-record! We had a few tiny hiccups, 1.) Waking Noah up so exhausted that he asked me at one point 'just not to talk to him anymore,' and 2.) Rowan figuring out that Noah wasn't staying with him at daycare, followed by the slow motion wave and pouty lip at goodbye. A lil sad, but schwew, not so bad.

This was shaping up to be a Starbuck's morning - (def.): A morning in which Jennifer has ample time to swing by a Starbuck's driv-thru on the way to work and still arrive on time. 

We arrived at Noah's school and there were few cars, but the front door welcoming us, and we got a glimpse of the cooks getting a little air from the side door while they busily made breakfast. I saw Noah's shoulders relax, these two things must have been comforting reminders. You know, who doesn't get that nostalgic feeling with the smell of tater-tot casserole in the morning? Right? No? Just kidding. I believe that is on the menu, though. We pack. OK, moving on! Northeast Ohio Initiative for Healthier School Lunches 2014, right?

Just as we were walking up the sidewalk, a mini-van mom pulled up to drop off her daughter. Noah and I looked at each other, obviously thinking the same thing, 'ok, this is legit.' As we approached the door, Tommy, the nice dad of two who took our tuition payment over the weekend, peeked his head out... Noah recognized him and waved. "Hi guys, we're right in here," Tommy said, and as we got closer to the chatter of elementary students, I saw the sign that made me think that this was all going to be OK. A simple sign with four block-style capital letters, YMCA, colored in crayon. "Hi, Noah! Come on in!" said one of the Y aides, greeting us with a genuine smile. (Mom: impressed; Noah: comfortable). 10 points for the YMCA.

We walked in and backpacks were stacked neatly in the corner, there were about a dozen well-behaved kids coloring pictures. Paige, the youngest of the YMCA aides on duty that morning, was right in there making her own project and enjoying it. OK, good stuff. When someone asked to verify Noah's name and sign him in, a little tan Blondie with pig-tails turned and said with a heck of a lot of sugar in her voice, 'Nooooaaaaah' and smiled. I looked down and him and smiled and he looked like a deer in headlights. (Giggles). When I bent down to hug and kiss him good-bye and give him good-day wishes, I asked if he knew anyone, he silently shook his head. When I said, 'what about the girl', he cracked a little smile. That was a sign that he was going to be just fine. Everything was going to be just fine.

Now, the part about him wanting a Facebook page 'so he can meet hot girls...' damned Justin Beiber.

Happy Birthday Dad

Today my dad would have celebrated his 56th birthday casually, he and my mom probably laughing with close friends, over a great meal and a good glass of wine.

We would have toasted him with a family barbecue, him swimming with our boys and eating a cake that my sister or I made... and presents picked out by his grandsons.

Yesterday, the family gathered for a good Italian meal, reminisced about what my dad would have ordered and enjoyed one another's company at my parents house over birthday cake and ice cream. It was the double-chocolate cake from the local bakery that dad adored.

We used Sharpies to inscribe thoughtful, touching, funny and loving messages to my dad on balloons and let them off simultaneously while singing happy birthday. There were some tears, some laughter, some reflection, but most importantly there was a family connection made there yesterday. One where we vowed to see each other more than just on the major holidays, not only in honor of my dad but out of respect and love for each other's company and shared memories of good times celebrated together over the years... and because life is too short not to make the effort.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Today you would have shrugged off the ticking of the clock as you grew one year older and shared some infinite wisdom about age...

What I want to tell you today is that although the last 9 months have been incredibly difficult for all of us, we've been trying to live life like you did... and that means out loud. Smelling the roses and picking ourselves up by our boot straps. Through the eyes of our children. Unconditionally living and loving.

That's what today means to me. Trying to overcome the sadness of losing you, and embracing your style of experiencing life... wholeheartedly. Thanks Dad for giving me the strength to see that's what you would want me to do.

Rowan sang 'Happy Birt-day to Papa' in the bathtub on Saturday and Noah says something amazingly mature and insightful about you almost daily. You would be so proud of them, dad.

I know you are up there watching us clumsily trying to be parents and siblings and friends and daughters and sons and we thank you for being the Northern Star we can look to when we're lost.

Your buddy,

Jen

Clean Spot on My Floor

When was the last time you were down on your knees underneath your kitchen or dining room table? I mean, really crouched down there to explore up close, the alternate universe that exists where only your broom, mop or Swiffer dares to go? I was surprised, a little embarrassed and disappointed in myself, but guess what, I had a panic attack don't really care.

Let me just tell you that I thought my home was fairly clean. People say that when they visit. I believed them. I worked pretty hard to keep it that way with three boys (two little, one big) and a dog in the house. Until I was forced (on a weeknight - gasp) to get down and clean up what could have been three full cups of Spanish rice from the dining room floor on Tuesday. Sophie, our Weimaranner, is loosing her edge. Normally she would have had that spot licked clean and shining in 1 minute flat, but she's getting older and slower and hard of hearing... so I think maybe she just didn't hear the spill and following comments and grunts from me after the incident.

'Oooopsie, sowwy mommy... I missed it' is what Rowan said. This was just not one spoonful but at least 10 and I think he managed to maneuver three kernels of rice into his mouth per bite. He insists on using a big-boy spoon himself, which is great - we have an extremely independent-minded toddler on our hands, but with rice, it's a little dicey for a self-diagnosed, slightly obsessive mom to watch this taking place. My usual m.o. was like the big spill or each medium-sized spill was happening in slow motion and my eyes and anxiety grew from tiny to mid-size to grandiose.

So, instead of my typical crazy-mommy over-the-top AH! and dramatic holding of breath reaction... "oh, no, Rowan, oh buddy. OK..." ending in a defeated sigh, I smirked and shrugged my shoulders at my hubbie. He raised a suspicious eyebrow at me... because he knew inside I must be twitching. It would get cleaned up after dinner, I decided. I think my husband is starting to like this new found 'whatever attitude' about overzealous (insane) housekeeping... in that I no longer feel that I need to keep the house museum-clean and organized. Yes, I used to act like a curator of our crap. And our place is no MoMa, see my point? A little nuts, I am.

So the rice. There was as much on Rowan's lap, cuffs of his shorts, booster chair and dining room chair as there was on the floor... you could have scooped it up and put it in a cute little Chinese take-out box.  How does one pick up cooked Spanish rice from a wood floor? Had I asked the 7 year-old he probably would have offered a quippy, 'chopsticks, mom?' It clings to your broom, a Swiffer just pushes it around in nice little clumps and it would clog the vacuum (yes, I pondered that and was too spent to go get the Shop vac from the basement)... Sophie wasn't lapping it up quick enough for my liking. I am reasonably fit, but getting into a crouching tiger position to clean anything is ridiculous. Things were cracking and creaking... a sad, sad scene. I'd seriously rather be doing Bikram Yoga. This is when the reality of the lack of effort I have been putting into cleaning under this table. Oh. My. Smashed Pea! Oh. My. Splashed Chocolate Milk on Chair Legs!

I was so very distracted by the spec-tacular village of Whoville residing under my table... that cleaning up the rice took longer than anticipated. Then I saw it, a particularly unfamiliar site. There was a big clean spot on my floor. Crud! Now I have to clean the entire thing, hands and knees, probably with the good wood floor Orange Glo cleaner and a special rag or something. I'm getting lazy in my old age. This would have been an exhilarating Saturday morning a few years ago. I used to clean to release stress. I am a sick, sick woman, I know.

But you'd be proud by the way I've transitioned from a clean freak to lackadaisical mom and wife by measuring the level of crunchiness building on my kitchen floor. Nowadays, I just kick the cereal pieces, random Goldfish or animal cracker to the dog and make Noah pick up those little tabs off of squishy yogurts packets and paper corners from granola bar sleeves. Why can't 7 year-old boys and 37 year-old men throw those portions of the packaging away? Do they really not see that it is still there on the counter or notice it has fallen on the floor? You're not marathon runners, able to simply drink from your Dixie cup, crush it and throw it down! How do you know we'll come by later and automatically pick it up and throw it away? Male readers, you know I still love ya. Dudes, can you please explain this phenomenon to me?

So once I determine whether I can live with the unidentified spec of 'something' for two more days based on it's consistency, stickiness or grossness rating... I spot sweep/Swiffer the rest. Sorry. Heavy cleaning only happens on the weekends. And lately, the heavy cleaning has really been cutting into my early morning peaceful jogs before anyone gets up. Clean floors and empty sink or 45 minutes to myself through a sleeping neighborhood? The Asics and ear buds having been wining out more and more often.

This is ludicrous behavior for me. Unheard of. People will think I have gone certifiably bananas. It's pretty bad, however, when the 2 year-old tells me that after washing his little hands that he also needs to wash his 'peets' (feet) because they are 'duhrr-rteee'... and I inspect them only to find that they're padded with crumbs from the kitchen floor. Yep. That's right. #1. He's a little obsessive like me, poor child, and #2. My floor has perpetual crumbs. Can't keep up. Not gonna stress no more!

If you think this lack of consideration for my families' bare feet is outrageous, check out My Dirty Kitchen Floor: Pages of a Dubiously Pissed Off Housewife. WARNING: sweet, innocent and impressionable followers: author "Donna Freakin' Reed" is a cross between Roseanne Bar and Chelsea Lately, so faint of heart - click with caution! But she is pretty darned hysterical.

It's getting easier to count to ten when the house is obliterated merely 20 minutes after a three-hour cleaning session. I don't stress about Ro dumping three baskets of folded clothes all over the living room floor. The fam is not quite used to this yet, but I've had more time to play trucks and ride bikes and get hit with basketballs and Nerf bullets. And that is what is most important, dirty floors and all.

Always Father's Day to Me

I didn't plan ahead, carve out time or rush to post something on Father's Day. Which is unlike me.

We had just returned home from vacation late Saturday evening and I was toast. There were 27 pieces of luggage, sand toys and beach towels strewn around the living room and I felt like I had been hit by a Mac truck. Not from the exhaustion of traveling and the pending doom of laundry and unpacking, but from was my lack-luster attempt at ignoring the fact that Sunday was Father's Day. It finally hit me on Saturday at about 4 p.m. on Rt. 77 in West Virginia. I was admiring the countryside, the mountains and I was overwhelmed by the absence of my dad. The thought that I would not be able to tell him in person about our vacation, what we did, what we saw, what we ate and how the kids reacted to everything (he liked to know every detail)... that was exciting for him to hear what fun his kids had.

I knew that June 17th was coming. I'd been dreading it since November. True, it's just a Hallmark-invented holiday. However, real meaning has been attached to that day. Everyone wants to show pops a lotta love on his big day. Lowe's and Home Depot were practically out of gift cards. The tool section at Ace dwindled. Every restaurant in the metropolitan area of every state was jam-packed with wives and kids and siblings treating dear old dad to a big breakfast that morning. The discount store card departments had one or two b-list greetings left. I didn't enjoy a lunch hour picking out cards this year. I decided that Father's Day wasn't happening.  

Then it was Sunday afternoon and it dawned on me that I am married and my boys have a dad and he needs to be celebrated. He's such a great guy, husband, father and was a great friend and son-in-law to my father.

Better late than never, the boys presented daddy with a home-made card and a drill that he had wanted. 

It took all I had to walk into that store with toddler in tow and not completely lose it in while walking past the riding mowers and the gas grills. All things that remind me of my dad. Forever a lover of the outdoors - he will always be synonymous with clear sunny days, the smell of barbecue wafting through the neighborhood, teaching our oldest to jump off the diving board, setting up a camp site in my parents back yard for N and cooking s'mores.

For me, dad lives on in my childhood memories in fantastic vacations we took and the activities he and my mom planned for us - Disney, Toronto, Cape Cod, Cancun... to camping in PA with horse-back riding and navigating two canoes full of us without a clue (grandma was in canoe number 1).

More recent memories of pool parties and holiday dinners and Father's Days where we cooked for him (such an unusual occurrence) because his chef hat needed a little rest. Although he would never admit that. Cooking was such a passion for my dad.

I had to dig deep to allow myself to remember these things when all I wanted to do was to forget the sad feelings creeping up around me when I heard all the "Don't Forget Dad this Weekend" sale commercials on the radio. Now that I'm tuned in, Dad, you'll forever be my hero. Thank you for leaving a legacy of such wonderful memories.

Cuss words, snails and puppy dog tails

What I failed to leave out of this post headline was snot... and dirty finger nails and muddy feet (bare feet).  Boys are messy and gross and rough and loud. I know this because I am married to one and have two sons to prove it. My friends and family with girls just don't get it.

My oldest is an outside boy and would play from dusk until dawn, only stopping for an occasional bathroom break (forgetting to put the seat up, of course) or re-hydration.  My little man is obsessed with the fact that older brother (a.ka. 'Bubba') gets to play outside for much longer durations and in varying climates and plants his boogery nose and sticky little hands flat against the front door glass to peer out at what he's missing.

The thing they both have in common thanks to their dad and grandpas and uncles is a love of the outdoors. I am barely used to it from my husband and now, two more Davey Crockett's (who is actually distant cousin on my dad's side - go figure?) in the household. Which means more to come of woodsy, dusty, buggy stuff for mom, a self-proclaimed priss.

We (7) have recently been jumping off of furniture and front porches. We (2) have also been taking after big brother by figuring out how to push the bar stool over to the cabinet and climb it like a monkey to get the animal crackers. So high! So dangerous! No fear! Just ask the matching skinned knees that my boys currently wear like badges of honor.

Not only will it be a summer of grimy feet and even crunchier kitchen floors - we throw a little dirty mouth in there. The 1st grade end-of-year field trip proved to be an early lesson in cuss words, as our 7 year old called them. 'They were all over the place, mom! The B word and funk - do you know that one?' OMG. Thanks very much to shall remain nameless school district, for that little slice of life. I'm sure he would get a 100% on that quiz, since he has been practicing writing the words he learned at the park that day in his notebook. Handwriting is as neat as can be on those treasure words of the week! He cannot stop talking about it and his retention on this information is amazing. Please Lord, do not let him practice reciting or writing this lovely new vocabulary at church summer daycare. Note to self: prepare daycare for such events.

The thing that sends me into a side-splitting bout of LMAO is the goofy, gross, peculiar things that little boys think about and say, so very matter-of-factly. Just when I thought I could not take another second of the bickering going on a few days ago... the 7 year old was a little too close to the 2 year old, tickling a little to hard, which makes the 2 year old scream like a banshee.... Older brother was also practicing voices. After a series of 'stop thats' from me and yelping from the toddler, what came next was just what the doctor ordered because mom was teetering on the edge: 'Hey, mom! I just tried to do my deep scary voice for Ro-Ro and I think I threw up a little bit!'

And there, my friends, is what having boys is all about and I love every single sticky, icky, sweet and lovey bit of them.

Well, almost.

So I recently pontificated lavishly about my silly adventures at the new gym and how I was older and bolder and incapable of being embarassed.

One of my first posts last year was about how I locked my infant in the car in the parking lot of daycare.

I cringe as I choose to share this goofy little story about my unfortunate state of misfortune when it comes to luck, timing, coordination... knowing full well that a few of my followers who haven't known me for very long are shaking their heads and thinking, 'Yikes - disaster-waiting-to-happen!' For your pure enjoyment, people...

It's Tuesday afternoon and I am off from work tending to a snuggly, feverish, little bear... barking since midnight with the croupy cough . I arrived in the driveway around lunchtime after the doctor's appointment where little man received a shot. Boy was he ticked. See, he thought that we just went to see Dr. M. for teh-teez and stiterz (a.k.a. cookies and stickers.) And there, they go ahead and stick him with a sharp instrument and make him cry. He even used the boo-boo pouty lip (arguably, the world record holder for cutest) and that did not save him. I can see the confusion.

Right, so I pulled in (toddler sleeping thank goodness) and get all the crap out of the car (purse, book, diaper bag, etc...) and take it up to the door, put said crap down because I always try to carry too much. Remind me to tell you about carrying too much and getting whalloped in the cranium with the screen door. That was probably concussion-worthy. I'd know, because I got one the time I reached into the dog's kennel to straighten her blanket and lifted my head up to quickly and bashed it on the metal frame. There are more, but we'll save those for another day. Family and friends are nodding their little heads in unison, 'True dat!'

I start to feel around for my house key, which has been typically travelling in the front pocket of my purse because it broke. It was the cool kind with the flashlight top and that cracked and it fell off of my key chain. Bummer. Neither the husband nor I have taken the extra effort to make a new one, so, it travels. But guess what? No key. I searched all twelve cavernous pockets of my purse, looked in every crevasse of the car. Nope. Really. Gone. Al l righty then. Toddler was blissfully asleep in the car still, door open with plenty of air flow, thank you very much... with flashbacks of the daycare locked-out caper and imagining the local police, social services and the local shock TV news station showing up to make me into the next Tanning Mom. "Mom locks self and sick child out of home then leaves child in car with strong-smelling air freshener, apparently due to spoiled chocolate milk sippy that slipped underneath the front seat - live from the scene at 11!

The text to my sister when something like this: "Oh, *&^%$, I am locked out." Her response: "Of where?" Like she was very afraid to ask and even more frightened of the answer. Why I decided to text her is both obvious and ridiculous - she was an hour and a half away and in no position to help anytime soon, but we always text each other about everything and anything that the other would find remotely funny, ironic, stupid or ridiculous. The situation I had just created for myself was more than ridiculous.

The call to the in-laws (thank my lucky stars) when something like this: "Hiiiiiieeeey. Soooo, what are you guys up to??? Where are you? Hmmm, that is nice, ok, weeeellllll... do you think that maybe you could come over real quick because I locked myself out of the house. Mother-in-Law's response: "Yep, we're 25 minutes away - we'll be there as fast as we can." SO. LOVE. THEM.

The call to the husband went something like this: "Hiiiieeeey. How are you? Mmmm-hmmm. Good. Soooo, could you please text the next door neighbor and tell him that we are not being robbed but that I have simply left my house key on the kitchen counter and I am now going to shove my a$$ through the window, by way of the tall ladder that was in the garage. No, yes, no - he's ok... sleeping. Yes, I called them, but can you call and tell them that I am going to crawl through the window? Ha-ha, very funny. Ok, love you too. Bye."

Sooo, while I pondered about who was outside and could see me and whether or not I could physically complete this mission, I picked up after the dog in the back yard, straightened a few things in the garage, pulled a few weeds in the flower bed and then, the conversation with myself went something like this: "Ditz of the decade! You can do this. You birthed two children and an entire hospital saw things that shall never be mentioned again. You can shove your butt through that window, neighbors watching or not and open the freaking door." 

And that is what I did. If I were re-telling these antics in person, it would be in a dramatic whisper. Just getting you in the spirit.  I was quick and gazelle like, the most graceful shimmy up the ladder and side-ways crouch and lean into that window anyone had every scene. When I mean anyone, I am assuming that at least two neighbors were cracking up at my agile performance. Bruno and Carrie would have given me a 10 for sure. The NatGeo network would have documented my moves and possibly offered a reality show. 'Woman and Child Alone on a Weekday Locked Out of Home'.
I know. So ridiculous. Now doesn't that make your week seem better already? It's the weekend, friends.

Enjoy!

Ha! I Laugh in the Face of Humiliation

Today I came downstairs to make breakfast and found the following chicken-scratched note sitting on the island, written by my husband: 

Dear Noah (our 7 year-old son),

This is YOUR lunch today (the note was on top of my husband's red thermal lunch bag).  I am allowing you to take this to school today because your Lightning McQueen lunch bag has come up missing AGAIN.  It is a little embarrassing that I have to take MY lunch in the Green Lantern lunch bag, so please take care of daddy's lunch bag today and bring it home, hopefully with your own bag. If you want to discuss this further, feel free to call me at 1-800-Humiliated.

Now, this note was intended to get the point across sarcastically and it certainly did that. Noah's clear blue eyes were as huge as saucers as I read this note ever-so-dramatically at 7:05 a.m. this morning... leading to a fit of infectious giggles for both of us thinking about daddy carrying that bag into work. I adored my dear husband's ingenuity in teaching our son a lesson when I would have just yelled, in spite of the load of crap he was going to get from the guys at work with that Green Lantern lunch sack. See, my husband works in the construction business. So that's like taking your little sister's pink Hello Kitty lunch bag to Little League practice. What a sweet dad he is. Luckily, he's a big guy, so no one is going to tease him too much, but he's still going to blush.

I so admire my husband's ability to not care what others think or say and make fun of himself. I, too, have that self-deprecating and sarcastic sensibility. But, I absolutely find myself worrying about what others think and say about me. I am a human female. Many of us do that incessantly and kick ourselves for it, then do it some more!

As I get older and wiser become more of a wise ass, I realize that I am starting to crackle. That first transparent layer of ridiculous paranoia about what people think and say is peeling away. Maybe it's because I've experienced a lot of wonderful things and a lot of thorny things and have come out stronger for them. And, I could benefit from taking myself a little less seriously. LIFE. IS. TOO. SHORT. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not a Dr. Phil or Oprah "Aha-moment, it's just that I have discovered that there's usually a hysterical little nugget in my daily life lessons and it feels better to share them than to be down on myself for being imperfect mom, forgetful friend, clumsy running partner, bossy wife, etc... I am cracking up at myself more and finding the humor and irony in things that 10 years ago would have sent me reeling, stressed, blushing and feeling awkward... and ultimately clamoring for more caffeine and chocolate.

Take for instance, my recent conundrum with my workout regimen. I had it down, I had a system, it was humming along and wham. Life - there it goes again. What now? We type-A's don't take kindly to change. We've been busy, our little family. Your busy is not my busy and vice versa, but let's put it this way: dishes sit for more than one evening (fellow OCD and type-A friends, don't gasp... that's why we meet at your place!) and at any given time, one of us cannot find clean socks or underwear. (Sorry, Grandma!) I mean, it's there, it's clean, it's just not easily accessible and probably dwelling in the bottom of a laundry basket somewhere. That's our busy... when there is no time for me to do things that I find fairly essential as a mother and wife and I know it, but I choose sleep instead.

The busy has pushed my workout schedule out of whack. Free time was starting later and later for me, and it was getting toward too late and too tired to go at all. My current gym is only open until 10 p.m. and I was finding an open slot around 9:15. It was just not happening.

So, my husband says, 'you're over on the other side of town three nights a week for appointments, why don't you join the new big modern high-tech gym?' No way, says me: I've seen the billboards, it is some great marketing they are doing, luring other suckers in... but you cannot drag me in there! I could just see it: 0% body fat 20-somethings, Real Housewife-worthy women in full make-up and grunting muscle heads. This imagined scenario was enough to keep me away but the convenience factor was winning out so I decided to take a trip over there and check it out. Chatting with my sister on the phone when I pulled in, I told her that they lost points for no close parking, but I was looking for excuses. I asked her to wish me luck and I headed in.

Sizing up the layout, decor and amount of available fitness equipment, I waited my turn at the check-in desk. As I tapped my foot to Flo-Rida pumping through the ambient speakers, gave them two silent points for the 'cafe' and  I noticed one of their signature branding signs: "This is a No-Judging Environment" or something like that, which made me laugh under my breath because the shear massiveness of the facility is intimidating, their colors are intimidating, the gaggle of people working out in unison was intimidating, and then at the same time, it was pretty impressive. I sighed. Okay, fine! These people look pretty normal. Average Joes and Janes. No one was over-the-top in designer matchy-matchy outfits and no overly-tanned Rock impersonator greeted me at the door. I was starting to let my guard down a bit.

When it was my turn, the young gentleman waiting on me, let's call him Brandon - the Assistant Non-Judgemental Membership Manager, quickly showed me the two seemingly hidden fee-free membership options available. I asked Brandon if I could go ahead with the $19.99 per month deal. Unfortunately you needed your bank's routing number and I do not have those digits committed to memory, so I sifted through my bag and wallet for a check. I told Brandon that I didn't have that information and he was more than psyched to tell me that I could sign up on line. Like using the Internet was novel to me or something. That's really cool, Brandon! My inner-voice mocked... we used to call it the world wide web in the 1990s, you know when Jackass was still on MTV?

Great! I said and as I looked back down at the counter to pick up my membership fliers, and there, in plain sight was a light pink feminine hygiene product that had apparently jumped Alaskan Salmon-style out of my T. J. Maxinista steal of a Michael Kors bag and planted itself on the check-in counter in front of Brandon, on display for all 150 treamillers and the two rather sweaty older gentleman at the cafe to see. I glanced up at mega-gym's 'Judgement-Free' mantra sign, smiled at Brandon, picked up the little pink envelope, dropped it nonchalantly into my bag and told him that I'd see him on Wednesday.

I think I've found my new gym and my newly revealed resistance to humiliation. At least I didn't have to bring my lunch in a Green Lantern sack today. Now that would have been embarrassing. Love you, honey. (Who doesn't read my blog btw...)

Dear Miss Manners:

Growing up, you learn from your parents, your friends on the playground, your teachers, your elders -  what are bad words and what are good words. Bathroom words are a no-no. Vulgar or swear words are punishable. In the workplace, it is bad form to cuss, unless of course it is encouraged for camaraderie.  I always wanted to work at IMG and be a publicist for a big-time rap star, like Sean Combs, a.k.a. P. Diddy, f.k.a. Puff Daddy. I wonder if I would succumb to the pressure and curse right along with him or stick to my morals. My husband is laughing his head off right now reading this because he knows that occasionally, I can hold my own. But with my luck, I'd end up with a client like Aldous Snow in Get Him to The Greek. Jonah Hill's character went through hell and back to "advocate" for his client who was really just misunderstood... okay, that's a stretch but it was a funny movie.

Now that we are grown-ups ourselves attempting to teach our children right from wrong, life occasionally rockets you a fast ball and you're left there stunned, wondering how to refer to a taboo subject, word or phrase that had up until that Milli-second, had not affected you at all. I have yet to read a Miss Manners column on the proper public etiquette for parents to use when discussing or dealing with others in public when your child has ADHD.  If someone has or can find it, send it to me.

In 2012 it is unbelievable to me that some topics are just not socially acceptable to discuss... or at least it seems that way. Maybe it's just me (and my husband, and my family) who are not comfortable with this subject yet and that's why we feel weird talking about it above a whisper or put a file-folder label on it. ADHD! There, I said it.

I used to throw this word around all the time. Using it as an excuse for my forgetfulness, dizziness or new mom-dom. 'Oh, sorry I totally forgot about that... you know, me, I'm so ADD/ADHD.' Because self-deprecation and sarcasm is my number one formula when I do stand-up at work, this comment was always greeted with laughs.

Except now, our seven year-old has been diagnosed with ADHD. I no longer throw around this term.

Yep. ADHD. That's him and we love every single inch of his amazing little noggin. His out-bursts, his jumping-up-and-down interruptions, his incredibly insightful comments and elephant-like memory. Seriously, that kid remembers the craziest, tiny details from when he was like, 3.

I am saying it out loud, I'm serious and I hope that everyone pays attention. No pun intended. Unfortunately, most schools and teachers are not equipped to handle such diagnoses and don't even consider it ADD and ADHD learning disabilities. These students get disciplined over and over, usually inconsistently and unsuccessfully for things they can't control. They get poor marks on tests and projects because they did not understand the directions or could not finish the task. I know it sounds like a typical work day for you or me, but this is real and and I'm not making jokes any longer.

His teachers, god bless them, are trying. I have not agreed with their methods up until our last conference, but after our come-to-Jesus meeting, they are really trying to accommodate. They are doing the best they can. My husband wanted to go in, guns blazing and chastise them for not doing their jobs. Well. I understand, but they are only doing what they know. We cannot blame them for that. It's insane to us, however, that we, the parents, have to educate the school systems about ADHD. My good teacher friends (thank the Lord above for them) tell me that when they were in college, that Attention Deficit was not in their curriculum 15-20 years ago, and as far as they know, it's still not being taught in BA or MA programs. Seriously? The number of children aged 3-17 diagnosed with ADHD was 5.2 million in 2010. 11.2% of those children were boys. Um, I think maybe it's time to add this phenomenon to the educational mix. Yes, we have misdiagnosis and fatigue of the system. But guess what? Our kids still need help. We want them to be successful. They want to be successful.

Our first-grader is bright, oh-so-bright. And sweet, and funny and curious... and boy does he have some energy. See that's what everyone kept telling us. He's a boy. Boys are energetic. After we had all worn that excuse to a nub, I just had a feeling that something else was going on here. We knew that something had to give. The poor little man does not take tests well, has a heck of a time completing his projects in class, carpet-time is actually wiggle and roll around time (I'd also rather be jumping on one leg, staring out the window, but we must try to listen to the story) and it was catching up with him. And this is tough on our tough little guy. As athletic and outgoing and boyish as he is...  he is also super-sensitive. He wears his soul on his sleeve and he doesn't like to be embarrassed. That is what happens. In class, at home and especially at the store when we react to him like any untrained, exhausted, frustrated working parent of two would react at the end of their rope in the middle of Target when he keeps running through the toy aisles like a maze... we reprimand him. We are blushing (that's too nice - sweating, yelling under our breath to 'get back over here this minute or else I'll...') He's clearly ashamed of his wacko parents who can't understand how very exciting it is to go to Target. They have like, eight aisles of toys and bikes and sports equipment and movies and books and Easter candy and a slushy machine at the front near where mommy always gets her coffees at Starbucks and Starbucks has really yummy, big, chocolate chip cookies and... you get it. We're learning. He truly loves us and is being patient.

Dear Miss Manners:


My son has been diagnosed with ADHD. We had a feeling that this is what was going on, but now that we have the official word, it is taking some getting used to. It is a relief to have the information so that we can work on adjustments and accommodations with his teachers for our son in class. He will be starting a tutoring program soon. We are thrilled and so is he - to be finally getting some help.


However, Ms. Manners, can you please give my husband and I some suggestions on dealing with our rambunctious, precocious and lovable child in public? While we are now quite accustomed to his rather excited personality while in Wal-Mart, is it appropriate to give the middle finger to other shoppers who stare and glare tssk and shake heads at my son's over-the-top slide into home base while playing the air guitar reaction to my putting the new gluten free cereal in the cart?
We appreciate any advice you can give us.


Maniacal Mom in M.Town

When she replies, I'll let everyone know.

Watch Out for Flying Tupperware

This is my cautious mantra for 2012. I have several. But I think this sums it all up nicely and puts a little pink bow on it.

I've been trying to keep up with life lately and just when I think, 'Hey, things aren't going too bad here...' Whammo. Just like that, reality hits you in the face. Stress and grief is sneaky that way. La-la-la - SMACK! Tears. Emotion. Not again. What the H!?

Kind of like a flying plastic flour sifter winged with amazing accuracy by your 20 month old. Man, that kid has an arm. Baseball is in this one's future for sure. However, we're going to start by getting his eyes checked because I am certain he did not mean to throw that piece of Tupperware and hit his mama square in the cheekbone... and then make a funny squiggly scrunchy face in jest while I stumbled to my feet for some ice. I prefer to believe that he was just mimicking my expression of pain. I've got to give the kid the benefit of the doubt. He is just too cute and cuddly. But ouch, damn it. That's what I wanted to say but our little Rowan is quite the conversationalist lately and I am also quite certain that he would have incorporated that phrase into his vocabulary immediately.

Why do I even have a plastic flour sifter in my home in the first place is what many who know me may be wondering right now. Because many know that I don't bake much anymore. Well... I have a plastic flour sifter, and a bundt cake pan and other lovely kitchen accessories because my dad's mom, 'Gramma Sally' as my sister and cousins and I have called her since, well...  forever, is the perpetual giver of good, useful things. It all started when I, the eldest of the grandchildren was on my way to college. Anytime gramma stopped by to visit, she had with her a bag of goodies. I remember thinking at the time - I am a college freshman. I don't even know when I'll eat, let alone use pot holders. But, gramma told me that one day Iwould need them, you just never know. And low and behold I left the Ramen Noodles cooking too long in the microwave and the bowl got sizzling hot and my singular dish towel was dirty, but aha! I have a pot holder, somewhere. And there it was. See, I was smart enough to always take all those extra tools, utensils, cookware and etc... with me from dorm to apartment to first home because I never knew when I was going to need them most.
I had been thinking about an old friend over the weekend. She was due to have her baby in February and I hadn't heard anything and wondered if she heard about my dad. See we were very close in high school and she visited our house quite a bit. She admits now it was because my dad was a hottie. Well, duh. So the day after I had been thinking about her, wouldn't you know it, on the turnpike, my phone rings and it's her. Isn't life so cra-cra? Turns out she had a wild few months herself and we were both perfectly ok with the lapse in conversation because we also both know that since we reunited our friendship (after a 10 year hiatus) about two years ago, that we can pick up the phone and pick up right where we left off. And we did. And she made me laugh like I haven't laughed in a long time. And that felt really good. Like getting a new bag of goodies from 'gramma' good.

I've been doing a lot of reading about grief and healing and the constant presence of spiritual support if you just allow yourself to believe. I want to thank all of the pot holders and bundt cake pans and flour sifters in my life for being there over the last five months that have shown me the greatest depths of family, friendship  and faith. And even though we may not have not been walking the same paths at the same time, each and every one of you has a place in my life and me in yours. Sometimes it takes a harsh dose of reality to remind you what a support system you have.

You've gotten me through. You've been there. And I thank you from the bottom of my little white and orange crocheted heart.