Mommy Always Wins

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-24T00:03:00.002-06:00

Despite leaving this space on the Interwebs a bit lonely lately, I still want to wish my online friends a very Merry Christmas! I'll be back after the holidays!

{W}rite of passage: Character

2009-12-07T19:50:00.002-06:00

Mariana Askerville paused in the driver’s seat, digging through her purse.

“C’mon, dammit, where the hell are you?!?” She began to pull things out and toss them half-heartedly on the passenger seat of her ’95 Dodge Shadow. Finally, there at the bottom, where it had come unattached from her key ring, was her security badge for the parking structure.

Throwing everything back into her knock-off Coach bag except the badge, cell phone and sunglasses, she cranked the radio – a good song was on. The type of song that made you feel better at the end of a long week.

She was beginning to feel better about things as she backed out of her space, and by the time she had gotten to the bottom of the structure’s ramp, rolling down her window to swipe her card, she had all but forgotten all about her sorry sack of a manager and the mind-numbing tasks he’d had her waste an entire afternoon to complete.

She was singing along as she pulled up next to the kiosk. Leaning out of her window, card in hand, she looked longingly at the bright sunlight that awaited her mere feet away. In order to open the gate, one had to push a red button, listen to a pre-recorded message about entering cash, credit or debit card and wait for a green light before the sensor would recognize the magnetic card being waved in front of it. The entire process took maybe 20 seconds, but on seventy-degree Fridays in May, that 20 seconds felt like 20 minutes.

“C’MON, DAMMIT,” she swore loudly, ducking back inside her car. The ancient guard arm lifted in a jerky way, taking its sweet time before stopping briefly in the “up” position. Knowing she had only moments to make her escape before the arm slapped back down, she hit the gas, lurching forward over a speed bump into the sunlight.

She rolled somewhat to a stop, looked quickly for pedestrians (like, when were people ever walking down this street?) and hit the gas again.

Suddenly there was a squeal of brakes and too late, Mariana saw the dark blue Jaguar coming all too quickly from the right.

“OH SHIT!!!!” she shouted, stomping the brake pedal with both feet. She was answered by a loud crash, and then the sound of metal scraping metal.

When both cars came to a halt, she sat behind the wheel, stick straight, not believing what had just happened. Eyes wide, she looked to her right and found a man behind the wheel staring back at her. He looked furious.

Looking quickly from side to side, she was unsure of what to do first. Dumbly, she looked down at her arms, her torso and then her legs, holding her hands palm-up as she did so. Seeing no bodily damage, she looked up again and the man was gone.

Not good, not good, not good. She couldn’t see any damage inside her vehicle either and figured she should get out. That’s what one did during something like this, right?

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she might have injuries she couldn’t see.

Oh my God, what do they say you should do after an accident? Don’t move your neck? Too late for that. Stay awake? No problem there. Her heart was racing a hundred miles a minute.

Slowly, she eased her driver’s door open and swung her legs around and stood up. Suddenly, there was the driver of the Jag, almost in her face.

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” he shouted. “WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide. “We- we- well…I’m SORRY. Are you OK?”

“YES, I’M OK, DAMMIT. DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DRIVE?!? WERE YOU WATCHING WHERE YOU WERE GOING?!? You could KILL a person not looking where you’re going like that!” As he continued to yell at her, he got closer and closer, and she backed up until the frame of her car pressed into her back.

“Is everyone alright?” Kenny, the parking structure’s attendant stepped cautiously from his plexiglass booth. “Do you need me to call the cops?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mariana replied at the same time the man shouted, “NO!”

The man’s attention was diverted for a moment and Mariana took the opportunity to get back in her car and shut the door. At the sound of the door closing, the man spun back around to face her. The sight of the horror on her face made him pause. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just a bit…shaken. Are you OK?” He leaned toward the open window, sincerely looking shaken but no longer irate.

“I-I think so,” she stammered. “I have a cell phone.” She held it up where he could see.

At the realization that both parties appeared to be OK and all anger had been diffused, Kenny took a few steps backward toward his office, trying to dismiss himself from the scene. Not turning his back, he stood there, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I’ll call,” the Jag driver said, pulling out an iPhone and touching its screen quickly. When he had it to his ear, the first car honked.

Horrified, Mariana looked in her rear-view mirror to see a long line of cars snaking up the structure’s ramp and around the corner. At ten after five on a sunny Friday, she could imagine each driver’s impatience, and felt their ire like a weight on her back.

“Maybe we should pull our cars out of the way?” she suggested, nodding down the street. The man ignored her as he gave the dispatcher details, repeating the building’s address and the location of the exit of the parking structure.

Kenny nodded in silence, wanting to appear in charge when he so clearly wasn’t.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, the man looked up. “Wha? Oh, yeah…” Seeing the idling cars he whirled around to look over his shoulder at the street. “Yeah, we should pull over there.” He walked back to the driver’s side of his car, got in, and turned the key. The engine caught without hesitation.

He backed slowly away from Mariana’s oxidized red Shadow, and once he was clear, whipped the front end around to back up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, back they way he’d come. Once he had moved his vehicle, Mariana started her car, they key to which had to be held to the starting position for a second or two before it roared to life, but that was the case any day. She slowly pulled out of the structure to park along the curb closest to the building.

Turning the key off again, she took a deep breath and then let it out again, noticing her hands were shaky and that she wanted to cry. Instead she grabbed the wheel with both hands until her knuckles were white, feeling each driver who whipped past her giving her the stink eye.

She mentally tried to calculate the cost of the Jag but had no point of reference. Surely it was worth more than she made in a year, maybe even two. Tears pricked the back of her eyes when she remembered she had let her insurance lapse. It had been either that or her rent.

She looked up to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks and took a few deep breaths – in through her nose, out through her mouth – before she felt him staring at her.

WHAT?!? Haven’t you ever seen anyone have a panick attack before?!? she thought angrily.
She decided that she could use some fresh air while they waited and pushed the door open again. Standing in the street, she realized he was still staring. Not wanting to meet his eyes without proper police protection, she turned to walk around the front of her car so she could lean against the passenger side of her car, looking away from the Jag driver.

And that’s when she saw it.

She had known it all along, of course, pushed to the back of her brain the moment the adrenaline started pumping.

He wasn’t staring at her…

He was staring at the ONE WAY sign she had parked in front of…

The sign pointing the OPPOSITE way he’d been driving.

Christmas card photo FAIL

2009-12-03T13:04:00.001-06:00

Well, Mommy doesn't always win...

A boy and his dog

2009-11-25T21:31:00.003-06:00

Tomorrow is Nick's fifth birthday.

He's FIVE.

I don't know where the time went, but suddenly, in the past few weeks it seems, he's gone from preschooler to BOY.

He says things to me like, "Mom, that's a good sandwich right there!" and "Mom, I love you more than Daddy does. I loved you my WHOLE LIFE!" and, after coming home from a hair appointment, "Looks good, woman!"

He reminds his little brother of the rules. "Will, if you don't eat your dinner you have to go to BED! You don't want to go to bed, do you?!?" (And Will listens to him! I'd complain, but, well, I don't have to argue with the little one as much so whatever.)

He's amazingly smart. Because his birthday is on a holiday, we had a party for him this past Saturday. Jay and I got him a Leapster 2 and my Mom bought him a few games. He's already mastered them. And they teach math skills. And reading. (And building rollercoasters.) He's told me that tomorrow he wants my help to write up a letter to Santa. He's been scanning last Sunday's paper for the games he wants to ask Santa for.

And probably one of the greatest new changes? He loves his dog.

She was the family dog before we even had kids, and for the past year or more he's been feeding her when we ask him to. But recently he takes the initiative...tells us when she needs a treat...calls her to come follow him when he goes to play outside or in his room. And at night? She sleeps at the foot of his bed.

It just melts my heart.

Happy birthday, dear boy.

Peep tea

2009-11-16T22:05:00.003-06:00

Southerners, you may have your sweet tea, but I'll bet you've never seen anything like this. I introduce to you Peep Tea:

Ingredients for Peep Tea:

2 slightly weird but funny as hell brothers
6,387 packed boxes, 82 of which are marked "kitchen"
2 hr lag during which you have movers at your house and nothing to move

Instructions:

On your moving day, combine everything you own into two trailers. Have enough extra filling that the second truck and trailer is so overloaded Beverly Hillbillies style that you have to leave it parked on the street in front of your old house to deal with later. Have enough people to help you unload the first trailer's contents into your garage, then have everyone except you leave, allowing you to marinate in your anger at not having had a freakin' moving company just do the job for you.

While the husband character makes the 45-minute drive back down with his buddies to get the second load and the brand new bedroom set you ordered, have a friend that's better than you deserve come and help you to move every box that you just took off the first trailer into the appropriate rooms in your new home.

When your slightly dramatic mother and two slightly crazy brothers arrive, you will be pouring out the contents of various boxes and combining them into what you believe may be the proper new places. The arrival of these new cooks may cause your dear helping friend to leave, but the recipe's not ruined. Just make a mental note that you owe him - big time. Also make sure you are completely unable to decide on where anything goes except for the tin foil and the plastic wrap - those belong in that one drawer over there.

Call your hubby. Understand that while he's doing as best as he can, you have three people "helping" you unpack things that don't exactly need to be unpacked first.

Upon hearing you have nearly two hours before any real moving will begin, one brother will most certainly open a box to find packets of Pop Rocks, which the second brother will just have to eat. ("Dude! Pop Rocks!" may be uttered. The lack of this phrase, however, while funny coming from a 6'4" man, will not result in flat or dry results.)

The brother who finds the Pop Rocks will also find a bottle of wine shaped like a cat. This will be a key ingredient, so just shake your head when he thinks he's going to find a corkscrew.

Swear out loud when he actually does.

(Somewhere in here you should try to feel bad after making inappropriate jokes about wine bottles shaped like cats when you realize it was your slightly dramatic mother that gave it to you on your last anniversary.)

Laugh when you both realize the wine is old, the cork dry and the corkscrew crappy. Although the cat wine is a key ingredient, tease him for thinking he can still open the wine bottle.

Tell him you will NOT be the new neighbor that calls 911 in the first 12 hours in your new home when he sticks a steak knife into the dry cork.

Call him something that rhymes with "plumb ass" when he then sticks a cheese spreader into the cork. Laugh at him again when you realize this cheese spreader has a cheerful snowman on the end and its carrot nose has pierced his finger.

Wish you had some cheese.

Gape at him with your eyes wide and your mouth hanging open when he actually opens the stupid bottle of cat wine with the cheese spreader. Be sure to mention the bits of cork floating in the wine, though you know this roughage is probably good for you.

Next, while you're still wishing you had cheese, this unique chef-brother of yours will find a plastic water bottle and the barrel grating mechanism from a hand-crank cheese grater. This is an important step: He will "triple filter" the cat wine through this cheese grating barrel.

Once satisfied, you should pour it into the first glasses you find, especially if they are large plastic ones from a hotel with an indoor water park.

Try not to die laughing when your second brother, while scavenging through kitchen boxes like a hobo, finds a box of peeps and eats three before he loudly proclaims them to be stale. Remind him that Easter was six months ago.

Chew your cork while you realize that they do, however, make the perfect garnish.

Waylaid

2009-11-12T19:35:00.001-06:00

First we were packing.

Then we moved.

Then got swine flu.

And I quit my job.

And all of a sudden I looked up and it was November.

I'll be back...I promise. Til then, check out the view we regularly enjoy from our new front windows. ;-)

Blog? What blog?

2009-10-22T11:20:00.004-05:00

I've been meaning to do a post on the state of my life right now. I've taken pictures, documenting the giant pile of gravel that was deposited in my driveway, the little digger/scooper thingie that was parked next to that pile for several days, the huge hole that was dug behind my house, the pile of dirt from said hole, the mud created by said machines, piles of dirt and gravel and the dog both in my driveway and in my house. I've photographed each stage of the basement-fixing process, down to the brand new cement that is where said giant hole used to be.

The gravel's gone and in its place there is now a humongous snowmobile trailer currently being filled with all of our belongings. (I'm still of the mind that being over 30 brings with it no other advantages other than to never again have to call and round up friends to move your shit, but apparently Mommy doesn't always win.)

I've taken pictures and even video of our house as its being packed up. There is literally lawn furniture where our comfy living room couches used to be and the dining room echoes now that the piano is gone and there is nothing hanging on the walls. I've taken pictures of my kids playing on, around and in boxes, as well as the two of them laughing like crazy people while jumping on mattresses that are on the floor.

Oddly, I just can't seem to find the time to download, manipulate and upload those pictures. So I'm offering you this artist's rendition of my life right now:

We've spent every spare moment of our lives meeting people, writing them checks and generally signing our lives away. When we're not busy doing that, well, we're packing shit in boxes. And yes, there is logic to packing throw pillows with bar glasses, I swear it. I just might also be swearing at myself while unpacking it all next week.

I'm sick of take-out food, and I think my ass has gained two new friends because of it. Their names are Laverne and Shirley, and they live down the street just north of my badonkadonk. Yes friends, back fat. Its never pretty.

Honestly? My freaking two-year-old asked for Taco Bell last night. How sick is that?!?

My four-year-old? Woke up crying at o-dark-thirty, pissed as all get out that Mommy was packing up all his toys. This morning he told me he was angry with me. "Mommy, you're bad. You make me ANGRY." Great. I'm feelin' the love.

I'm not about to get into work crap right now, but let's just say I also woke up from a bad dream this morning. One in which I was in a meeting with IT folks who were yelling at me and doing a lot of head shaking at my requests for what I needed to do my job. I've lived this bad dream many times lately.

I am so beyond stressed I can't even form a thought or an opinion on anything, except to say that I watched Glee for the first time this week and, well, that's an hour of my life that's been sucked from my soul that I'll never get back. (Did dude really sing The Thong Song?!?)

So that, in not so much of a nutshell, is my life right now.

Who's pouring the drinks?

Book review

2009-10-16T09:55:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago I was given Once in a Blue Moon by Eileen Goudge to read and review. Like the voracious reader I am, I began reading it right away. Like the posting procrastinator I am, I'm just writing this up now.

The story begins when sisters Lindsay and Kerrie Ann are young, living in a cheap motel with their drug-addicted mother. When Lindsay is 12 and Kerrie Ann just three, they're taken from their mother. Lindsay, who was more a mother-figure to her sister than their mother ever was, was adopted by loving parents. Kerrie Ann wasn't as lucky and spent her childhood in a series of foster homes.

Years later, both adults, Lindsay has been searching for her sister. She doesn't have much luck until the day Kerrie Ann appears in her bookstore, looking for a relative to help her get back on her feet. A newly recovering addict, Kerrie Ann has let history repeat itself when her own daughter was taken from her.

The story goes on to describe how the relationship develops between the two women throughout Kerrie Ann's legal battles, and one of Lindsay's own.

I have to say it was a good story and I found myself relating a lot to Lindsay. (Not that I've ever had or lost a sister, but that I was the older kid who ended up taking care of the younger kids.)

But the one thing that bothered me about Blue Moon was how easily Kerrie Ann seemed to flip from being a recent addict with all the shakiness that implies into a life with a steady job, family and home life. In reality, such transitions are very hard, even when approaching them one at a time. If we are to believe Goudge's work, Kerrie Ann made this transition with only a few tiffs with her sister over showing too much cleavage.

Once in a Blue Moon is now available in stores.

Don't they always like to play with the box more than the actual toys?

2009-10-07T10:28:00.000-05:00

I get knocked down, but I get up again...

2009-10-05T12:48:00.005-05:00

Why yes, I did just quote an obscure nineties song. And you're welcome very much for the ear worm.

So we were up.

Then we got kicked in the teeth.

And then...slowly...slowly...we began to climb our way back up again. If it weren't for the 382,000 things up in the air right now, I might just be excited.

So -- Monday we got word that our offer was rescinded cuz of issues with our basement. The basement doesn't have any current problems, but because of the age of our house (its a ripe old 96) no one could guarantee how long the basement would go without having issues because of some bowing of the walls. (In two, small 6-8' wide sections.)

We cried.

Before Monday, we had made arrangements with our realtor to head out to see another dozen or so houses last Wednesday. You know, so as to have an actual place to sleep after October 27th. But Monday night the last thing I wanted to do is to see another freakin' house. I told Jay to cancel our appointment with our realtor. He wisely ignored me.

So, convincing me that we could still make an offer and have it be contingent upon the sale of our house, Jay and I saw thirteen more houses on Wednesday afternoon. Four actually made our short list. (Thank GOD.)

Friday night, Jay asks me if I want go see any of those four again. Our realtor could take us out either Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. I told him to set it up. Whatever.

In the mean time, Jay called several basement dudes to come assess our "sitch" and to give us a quote on what it would take to fix it. Either we could negotiate with the buyers to split the cost, take the entire cost out of the purchase price or we could fix it ourselves so it wouldn't show up on a future inspection. The first two bids came in HIGH. $8000+ {AAAAACKKKKK!!!!} We were feeling a little less than sure that we'd ever move.

Jay calls back lady realtor to make our arrangements for Saturday and gets a recommendation from her of another basement dude. Her basement dude and another basement dude are scheduled to come out Saturday morning to give us estimates.

Now...here's where I must tell you that Jay worked overnight on Friday. Meaning he got home around 8:30 a.m. Saturday morning. He napped for about two hours while I took the boys to swimming lessons, then got up to deal with said basement dudes.

On the way home from swimming lessons (which always make the boys tired and therefore very crabby) I call Jay to see if he'll be awake when we got home, and if he wanted me to pick him up anything for lunch.

"Yeah, go ahead and get me something. You know what I like. Oh, and by the way. Realtor lady confirmed. We're dropping the boys at my Mom's at 2:00."

Time check: 12:45.

Nap check: NONE.

Oh...and other Saturday morning news?

Our buyer came back and made a counter offer.
OHMYHELLOHMYHELLOHMYHELL.

Their offer to buy (at the same price, with the same closing date) was contingent upon getting the basement walls fixed. By October 27th.

So...we go. We look at houses. We make notes as to what we don't like. Halfway through the afternoon?

I swear the heavens opened up and a light shown down upon the minivan in which we were riding. Angels sang. And it was good.

JAY'S CELL PHONE RANG.

It was the realtor's basement dude. With a quote. For $5000. AND HE CAN GET IT DONE BEFORE OCT 27. WE CAN DO THAT.

Holy farking farkitude. We signed the counter agreement AND OUR HOUSE IS AS GOOD AS SOLD.

But wait...wait...the story doesn't end there. Ho no. Cuz, like, my life can't ever be NoRMAl.

We saw four houses that afternoon. The last two? TOUGH TIE. One was in a subdivision but had EVERYTHING we wanted and more. The second was more rural and had more land and a pool. What to do...what to do?

Well, if you're us, you throw "But don't forget this one has [blahblahblah]"s back and forth at each other while riding in the realtor's minivan until you get back to the park and ride where you left your car. And then when realtor lady says, "Well, let me know if you decide you want to put in any offers. You can get me all weekend on my cell," you say something like, "If we do, it'll probably be on the [blahblahblah] house." Cuz you've finally agreed. Kinda. And then your hubby would say something like, "And we probably won't call you until next week because I work a double tomorrow." Which would lead the realtor to suggest, "Well, do you want to write up an offer now? I think we should offer [blahblahblah]," which will make your eyes bug out because its quite a deal less than what its listed for. Then you'll say, "REALLY? ARE YOU SURE?!?" And she'll say, "Definitely." And she'll show you market analysis of every house that's sold in that subdivision over the past two years and what it sold for. And you'll see that she isn't crazy.

And then you'll go "OH MY GOD WE'RE WRITING AN OFFER!" which you won't go sit in an Applebee's and write up like NoRMAl people would, simply because your hubby has gotten two hours of sleep and you're afraid he might fall over into his mozzarella sticks.

And then you'll spend an agonizingly loooooong Sunday letting your poor children finally nap and then start to pack like wildfire, realizing that no matter what happens, nine years worth of life needs to be packed up and out of your house in twenty three days. All while your poor hubby STILL hasn't slept.

And, update? Since I started writing this I'm told that the sellers came back with a counter offer, still less than their listing price that we'll very gladly accept. And they can close by October 27.

OH MY FARKING HELL WE'RE BUYING A NEW HOUSE.

Suddenly, I think we're "up" again.

Very, very UP.

dark days

2009-09-29T07:27:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was, by far, one of the worst days in my adult life. I should have known that nothing ever comes easily for me -- that sometimes it seems as though I need to work 4x as hard as everyone else to achieve the same goals -- and that it was stupid to actually get excited about a pending sale of our house. Regardless as to how anxious that buyer seemed to be.

We've been so overwhelmingly busy these past few months - literally every waking hour not spent at work has been consumed with some home project or another, some meeting about the house or another, or working to find a new house. There's been very little time to enjoy anything.

Saturday, back when we had an accepted offer and a month to move, I found a last-minute sitter for the boys and our realtor and I trekked throughout an entire county (a 483 sq mile county) searching for the perfect house.

Nothin'.

The homes I saw were either extremely overpriced or in mass need of TLC. We saw TWELVE houses.

TWELVE.

Nothin'.

Not even a "maybe".

The realtor suggested we up the dollar amount in our search criteria, find a home we loved and simply make an offer of much less than their asking price. (Somewhere she, with 18+ years of experience, felt those homes should be priced to begin with.)

Sunday morning was our inspection. Nothin' like fast-trackin' everything...we'd gotten the signed accepted offer Tuesday night and got the phone call Friday night that the inspection was to be at 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. (First of all - who the hell DOES that?!? A Sunday?!? REALLY?!?) So for the umpteenth time, we cleaned the house top to bottom and left the house with tired kids to go out for breakfast.

We had no reason to think that anything BAD would come back in the inspection. There were a few little things we knew about, like a garage door that needed fixing (and we'd already scheduled someone to come over and help with its repair before getting the offer). But lo and behold...there was a deal-breaker.

Now, the way the inspector wrote it up sounds like its merely "something to watch". In two places in the basement (places, honestly, we either never used or where we stored things) there is bowing in the walls.

Jay swears the walls were always like that, and the inspector says some is normal in a home of this age. But there's no mention of it in our inspection from nine years ago. However, that being said, our realtor wonders if we were duped back then and maybe we never got one...the inspection, back in June 2000, was done a month prior to closing and we were not invited. Apparently the buyers always attend the inspection, so that they can ask questions and the inspector can show them areas of concern. Or at least this is what we're told now. Who knows...

Long story short, the buyer backed out, and we're faced with either fixing something that's really expensive (or so we think - we really have no idea) or being upfront about the issue and hoping we find a buyer who thinks its no big deal and who still wants to pay what we're asking.

We have another showing this afternoon. I'm at the point where I simply can't deal with it anymore. I've never...NEVER...been the kind of person who ignores or avoids something. I've always faced any obstacle in my life head-on, making decisions where needed regardless as to how tough they were to make. I've never been afraid to work hard - my whole life has been about working hard.

But something tells me maybe this wasn't meant to be. For some reason, I'm not meant to have the life I've always wanted...its not in the cards to have a nice home I can enjoy with my hubby and my kids...and to have a few more kids at that. It seems I'm not meant to have simple evenings at home with my boys, just chillin' out, making dinner and watching TV. I'm not meant to have a big yard, where my little boys can grow to be big boys...where they can get dirty and hurt and learn that its not a good idea to jump off the garage roof onto the trampoline.

I'm apparently doomed to this life of working Momitude. Forever.

And it really really sucks.

It flashed through my brain last night that I should just quit my job and we should stay in the damn house where we are. I'd never miss another morning with a warm-bodied cuddly two-year-old who only wants to curl his head into my shoulder while watching Sesame Street. I'd never forget to bring a snack to pre-school, or if I did, I could run to the grocery store down the street and have one back to school before snack time.

I could be the field-trip Mom. The Cub Scout Mom. A cop's pretty wife.

I even have an office in which to write.

We'd still have a teeny tiny yard, and have completely overgrown our house...

...but maybe that's better than what we're going through now.

fairytale

2009-09-25T07:37:00.005-05:00

(Alternate titles: Freak out, EEEEEEEEE! and OhmyGodwesoldourhouseandnowwe'regoingtobehomeless)

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you probably know that selling our house and buying a new one is something we've been working toward for a long long time. And if you've been paying attention, we've given this house a lot of TLC.

So FINALLY, FINALLY finally finally, we and the house were ready and we called a realtor.

We met with said realtor and they came to take pictures.

We signed a buncha papers.

And then, on Saturday, September 12, our home's listing went live online.

Last week? We had seven showings.

After a LOOONG week cleaning and dealing with showings (that we were really excited to have), I was ready for a Sunday spent in pajamas. I had no laundry to catch up on, no dishes to do, and dammit, I wanted to watch crap TV and eat popcorn.

Instead, we had showings 5, 6 & 7 and I spent the afternoon entertaining the kids out of the house.

Through naptime.

Coming home late Sunday afternoon I was exhausted. Our house had been on the market for just over a week and I was beginning to think the selling process just might kill me. The boys took late naps and I finally got my TV time.

It was 9:00 and the boys were still up cuz of those late late naps when the phone rang.

WE HAD AN OFFER.

Ohmyfreakinghellwehadanofferaftereightdaysonthemarket.

The buyer hadn't even seen the upper flat of the duplex yet.

Ohmyhellohmyhellohmyhell.

We made arrangements for the potential buyers to come through and see the upper on Tuesday afternoon (9/22), the same day Jay and I went looking at houses for the first time.

We left a counter offer where the buyer-to-be's realtor could see it -- and before we got home that evening we had confirmation they had signed it.

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.

WE HAVE AN ACCEPTED OFFER. AFTER ELEVEN DAYS.

The catch? Closing is set for October 27. THIRTY-TWO DAYS FROM TODAY.

[Insert heavy curse-laden freak-out here.]

Oh? And by the way? Every home we saw the other day was pretty much crap.

Oh and by the way by the way? Jay now works the entire weekend, including his split double on Saturday.

OHMYGODWESOLDOURHOUSEBUTNOWWE'REGOINGTOBEHOMELESS.

I know, I know. Selling your house is the hard part. Right? But we now have an ENTIRE house to pack up in a month's time, AND we have to find a place to stay until we find that new home of our dreams. I haven't rented in so long...is it even possible to find a place on this short of notice? And can you rent for a month at a time? And will I actually have any hair left after this entire thing is over?

Somebody hold me.

So here's the real fairytale part: Tuesday afternoon, before the freak-outed-ness settled upon me, I was sitting at work counting down the minutes until the end of my work day, when we could finally start looking for our dream house. Hubster called.

"Can you turn on FM106?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"Uh, yeah. Why?" Leaning back, I turned the volume up on my radio.

"Cuz I played a song for you."

"No you didn't." I mean, people don't really do that, do they? Other than those saps who call Delilah on Saturday nights.

"Yes I did."

And just then I found the station. The song we danced our first dance to at our wedding was playing. And I got tears in my eyes. "No you didn't."

"I didn't think they'd play it so quickly. I mean, I thought we'd be driving together when it came up, so you missed part of it, but well, I had them play it for you. Cuz I love you and I meant it when I promised you that you'd have the house you deserve some day."

Oh my God -- big sappy girl tears.

Take notes from him, boys. Take notes.

Motorcycle Mama

2009-09-18T08:06:00.003-05:00

Its official! See that lil' M?

This Momma's goin' ridin'! (And quick! Cuz in Wisconsin? We could get snow like next week.)

And yes, I did just share my DL photo with the Internet. While still bad, it beats the pants off of my LAST photo.

W00T W00T!

Domestic Diva FAIL.

2009-09-16T09:34:00.003-05:00

I've been a bit absent from the scene lately, but for good reason.

Our house is for sale!

I had hoped to compile a Wordless post today that contained nothing but a picture of the sign in our yard, but we don't yet have one. However...

The listing "went live" on Saturday.

We had two showings yesterday.

And another scheduled for today.

I am somewhat freaking out and somewhat praying that the interest continues and that the folks who've seen it already want to come back and see the upper unit.

And I am in need of about 12 straight hours of uninterrupted sleep. (Cleaning your house top to bottom including the basement is for the birds. Unfinished asements? SHOULD have cobwebs. You can quote me on that.) I have never before had all of my laundry done at one time (and still don't), but apparently, our closets and dressers only "work" based on my usual system of "there is always dirty laundry." Cuz with it all clean? There isn't room to put it all away! There aren't any dirty dishes to be found...I think my sink is lonely.

Don't worry! In the midst of all this over-achieving cleanitude, I have somehow still found a way to be a slacker.

While unloading the dishwasher the other night, I noticed something strange in the silverware bucket.

What in THE HELL is THAT?!?

Oh my hell, I WASHED A PIECE OF CHICKEN.

Yum.

Where I was.

2009-09-11T08:33:00.006-05:00

Eight years ago today, I was in the office early, getting ready for a big golf outing I was organizing for the following day.

Even at 7:30 in the morning, Milwaukee skies were the brightest blue with only traces of wispy clouds. The temperature was truly still summer-like. I remember taking my sweet time as I walked boxes and bags of miscellaneous things out to the trunk of my car. I remember hoping that maybe someone wouldn't show and they'd ask me to fill in to even out a lopsided foursome instead of spending the day as the marketing lackey, destined to hand out name tags and quite possibly becoming the drink cart girl.

On one trip back to my cubicle, Randy, a friendly if not goofy sales guy, wheeled back quickly in his chair, so as to catch my eye and shout, "Hey! Did you hear? A plane flew into the World Trade Center. They think its like a tourist plane or something."

I hadn't heard. But how horrible! I imagined a small plane, carrying two or three people, hitting the building, bouncing off and crashing in a fiery heap at the ground.

I don't remember when I heard that it was an actual airliner. But I do remember that my car was loaded and I was back at my desk when I heard the news.

A second plane had hit the other tower. And they knew it wasn't an accident.

This was unheard of. What did they mean a second plane hit the other tower? Hadn't that pilot heard that another plane had just crashed? What in the HELL was going on in New York?!?

I don't remember the morning DJs using the words 'terrorism', but maybe they did. What I do remember was listening intently as their normally inane sports-ladled diatribes, laced with laughter and box scores turned serious and urgent.

I didn't notice until I whirled my chair around to go ask Randy where he was getting his news that nearly a dozen people were hovering at the entrance to my cubicle. I had one of the few radios in the office, back in a time when nothing streamed online.

A wall of dazed faces greeted me with silence, heads cocked as people are wont to do when they're trying to listen. I turned up the volume.

I called my fiance at home. Hubs was a retail manager at the time, and happened to have the day off. He had seen the infamous footage of the second plane flying straight into the second tower.

"Colleen," he'd said, "they did that on purpose."

I don't remember what came next - whether it was the plane crashing into the Pentagon, or the plane going down in Pennsylvania, or the first tower falling. I do remember the office phones being eerily silent, and feeling panicked that there was nothing I could do but sit and wait for more reports of carnage. I imagined all those people and their families and cried.

At one point I theorized that these planes were heading west, and who knew when they would stop. I feared for Atlanta and Chicago and heard that buildings downtown were being evacuated. The one-story building I worked in was in the 'burbs, but that did nothing to ease my anxieties or resolve my NEED to just get home - to be with people I loved before the end came for US.

There had been a meeting scheduled - a conference call with the company President - for who the hell knows what. Some company meeting we all assumed was now off in light of the circumstances, only we got an email saying it wasn't. Milwaukee's Mayor had scheduled a press conference to start around the same time and I said out loud that I was going to hear what the Mayor had to say and then was going home. To hell with the goddamn company president. He could fire me if he needed to. Strangely, almost everyone else sat through that entire hour-long meeting.

I remember the Mayor divulging that the buildings downtown (including the one I would, ironically, start work in almost exactly one year later) had been evacuated as a precaution only - that all planes in the country had been grounded and accounted for. THAT scared the shit out of me. This was so big - so important - that NO ONE WAS FLYING. IN THE ENTIRE COUNTRY. HOLY SHIT.

After the "meat" of the press conference, I went back to my desk and grabbed my things. I started walking to the front door and my car when I heard someone say, "Hey - they're letting us go home early. That's nice, isn't it?" Fuck nice. I was going one way or another. Just because they had our airplanes accounted for didn't mean that whomever had done this didn't have other tricks up their sleeves.

The freeway was nearly empty. I fought back tears so that I could drive safely, but nearly jumped OUT OF MY SKIN when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a huge black bird fly overhead. For a split second I had thought it was a plane - a plane that wasn't supposed to be there - and my relief at the fact that it was just a bird did nothing to relieve my tension but instead just made me sob.

I watched HOURS of coverage with Jay that day. Hours of smoke rising and people jumping and papers fluttering to the ground. Crowds running and ash falling and folks crying, trying to reach loved ones by cell phone.

We watched, unable to do anything else, while citizens of New York City made make-shift communications centers - posting papers containing photos of loved ones - "Have you seen my wife?" and "This is my son!" SO many papers. Just unbelievable.

Late that afternoon I stood out on our porch, unable to keep watching. Crying. And then it hit me.

It started slow...a single lawn mower roaring to life.

"How in the HELL can people just MOW THEIR LAWNS?!?" I shouted, angry. Jay hugged me from behind while I cried, fearing that there most certainly had to be a military draft coming. I knew that Hubs is the type of person who'd want to enlist. I cried selfishly, not wanting to lose him, then cried some more for being selfish when some people had already lost so much.

"Hon," he'd said. "Those people today? They hate us for being who we are. For being Americans. For living in a country where you can be anything you want - do anything you want."

Another lawn mower started up. Maybe I wasn't the only one with nervous energy.

We stood there, holding each other, on that porch for a very long time, the TV on in the background, the reporter going over and over and over again the footage we'd already watched half a dozen times.

Before we let go of each other, we were being serenaded by a chorus of small engines. We were on the porch of our home. Together.

And somehow? The simple fact that we could do anything, mundane or otherwise, was quite a bit more beautiful.

Uh, yeah...

2009-09-09T07:29:00.002-05:00

Not only is he sleeping with his feet up in the air, but what the heck happened to his shirt?!?

Ice packs and fruit snacks

2009-09-08T13:23:00.004-05:00

In the car one day, just a few weeks ago, I asked Nick if he was ready for school. (Coincidentally, it was just after this conversation.)

"Ya huh," he replied, without pause.

It made me stop and try to remember what being four must be like. No worries, no anxieties...unless you count concern as to who might get the last cookie.

No one cares what you wear, if your hair is just right or if you have a name-brand backpack.

Friendships are formed based on who you sit next to in the reading circle.

No homework, no work, no responsibilities except feeding the dog and throwing your dirty clothes down to the basement.

The entire world revolves around, "Would you like that if he did that to you?!?" and "If you don't knock it off your face will stay that way!"

Be nice to your brother. And share.

If you "accidentally" smack your little brother in the face all you have to do is say you're sorry.

Hugs fix everything.

So do ice packs and fruit snacks.

I sighed. "What do you think you're going to in school this year?"

He tilted his head as if he were thinking really hard.

"Hmmm....touch worms."

Camping: nature's way of promoting the motel industry.

2009-09-02T07:48:00.004-05:00

~ Dave Barry

I have great memories of camping as I was growing up. Sleeping in a tent was always fun, even if it meant there'd be a stick imprint in your shoulder when you crawled out of your tent early the next morning. Your exit always coming just about the time that the temperature of said tent went from 70° to 130,000°F when the sun hit it.

It may have been getting to eat those tiny little single-serving boxes of cereal. Or pancakes made outdoors, on a griddle perched at the end of a picnic table.

It may have been that there were usually playgrounds nearby, with new kids to play with, and paved paths that curved intricately around other campsites, just begging you to ride your bike and explore.

I'm not a girlie girl - I can set up a tent or build a fire like no one's business. But back when I was three months pregnant with Nick and Hubs and I made our usual Memorial Day trip to camp with my brothers and my Dad in Buckhorn State Park, where you park in a lot and then load up all your gear into carts to walk a mile into the woods and camp on the shores of the Wisconsin River?

I decided I no longer wanted to camp. May in Wisconsin is as unpredictable as it sounds, and that weekend we had 40mph winds coming straight off the water, driving rain and river water into the seams of our old tent. Getting up in the middle of the night to pee in a porta potty in the middle of the woods as often as a pregnant woman needs to? I was soaked to the bone and cold and smelt like campfire and the nearest shower was a very long walk and a car ride away. It was miserable.

We cut our weekend short, apologizing to no one for our quick departure. When the zipper ripped out of the fabric while taking our tent down? We threw the damn thing into the garbage.

With two little kids at home, the thought of camping never crossed our minds. Our typical vacations were at indoor-waterpark resorts or rented cabins with indoor plumbing and satellite TV.

But last year, some damn show introduced to Nick the idea of camping and convinced him that sleeping outside was everything a four-year-old needs in life. How could we deny him when (as kids) Hubs and I loved to camp as well?

So we decided we'd take them to the Yogi Bear Campground in the Dells (as family friendly as you can get) for a few nights. We'd swim in the lake and make s'mores and possibly even catch a few fireflies.

I wish I could tell you it didn't suck.

But when we checked in and got our site assignment, we found we had paid for a site that was separate from the rest of the entire campground. We? Were across the road in an open field. Nowhere near the water park or playground or even the nice indoor bathrooms with flush toilets. We were in an area as big as a football stadium with only a half-dozen other ~~suckers~~ campers with no shade and a porta potty.

Poo. (Literally.)

Our first night there? Temps dipped into the low 40s. Our kids slept in winter PJs, sweatshirts, and sleeping bags, with an extra blanket over the top. Some friends joined us our second day (wisely staying in a hotel down the street, btw) and we had a good day riding the Ducks and going out for ice cream.

The kid falls asleep EVERY time he's on a boat.
He lasted 10 minutes into the Duck ride.

The weekend had begun to look promising - until that night when Nick tripped over a stick and we thought he broke his hand.

Its a good thing that at 9pm we had to load him into the car and drive 20 minutes into Baraboo to the nearest hospital, because we were literally pulling into the parking lot when he exclaimed, "MOM! I CAN MOVE MY HAND! LOOK!"

We must have looked insane in the middle of the little country street, dome light on, twisted around in our seats barking orders at a small boy: "Now lift your arm up and touch your head. OK - now, can you give me thumbs up? How 'bout the pointer? Now twist it around like this!"

Long story short, it was a long night and no one got any s'mores.

The next morning we decided our camping adventure was OVER and decided we'd spend the next evening in a hotel. (Thankfully Carrie got us a great rate!) I happily drove down the street to get coffee, parking the car sideways and leaving the radio on while we packed and had breakfast. At some point I walked down the street to take a shower.

It never occurred to me when I got back that the radio was no longer on.

A short while later, Jay hit the button on the tailgate to open the glass partition, then shook his head. "Did the kids lock the doors?"

"I don't think so, why?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew what had happened.

DEAD BATTERY.

Shit.

Enter the World's Greatest Friends to come save us. AGAIN.

Our day in the hotel/waterpark was fun and uneventful, but next time?

We'll just skip the tent camping, thankyouverymuch.

They can't all be gems!

2009-08-27T07:17:00.004-05:00

In lieu of a real vacation this year, Hubs & I stretched this past weekend out a bit longer and took the boys camping in the Dells. (Me & tent camping? We've broken up.)

I still don't have everything unpacked, let alone anything ready to post, but thought I should post something before someone calls blog protective services.

The smart and beautiful Zoey Jane posted something awesome to Facebook last week which has inspired me to play a little game. (Go visit her place as a thank-you for letting me steal her idea, which at this point she doesn't yet know I did.)

Then I said:

(Though I meant circa his 'Thelma & Louise' days, which was actually 1991.)

Its your turn...GO!

A thank you and a laugh.

2009-08-21T11:35:00.006-05:00

I wanted to write short post today to thank everyone for the kind comments you've left on my last two posts. I almost didn't post part 2, simply because while part 1 was short and succinct and to the point, I sort of got waaaay off topic on #2 and it really just turned into another "clearing of the brain" rant.

I want to say that in no way do I think my life has been horrible...many people have had a worse time of it than I did. Everything that's happened to me has shaped me into the person I am today, and while I've been going through a really rough time lately, I am thankful for everything I have and there's not a day I don't thank God for it all.

So...what better way to say thank you than with a laugh? Courtesy of Nick, of course.

Yesterday was Daddy's "short day", meaning he had only a few hours between shifts and the boys were with a sitter ALL DAY. We normally go out to eat or otherwise do something fun on Daddy's short days.

Me: "So, boys. Where do you think we should go for dinner? Qdoba for chicken and cheese (a.k.a. quesadillas, plain) or Olive Garden for noodles and sauce?"

Will: "DOO DOBA! DOO DOBA!"

Nick: "Um...what are the choices again?"

Me: "QDoba or Olive Garden."

Will: "DOO DOBA! DOO DOBA!"

Nick: "Um, what do they have there again?"

Me: {sigh} "Chicken and cheese quesadillas, plain - with no spicies, or noodles with sauce."

Will: "DOO DOBA! DOO DOBA!"

Me: "OK, Will, simmer down."

Will: "DOO DOBA! DOO DOBA!"

Nick: "McDonald's."

Will: "DICK DONNO'S! DICK DONNO'S!"

Me: SIGH.

A few minutes later, I'm changing out of my work clothes, getting ready to leave, when Nick comes in.

Nick: "I wanna go to Kindergarten."

Me: "You ARE going to Kindergarten. But not today. School starts in two weeks."

Nick: "BUT I WANNA GO TO KINDERGARTEN!!! TODAY! NOW!"

Me: "Uh, hello Mr. Sassy-pants. If you're going to be naughty we aren't going ANYWHERE."

Nick, sniffing, fighting back tears: "But you said we could go to Kindergarten."

Me: "Yes. You're going to Kindergarten. We drove past your new school, remember? But Kindergarten doesn't start for two weeks. You'll go...I promise." I'm distractedly looking under the bed for a stray shoe.

Nick: "But I wanna go TODAY!" At this, the tears start and I sit up and hug him.

Me: "What's wrong buddy?"

Nick: "blubberblubberblubberblubberblubber"

Me: "Bud, that's not English. What happened?" I'm perplexed at his sudden tears.

Nick, sniffing: "You said we could get noodles with sauce, at KINDERGARTEN."

OH. MY. HELL.

Me: "Do you mean OLIVE GARDEN? I said Olive Garden has noodles with sauce, not KINDERGARTEN."

Nick, laughing, with tears in his eyes: "Oh. Yeah. Olive Garden."

Kids.

Hope, pt. 2

2009-08-20T08:43:00.001-05:00

Did you miss part 1? Read it here.

In second grade, I had the same teacher who'd taught my Reading "class" the year before and everything was much the same. Vocabulary and spelling were big subjects that year and along with our regular words, we were given one large word each week to memorize and learn to spell. The day that I spoke out loud to give away the meaning of onomatopoeia? I think I still hear the teacher's blood boiling now.

And when I say 'much the same' I mean exactly the same. At the beginning of the school year they gave me the exact same Golden Retriever book I'd finished early back in first grade. Something must have happened to make them rethink giving me the same assignments for an entire year, because I do remember at some point I was given an hour of 'free play' in the lab next door during reading class instead.

That free play pretty much rocked. They had these really cool electronic games (you know, for 1985)...you'd read a paragraph on a card and then answer a question on what you just read. When I think of it now I would probably compare it with an early LeapFrog game, only in 2-bit and not nearly as cool. To answer the question, you'd stick this pen thing into one of the available holes to select a multiple choice answer. If you got it right a light would come on. If you were wrong, you just kept sticking the pen in the other holes till it lit up.

The best part of that free play was that there was no longer anyone giving me funny looks. No one discouraging me...no one making me think that maybe I'd get a lot less grief if I just played dumb.

And then, come springtime, they brought me back to second grade for creative writing again. I only wish I had the type of parents who had saved some of what I wrote, especially those early days. How cool would those things be to read through now? (Who knows, my first great novel idea could have been in there!)

The years continued on very much like this until I started junior high. That was the year my parents split for good and we moved to a new school district. No one knew me as that tall skinny little kid who sat in the back of the room - that weird-o smarty pants.

Sixth grade was the first time I played dumb. Things weren't good at home to begin with - I may have only been eleven or twelve, but that was the year I began to be left at home with three young brothers to look after, and suddenly I didn't really have time to do that English assignment anyway.

In seventh grade, there was a boy - Damon - who made excuses for me every morning when I was late for school. He'd cover for me in homeroom so our teacher wouldn't see that I was hastily scribbling my way through whatever the assignments had been for the night before.

As much as things royally sucked in those years, I finally found a bit of joy in something new...advanced placement classes. Except they didn't have AP English in junior high, just math, but it turned out that I was pretty darned good at that, too. (I just really freakin' hated it. Either that or it was the bitchy ex-nun of an Algebra teacher I had in eighth grade that turned my stomach. Whichev.)

Then, in high school, slacking became an art. Things at home were worse than they'd ever been. My Mom took a job for which she'd fly overnight to Texas one night a week, and even though someone else was supposed to care for my brothers on those nights, for me, they were often spent digging dirty dishes out of the sink so I could wash them and pour cereal for dinner for the four of us.

We often didn't have a phone or electricity, and there was a two or three month period where we were completely homeless. We finally did get a place of our own again, but those green lot stickers from the storage place are probably still on some of my Mom's furniture to this day.

To say there was too much put upon me at such a young age would be an understatement. It was right about this time, though, that I was placed in Mrs. K's AP English class.

I was sullen. I was moody. I was tired and overworked and I was only sixteen. I had just started dating an older guy who had already begun to emotionally abuse me, telling me that 90% of me was pretty...it was just my face and my still flat chest that needed improvement. He told me if you could stand me on my head, so as to put all the "good parts" up top I just might have something. He told me I would probably never be smart enough or have enough money to actually make it into college. I could go on and on but its not really worth the space.

I was skeptical, too. Here was this stern teacher who finally gave me challenging assignments at a time when I was working an after-school job to literally keep from being on the streets. When she said she expected that we work out our schedules so as to have every assignment turned in on time, no matter what the obstacle, I'm fairly certain she was talking about cheer leading practice and pep rallies. Regardless, she accepted no excuses, and that was probably the best thing for me.

I remember her telling me, in her no-nonsense way that I was bright. So very bright that she wasn't going to accept failure. She encouraged me, when forced to choose a "classic" book for an in-depth report, to pick the longest, most intimidating-looking book from her shelf...East of Eden.

She had faith in me.

I remember coming home from waiting tables, late at night, and picking up Eden. It was like an awakening to me...after all those years, to enjoy reading something again, to have something captivate me. I read the entire book...didn't skim it half-way through and then fake a report and be satisfied with a B- grade. It was the first time ever that I really truly worked hard on an assignment, and really earned that A. (I still remember - I got a 96.9% on that paper.)

And you know what? I saw a glimmer of hope...maybe, somehow...if you prayed and studied and worked until you fell into bed at night with achy bones...maybe you might just get ahead. Maybe I might be able to eek my way ahead, slowly but surely, crawling commando, arm over arm...and some day actually have something to show for my efforts.

The sad thing is I don't even remember that teacher's name. She was the first person ever who made me truly believe that I was smart, that being smart was a good thing, and that I had a teensie bit of potential.

I remember her face...vividly. I think I even made her smile once or twice.

But all of this...this is why...its so hard for me to let go. I've worked so hard to get where I am and I can't just...hope...that I won't be in that position ever again.

And to think - they made us pay for the ENTIRE BED.

2009-08-19T09:22:00.002-05:00

(and yes, Will's head ALWAYS sweats that way)

Hope.

2009-08-17T22:40:00.005-05:00

I learned to read when I was four.

The local paper used to have a section called the Green Sheet, which contained comics and the daily Jumble and crossword puzzles. The story goes that I was perusing the Green Sheet with my Grandma one afternoon when I suddenly began reading the page out loud and never stopped.

I'm not entirely convinced it actually happened that way, but I do remember reading the headline myself when Michael Jackson's hair caught fire. I was in kindergarten and the teacher had brought in the paper - I remember sitting in our circle on the floor and reading the words out loud before she could settle us in our seats. I caught the look of death for talking out of turn.

I remember thinking the Letter People were absolutely the stupidest thing on the face of the planet. I was bored with coloring in Mr. M and his munchy mouth - at home I was already reading books that didn't have pictures on every page. I also lost more teeth that year than any of the other kids and for some reason that made me very proud.

But first grade was where the awkwardness really set in. Cuz, see, I was sent to a small parochial school that wasn't really prepared to deal with kids who already knew how to read. They were just going to take us through the letter people...AGAIN.

So they did what any good school would do - they sent the problem away. I was to spend Reading class with the second graders.

great.

For an hour each day, I trekked down the hall to the second grade classroom. Every day, all conversation would cease as I entered the room and took a seat toward the back. All eyes were on me until the teacher sighed loudly at my distraction and could divert the class's attention back to the front so she could gave her commands. It was clear, without anyone have to say it out loud, that they thought I was simply trying to look superior. I just felt like a weirdo.

Weirdo or not, I quickly showed that crabby-assed teacher that second grade books were below my reading level as well. Instead of working on projects with the rest of the class, I was again singled out. In the back of that classroom, I was given a workbook (with a golden retriever on the cover - I'll never forget that dog with its tongue hanging out on a green background) and told to work at my own pace.

So I did.

It was early spring when I turned in the last of those worksheets. I remember being bored with them as well. They were mostly busywork, and nothing that really was very difficult.

Then...finally...that spring I was given an assignment that I really, truly loved.

Creative writing.

The second grade class had started getting creative writing assignments a few weeks prior, but in my "one man class" status I hadn't been asked to participate. I hadn't really been paying attention to what they were doing to know if it was something I would like or not. I had put on a "don't look at them and they won't tease me" facade. Most days I wouldn't even see them in the room...it was just me and ol' Goldie the Retriever.

But that first day I was allowed to not just read but WRITE? Oh my God...it seemed there were so many ideas in my head and no matter what the instruction I could make up something and write about it. I couldn't believe that this was something they wanted me to do - that they were encouraging me to do.

By the end of my first grade year I had made that mean ol' teacher's eyes go as big as saucers when I turned in not one, not two, but three sheets - filled front and back - of my childish, large script (for I tried to copy the second graders' cursive even though I myself had not yet had that class). If I remember correctly that witch made me feel bad about 'overdoing it' and looking at me as if I were trying to seem important.

I couldn't help it. It just came so easily to me...writing words onto that large lined paper...that dotted blue line hovering in the middle, guiding me...easing me into writing more...

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Product endorsement FAIL.

2009-08-13T21:02:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, the lovely ladies behind Blissfully Domestic and the One2One Network sent up a flare. They were looking for people to try the new Kraft Bagel-fuls and submit witty comments with a review of the product for the chance to win prizes. (And don't ask me what those prizes were because that was far more than 15 minutes ago...my current window within which something can be remembered before I succumb to the brain suck that the word "MOOOOOM!" induces).

They were sending coupons to a select number of us chickies who requested them, so that we could try them free, and lucky me - they picked my name!

Now, just so you know, Bagel-fuls are like Pop-Tarts for grown ups. Think Hot Pocket meets jelly donut, where the outside is a nice chewy little bagel. Being a working Mom, I was excited to try these, thinking they may be another option for "its o-dark-thirty and I can't believe I'm on the road to work" fare.

But, see, I decided to try them on a Saturday morning, simply because you could gain an extra entry to the contest if you took a photo of your family enjoying the Bagel-fuls and posted a link to that as well. I thought, "My kids are cute and photogenic - I could win this thing!!!"

That's when things went horribly wrong.

I like to call this series, "CUZ I'M THE BIG BROTHER - THAT'S WHY!!!"

We started off well enough...

...then someone got a little too territorial with the box...

...and someone else got all grabby, leading me to fear for the safety of my yummy bagel-ey goodness.

This photo was taken approximately 10 seconds before the all-out brawl began.
Mommy ran with the strawberry cream cheese filled pastries to the safety of the kitchen.

No Bagel-fuls were harmed in the making of this product endorsement.

Till we ate them.

And they were good.

Tempting fate.

2009-08-11T14:28:00.005-05:00

She's my oldest friend. We should be able to talk about anything, but somehow there's this THING between us that makes some of the more intimate things uncomfortable -- and some that really aren't that intimate seem to be.

So we sat, at dinner, staring mostly at our food. To say we'd grown apart would not be true...we just never were that close in some ways.

We have both been struggling lately with our own dilemmas, both of which are par for the course for our own lives...more of the same all over again. We purged our hearts to each other, cautiously, over enchiladas and tequila-laced drinks, shedding tears and offering support. Neither of us knew the right thing to say to the other.

I admitted to her that the news of a friend finding she was pregnant was like a punch to the gut. I was really going out on a limb to admit this to her.

We had an argument once, in the car on the way home from work. Years ago, we'd spent a few months carpooling when we worked together, heading home in the dark of the early evening in the dead cold of winter. It wasn't an intentional fight...she had admitted to me that she may want to have a child some day, but only one. I pushed her, asking if she didn't value the relationship, the lessons, the comraderie she learned from her sister. What seemed to me such a "given" (why wouldn't you WANT to have two?) was obviously a feeling she didn't share, and I was treading on what I didn't realize to be thin ice. She was very sensitive about the topic entirely.

I'm an oaf that way sometimes.

So we don't talk about kids and families all that much. I have one and she doesn't, and while I think she likes mine more than OK, we have never much discussed it after that afternoon in the car.

I mean, it came up. But we would mention it quickly and then push it aside.

I don't really know why.

But anyway, I told her I was bummed because after months of trying, this other friend was pregnant and I wasn't.

Then she said something to me that was so perfect in its simplicity, here I am writing about it all these weeks later.

"Why do you want to have another baby now? I mean, you're obviously as far stretched as possible. A new baby is not going to fix things, you know."

She was right. Having another baby won't make me any less stressed, won't put us in our new house any sooner, won't magically change my husband's salary to make it easier for me to stay home.

I sort of stammered in response, paused, and admitted, "I know it won't, but I just DO."

And that was that...we sort of moved on, circled back delicately, and then the conversation moved on entirely.

But the fact that I was so moved by the question that I've thought it over for days on end tells me something.

I still want that baby.

I don't think I could put the reason into words...watching my boys giggle together on a mini-roller coaster at the fair was all it took for me to know, in my gut, that I have that family I've always wanted. And at the same time, I know that my family isn't yet complete.

I've asked myself if I'm tempting fate to so desperately want something that some days seems so far out of reach...especially when my current family is so GOOD. I've come to the conclusion that there has never been anything else in my life that I've really wanted with this conviction, and therefore I will continue to fight for it.

But why not now? As much as I shouldn't use another baby as an excuse to change my life or make decisions that are otherwise hard for me to make, I also shouldn't let my fear of the unknown stop me from adding to our family, either.

I mean, if everyone waited to have children until the time was absolutely perfectly right, well, there probably wouldn't be ANY babies, would there?

Whirling around at the fair from Mommy Wins on Vimeo.