Ahhh, Girls. Mean Girls.

I had every intention of coming here with a funny and witty post this week.  However, I keep being drawn back to the issue of Mean Girls.  I know Mean Girls exist, but I am naive in trusting that they are few and far between.

With my oldest in high school, I have been reliving many memories with each passing day of stories that my trusting and sharing girl brings home to me.  With the description of the daily high school life, my teenage self comes bouncing back to the surface.  The insecurities I felt are ripe as if they were just yesterday; the confidence I enjoyed also emerges with a fresh remembrance, and the Mean Girls' drama comes roaring down upon me with the re-breakage of my emotional dam.

Mean Girls.  You suck.  There you go. 

If you know your best friend likes a certain boy, the absolute WORST thing you can do is go after said boy.  Seriously?  Do you value your friendship?  Apparently, the answer to that prior question is a big resounding no.

You see, this particular incident also happened to me during my freshman year.  Thankfully, the experience has fast forwarded some twenty-five years and I am now able to share my story with my freshman daughter.  I honestly do know how she is feeling.  I also know that when this experience happened to me, it opened the doors for me to become friends with a beautiful girl who I am still very good friends with today.  Had I not had a Mean Girl experience, I would not have opened my friendship door of opportunity to someone else.

Sharing my freshman Mean Girl story helps my daughter, but it does not take away the pain and the hurt she feels by being betrayed by her best friend.  Oh, did I mention this best friend has not done this once, nor twice, but multiple times in the past month or so?  My Momma-Bear claws are out; however, I can only gently guide my daughter through the Bitchland.  She has to make her own choices, her own decisions on what is the best way to handle her relationships.  She has taken my life lessons of being the bigger and better person to the ultimate level thus far. 

As I have reflected upon this visit through high school estrogen sabotage, I realize that even as an adult there are still quite a few residents of Bitchland.  I guess some Mean Girls grow up to be mean women. 

 

Meh.  My rose-colored glasses are not as crystal clear as I would like them to be.

Am I naive to think that all of us women should be supporting each other?  I understand that in high school, the girls are still navigating their ways through uncharted terrorities of boys, high school curriculum, finding their role in this universe and so much more. As grown women, with many years of life experience under our belts, should we not have enough to guide us in a gentle way with each other?  Can we not have the opportunity to agree to disagree with each other, without belitting or hurting the other's feelings?

I promise to support my female friends in any of their endeavors.  I may not agree with your choice, or your action, but I will support you.  Why would I not?  I will offer you my advice and my experience in your times of tribulation; and I may not prefer your method in handling the same but I respect that it is your choice to make and I will not judge accordingly. 

At the end of the day, being kind to each other really is the best way to spend our time on this Earth.  Our lives, as we know, are too short and to waste any time being negative or mean is just so sad.

For those of you who have been a Mean Girl to me in my lifetime, both past, present and future - well, go ahead.  Shame on you.  I will still walk with my head high.  I will still kill you with kindness.  I will dump you from my life.  I will teach my children how to behave around your very likely Mean Children and they will walk with their heads held high.

My inquiring mind wants to know, how do you handle a Mean Girl experience either now as an adult or with your child(ren)?

Yoga in the Air...I Guess I Can't Fly

Two things I know are true.

1.) A good yoga class can bring out different difficult emotions, and
2.) I am having a hard time right now.

There was a third thing I thought was true, and that was the fact that I am strong enough to transcend the stresses of everyday life, that I am bigger than my problems, that I don't let them stand in my way of doing what I want to do.

This little theory was disproved at my first Aerial Yoga class yesterday, in Northborough, MA.

The truth was that this particular discipline of yoga has everything to do with courage, trust and letting go. These happen to be 3 areas in which I am struggling terribly right now.

I haven't been burned beyond repair -- the emotions just happen to be a little raw. I am highly mistrustful of my fellow human beings, I am alternatively full of a blinding rage and a peaceful transcendence. I flip-flop between wishing a particular someone a blissful journey (out of my life) and harboring feelings of wanting to stab their eyes out with my fingers and push them down a flight of stairs. Yes, lil old me. I am battling my own violent side.

A peaceful warrior was a good start.

 But what surprised me...genuinely surprised me...was my difficulty in letting go when it came time to hang upside down, to lean backwards and drop, to let go of the silks. I felt terrified. And What made me sad was that I know this isn't my general nature -- it just happens to be my reality right now. Turns out trust is a precious inner commodity that can be damaged, dented or even broken, and it seeps into areas of your life in which is doesn't necessarily belong.

 I tried to become a child again, to lose the weight of my adult issues, to go back to a time when hanging from the monkey bars was natural and freeing. Turns out this is easier said than done. Maybe I have come too far to go back there.

There is a third thing I know is true. Savasana in a silk hammock is an experience so far unparalleled in my life. It was a safe, warm, comfortable place and I will travel back there in my mind in weeks to come when life outside of the silks poses its challenges.

For anyone in the greater MA area, Aerial Yoga is yours for the taking! A single class costs $25 and you can see the schedule and learn more about Ebb n Flow Yoga studio HERE!

"I'll Never Be the Person That I Thought I'd Be"

I was listening to music on Thursday after getting some news about a job I didn't apply for... 

Well, I got it. 

As I was on the phone listening to the Assistant Principal talking about this job I had not known about, little comfort in, skeptical desire for, I kept shaking my head no. I wondered if she could hear the scratching noises my hair was making during my tight, repetitive head shakes as she went on. Then there was a silence and I figured it was my turn to speak. I opened my mouth and the words "Yes, if you are offering me that job, then I will take it." came out. I looked around startled. 
Who said that? 

I needed a "Den Talk" with my dad. He used to bring us in there for serious discussions that created a huge knot in the colon and flame in the belly. I called the apartment and got my mom. We had one of our "Kitchen Talks". The usual- get real, you can do it, well then don't do it, well then stop complaining type of chat.

Mom asked me what grades it was for. I told her 6th, 7th, 8th. Also known as Worst. Years. Ever. when it came to my life growing up. Those were the years of the most teasing, the biggest weight gain, the greatest confusion in school. I was in an educational hole, falling continuously behind in a challenging school. Those were the years when everything was absolute crap. Those were the years of my dad helping me through terrible Sunday nights.

"Oooh. 6th grade. The girls can be so mean!" my mom seethed out, remembering the turmoil of the time.

"Why did I say yes, Mom?"

"Because you are a good girl."

"Ugh!"

"Well, why do you think you took it?"

"I told the Assistant Principal that I am 40 and it is time to get out of my comfort zone."

"Good girl!" (Yes, the praise is like I am 9, but it still works, people.)

"I don't even know the difference between 8th grade math and Japanese."

"I wonder if you will be great at this?" she said, thinking out loud to herself.

"Ugh."

"Maybe you know exactly who these kids are and you will help them."

"Ugh."

"You aren't in 6th or 7th grade anymore, Kate. Maybe you will reach them and you will change them because you will get them. They need you."

"Hm." Reflexive kick of the wall I was near. "Maybe." said grudgingly. 

But I felt lighter.

"Maybe you were supposed to be this and you didn't know." Mom added.

"Yeah. Maybe..."

Maybe.

And that all got me thinking that maybe I just assumed what I was doing with my life is what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Maybe I don't know what is best for me, but need life to throw me the curve so I can experience something I would have otherwise avoided. I am not saying this is some Lifetime movie, Stand and Deliver, Lean on Me kind of thing. In my gut I feel like the little kids in my own little classroom is where I am supposed to be. But here is an appetizer sized experience with something different than that and I will try it out. It could lead to a position I want next year, or it could lead to a second Masters in Education and wouldn't that be (exhausting) amazing? Because who the hell knows what I am meant to be? I am a teacher, of that I am certain. But there are so many different types of teachers. Maybe, in my life, I will be more than the one kind of teacher that I thought I'd be. 

Or maybe I will just be amazed at myself for stepping outside my womby box.

So the reason I brought up the music I was listening to in the beginning of this entry was that a pal introduced me to the music of Amanda Palmer. This song came on and inspired me to write about this experience. I will tell you that the video is kind of raw so I went with the still shot of her cute belly. I wanted to share the song and the lyrics. It is way more deep and encompassing than what I experienced, but the words also touch on so many of our Curvies' posts that I was compelled to share. Enjoy.

In my mind
In a future five years from now
I'm one hundred and twenty pounds
And I never get hung over
Because I will be the picture of discipline
Never minding what state I'm in
And I will be someone I admire
And it's funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I've just forgotten how to see
That I am not exactly the person that I thought I'd be

And in my mind
In the faraway here and now
I've become in control somehow
And I never lose my wallet
Because I will be the picture of of discipline
Never fucking up anything
And I'll be a good defensive driver
And it's funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I've just forgotten how to see
That I'll never be the person that I thought I'd be

And in my mind
When I'm old I am beautiful
Planting tulips and vegetables
Which I will mindfully watch over
Not like me now
I'm so busy with everything
That I don't look at anything
But I'm sure I'll look when I am older
And it's funny how I imagined
That I could be that person now
But that's not what I want
But that's what I wanted
And I'd be giving up somehow
How strange to see
That I don't wanna be the person that I want to be

And in my mind
I imagine so many things
Things that aren't really happening
And when they put me in the ground
I'll start pounding the lid
Saying I haven't finished yet
I still have a tattoo to get
That says I'm living in the moment
And it's funny how I imagined
That I could win this win-less fight
But maybe it isn't all that funny
That I've been fighting all my life
But maybe I have to think it's funny
If I wanna live before I die
And maybe it's funniest of all
To think I'll die before I actually see
That I am exactly the person that I want to be

Fuck yes
I am exactly the person that I want to be

Dictionary – Mothers Edition 2013

Who needs Websters Dictionary when Mothers alone can define many great terms?  Here's a collection of my very own:

 

Black Hole – that space between the front seats of the vehicle and the console between them.  Intense magnetic force pulls everything from French fries to lunch money quarters to chapsticks and everything in between to the deep, cavernous and non-reachable crevasse of your car.

Figgy Pudding – that blubbery, jiggly, stretch-marked vastness that reaches from belly button to the southern nethers below; who cares if it housed three beautiful children for a collective twenty-six month period of time.   Little five year old fingers squish the goodness out of it whilst singing a made up figgy pudding song.  Lovely.

The Face – you know, THAT face…the one that children and spouses alike know that you are one minute-millisecond away from an explosion to rival Hiroshima.  The one face that everyone within a five mile shock zone knows that no words are needed, action is immediately necessary and that bomb shelter may be an appropriate hide-out for the next few hours.

Padded Cell – the one room in the house that a mother goes for a brief ten minute sanity check:  the bathroom.  Little does the family know that when mother is in her padded cell, resist the luring desire to jiggle said cell door handle despite an overwhelming need to do so at that moment.  Any continued attempts to break into the padded cell while a mother is in there may cause an immediate display of The Face (re-read above to prepare for the consequences).

Grey Hair – they sprout on your head like dandelion weeds in the heat of summer.  Each time you see a child wearing one of YOUR sacred socks.  A child bringing home the 40-Millionth fundraiser this week that matches the same one his sibling brought home.  The husband snoring for hours on end resulting in yet another night of missed sleep. 

STFU&EI – the response you dole out when the complaints start flying about the myriad of vegetables and healthy assortment of foods you spent time preparing for their dinner.  Of course, that STFU&EI remains bouncing off the inner most part of your skull while you kindly ask the family to please try it, eat a few bites and then make them a PB&J.

Snatch – despite a Mother’s best effort to persuade a child to order their own entrée or eat their own requested food, the acts of wee wittle offspring deciding they want what is on the Mother’s plate.  Said act of snatching leaves the Mother with no option but to ingest the childish food; otherwise, said Mother would be stick thin.

Cliffhanger – waking up in the middle of the night grasping and clinging on for dear life by the mere threads of a 400 count sheet as a tiny thirty-five pound body manages to take up 99% of the marital bed residence.

Tell me, any new definitions that you propose being added to Mothers Edition 2013? 

Silence

The silence is almost painful. It's a cruel reminder of the fact that I don't own my children, that I have simply borrowed them from their very own individual futures and someday they will hit the ground running, leaving me with the stillness their departure leaves in its wake.

Every now and again I get a taste of life without them, and most often it's a welcome respite from the fighting and bickering, the neverending requests and demands. Tonight, the little girls are at Gramma's, the oldest at a sleepover. It is the dead of winter, the calm after a storm of winds so severe they blew barrels across the highway at our car, the snow a fresh and blinding blanket covering a whole universe of promise.

But that silence -- that's what covers me. It makes the hairs on my arm stand on end; they are listening too.

I know my good fortune -- I never waver in this. I am coming down, emotionally, from a weekend of bonding and cameraderie, of love and meaning and joy as we snuck away to a campy and cozy inn in the middle of Maine with our closest family friends. I know how rare and beautiful this is because I have been seeking it and waiting for it my entire adult life.

I stopped at least a dozen times -- while the kids were gorging themselves on pancakes and homemade pizza, or dancing or singing or having a heated poker game -- I stopped then in my tracks.

The kids didn't see me frantically wiping away the tears. I believe I was the only one crying and thank goodness for that because even with 11 bedrooms, there was only space for one lunatic in that house. I am getting a little emotional in my older age, because I feel moments like this are starting to slip away between the very same fingers that once soothed wayward cowlicks and held tiny baby hands while nursing.

Pretty soon, these children that I love -- not only mine but my friends' -- will start to go away, and their visits home will become less and less frequent. Many of them have been coming to my house -- for sleepovers, for babysitting, to give their moms some breathing room -- since they were little, some of the friendships are new enough that I am still only starting to uncover the wonderfulness that is them. But whichever way you have it, my love runs deeper than I ever imagined it would.

Deep enough that as each family packed up its SUV or minivan and the grown-ups exchanged goodbyes, I grabbed even the adolescent boys into bear hugs before they had the chance to escape it. And oh how they tried.

Here's the thing. I have loved raising my children. Not every minute of it, but somehow every day of it. I have loved watching them grow and develop into little people and establish themselves in the world -- in my world. And I have loved being a friend, of developing friendships and growing them and sometimes fixing them and frequently walking away from them even if just for a day. I know in my mind that when my kids are grown and gone, there will be new experiences to love but it still looms over me like a loss just waiting to happen.

I am blessed with the chaos and the noise, the bustle and the boisterousness. And I will be blessed with the silence in the aftermath of raising my family -- it's just that the lack of volume is going to take a little getting used to.

My fear is that I will always want these moments back, always be pining for exactly what I have right now.

Right now.

Et Tu, Undies?

Y'alls. My undies are too tight.

Yes, we know when the jeans are too tight and get up in our nethers. Or the shirt is too tight and reveals the muffin tops and bra squishouts. But when the underwear is too tight... it is like a girlfriend saying to you, while at a chocolate buffet or something, "are you sure you want to eat that?"
Complete.
Total.
All encompassing.
Betrayal.

Undies are your closest clothings ever. They are literally alllll up in your business. To have them leave a mark upon thy upper thigh/side butt fat pillows is a slap on the cheek, indeed. Or you bend and they just leave you hanging...
Crack is wack, people. Why would my underwear do this to me?

Look, I can see my fault in it. I don't use woolite. 
Admitted. 
Out there.
My "lingerie" drying rack holds....nothing since it is folded and wedged under some shelves. I throw everything in the dryer. (And before you try to help me, seeing me flailing out here in the wind- they didn't shrink. I pretended that already.) So it isn't like I am completely kind to my little tighties.

So, looking out the window at the soft cascading snow, I gave myself the little pep talk we all have. The one when we 

aren't in a disgusted mood with ourselves. A touch of 
reprimand. A touch of understanding. I took the animal instinct approach. We are like bears. We are fattening to keep warm. Of course I don't want to exercise, it is against my nature in Winter. Tucking in to warmth and food to survive the long winter....Less daylight to ensure resting up.


But, do you have to hide the chocolates from the kids so you don't have to share? No. That is wrong. Let the kids eat some. And it is time to buy the kids the treats you don't like so you will stop sneaking them. 
Yes. Yes. Yes. True.
And only ONE more Little Debbie Heart cakes. One. Then move on!
(or opt for commando)

What Is Love?

In honor of Valentines Day, this is my gift to you.

Love is displayed in many forms. As the years pass, your desire for flowers and romance may wane along side the lust and energetic ways of youth.   In return, love displays itself in subtle, yet powerful, parts of our every day lives.  For example, a gentle foot touch whilst sitting at opposite ends of the couch is a little slice of love.  Maybe it's that hand holding in the family caravan, en route to the umpteenth soccer game that weekend.   Maybe love is simply sharing the household duties.

Here are some of my favorites:

Love is sharing a tender moment:  a passionate hug and a sweet soft lipped kiss - only to have the bonds of your union solidified by the interruption of your youngest child, said child wanting to be the middle of the family "sandwich".

Love is arguing; over the stupid stuff and over the more important.  

Love is made sweeter by apologies and make-ups.

Love is hearing your oldest child tell you she loves you, unprompted.

Love is having your "swagalicious" (his word, not mine) son kiss you goodbye every day when being dropped off for school - regardless of who may be looking.

Love is a friend; listening, hugging, tough-loving, laughing, crying and laughing some more.

Love is a favorite song on the radio to start your day.

Love is finding your favorite Jelly Belly jelly bean, in my case, juicy pear or buttered popcorn.

Love is a beautiful sunrise, reminding you of the precious qualities of life, but also of a new day to shine bright and start anew.

Love is caring for aging family; pulling memories in tight, holding on forever.

Love is furry; four-legged creatures there, whenever you need them for a snuggle or two or perhaps a lick or a purr.

Love certainly is more than a box of chocolates; and you certainly do not ever really know what you are going to get but you can be sure it will be pretty sweet.

Whatever piece you choose, love is a great emotion and may be shared freely. On this Valentines Day, tell someone you love them - show them, too.

The Favorite Child :: By Me and Erma

I was accused yesterday, as I issued orders to my 3 children to clean their rooms and emphatically praised the one who did just that with gusto, of having a favorite child. And it reminded me of the following essay, and if you haven't read it before today, grab a cup of coffee and have a seat. Bring a tissue.

 

 

My Favorite Child – by Erma Bombeck

Every mother has a favorite child. She cannot help it. She is only human. I have mine – the child for whom I feel a special closeness, with whom I share a love that no one else could possibly understand.

 

My favorite child is the one who was too sick to eat ice cream at his birthday party – who had measles at Christmas – who wore leg braces to bed because he toed in – who had a fever in the middle of the night, the asthma attack, the child in my arms at the emergency ward.

 

My favorite child spent Christmas alone away from the family, was stranded after the game with a gas tank on E, lost the money for his class ring.

 

My favorite child is the one who messed up at the piano recital, misspelled committee in a spelling bee, ran the wrong way with the football, and had his bike stolen because he was careless.

 

My favorite child is the one I punished for lying, grounded for insensitivity to other people’s feelings, and informed he was a royal pain to the entire family.

 

My favorite child slammed the doors in frustration, cried when she didn’t think I saw her, withdrew and said she could not talk to me.

 

My favorite child always needed a haircut, had hair that wouldn’t curl, had no date for Saturday night, and a car that cost $600 to fix. My favorite child was selfish, immature, bad-tempered, and self-centered. He was vulnerable, lonely, unsure of what he was doing in the world, and quite wonderful.

 

All mothers have their favorite child. It is always the same one: the one who needs you at the moment. Who needs you for whatever reason – to cling to, to shout at, to hurt, to hug, to flatter, to reverse charges to, to unload on – but mostly just to be there.

Fragments of Understanding

On Sunday a bunch of us locals celebrated our little friend Tommy's birthday with a big cupcake contest and sale. Tommy is a little trooper living with 2 types of cancers. How overwhelming. But Tommy and his family live with grace and positive thoughts. Fundraisers involve family, fun, and children playing side by side with Tommy. A true celebration of life and happiness.

Coming back from the Team Tommy Cupcake Festival, my 3 were hyper in the back of the car, singing and dancing and being spazzes. Normal operation of affairs. Then my 5 year old broke in and said, "I saw Tommy there. And Seany."
"Yes, you play with them at the beach sometimes."
"I scared."
"What are you scared of, B?"
"I don't want to have cancer."
Colleen broke in and said, "Brendan, you can't catch cancer. It is something that just might happen inside. It isn't like a cold that you will get."
"That is right." I added. "There are things we can do to limit our chances for certain cancers, but other cancers just happen."
"What do I need to do?" B asked, determined.
"Well, for example, if you don't smoke and always use sunscreen, that can lessen our chances."
"Mom!" Ev breaks in, exasperated. "We are kids! We aren't smokers!!"
"Yes, I know. But these are things for life you should think about. And eating well, and exercising. Nothing prevents cancer for sure, but being in your best health can help you."
"Mommy?" Brendan calls out.
"Yes?"
"If Colleen sat on a balloon, would it pop?"
Thus began a break in the conversation.

In our extended family we have a member in cancer treatment as well. One of the kids' aunts. The whole weekend while prepping for the cupcake festival, we have had mini chats about cancer like this. Whatever they can handle they ask about and then shift gears.

"Can you see cancer?" Colleen asked me.
"Sometimes. Mainly it is something you cannot see."
"What is a tumor?" 
I explained it. I said most of them can't be seen and are tucked away in the body of those with cancer. I explained how they are shrunk, if possible, with different treatments.
"Does Tommy still have hair?"
"He does still have hair. A little less than before."
"Why doesn't he shave his head like Aunt?"
"Well, that is up to him and his family. He already has shorter hair. Your Aunt decided to shave her head because her hair was longer."
Nodding her head, remembering the realization that photo of her Aunt brought to us.
"So Tommy likes pigs?"
"Apparently."
"We didn't make pig cupcakes."
"No."
"Will my boot be wet when we find it and dig it out?"

My personality is one that likes to plow through a project and get it all done. Work out a fight right then. Finish a conversation. This cannot happen with children. I think I appreciate that. It slows the thoughts down that tend to race. It gets rid of a bottom line. And with cancer, who really knows the bottom line? And better, does the bottom line matter?

What matters, and cancer reminds us of this, is life. Is day to day. Is stopping to have that conversation in it's fragmented 18 parts as it unfolds. It is remembering to celebrate life as it is lived out. With cupcakes and family parties. In comedy shows and auctions. These fundraisers are filled with love and giving and that seems to chase the dark shadows away for a little while. And it aids in the caring of those in treatment. A good deal all around.


Conversations continued today around the death of a friend's cat. That made them ask about my cat that died when I only had Colleen, Ev in utero, B a dream, waiting. That lead to the discussion of what putting an animal to sleep meant. That to the discussion of people versus pets. Why could we put pets to sleep when they are dying and in pain, but not people? That brought up one of the props in our last election. THAT lead Brendan to apply the "fart touch" to one of his sisters... leading to a fight over whether he indeed had the fart touch to give. And I let the conversation go.

Guest Blogger :: Baby Hands

http://lyndenlaundry.blogspot.com/

There's just something about baby hands... So sweet and innocent, soft tiny things in comparison to our own, and perfect symbols of how fresh and new they really are. Not to mention when they reach out and hold yours! A newborn grasping your single finger is one of the most precious things you'll ever experience...and as those hands grow, we hope that they'll continue to hold ours for just a little while. While we teach them to walk, cross the street, lead them into school, walk them down the aisle, the list goes on...we're there holding them. But sometimes holding those sweet little hands are their way of being there for us too.

Last week my three year old, Mason woke up with a terrible toothache, followed by a swollen face, an infected mouth, and pain like nobody's business! It was awful to watch him hurting like that and I wanted nothing more than to take his pain away. After doctors visits, medications and a really long weekend it was finally decided that he needed to have a tooth removed. While I struggled with the fact that my funny little red headed boy would have to go a few years without a front tooth, I suddenly realized what I was really facing. Anesthesia!! Mason would have to be put under in order to have his tooth extracted and I was petrified to say the least. After seeking advice from parents with similar experiences and some really great friends, I decided to be strong and do what was needed to fix my little guy.

Yesterday came and Mason and I headed out early for his appointment with the oral surgeon. "They just want to check your tooth," I said. I had been second guessing my plan of attack and hoped that I was doing the right thing by not scaring him to death before we had even arrived. He was so scared and cried on the ride over saying, " Mama, my teethies feel all better. I don't need no doctors." My heart broke. I reassured him all would be fine and held his hand as we walked in the office. Through check-ins and preparations and meeting nurse after nurse I held his scared little hands and promised he'd be okay.

Finally, they came in our room with a little shot that they'd use to put my boy to 'sleep'. "Lights on but nobody's home," our doctor explained. So I hugged him tight while they did their jobs and rocked him as I slowly felt him getting heavier. They said I should lay him in the chair so they could monitor him better and I reluctantly did what they asked. But I couldn't let him go completely. As he laid there drifting in and out seemingly comfortable and calm, I was now the scared one in the room. I bent down and leaned over the side of his chair and slid my fingers into his. Did he even realize my hand was there? I don't know. But somehow it didn't matter. I needed him now. I held on tightly and rubbed my fingers back and forth over his and ran my fingers through his hair while a few nurses looked on and made small talk. "Those hands!" "There's just something about baby hands." ...I could hear them talking as they watched us, and they were right. There is just something about them. We hold them for so long as we're helping them grow and sometimes when we don't even realize it, they're helping us by holding ours too. When all was said and done, Mason did a fantastic job with his surgery and we couldn't be more proud of our brave boy. He has been home recovering and you'd barely know he went through this at all. I on the other hand remember every part of it and will be forever grateful for those little hands that helped me through.

Hardass

For my faithful followers, you know to expect a “rant” every now and then from me.  Today is no exception, here is my spiel:

<insert scrape, drag....and hold on while I bring over my pedestal and climb atop......drag, scrape....>

I had been feeling somewhat insecure about recent comments and allusions from a few folks around me that I may be a hardass.  I doubted myself; I questioned if I were really perhaps inappropriately tough or perhaps a bit more high-strung than I actually perceived myself to be.  I then had a moment this week that allowed me the freedom and insight to realize that I AM indeed a hardass and I am very, very proud of it.

I have already been there and done that with blogging about how I hold myself up to extreme expectations.  If I do not demand more of myself, who will?  How will I reach my greatest capabilities if I do not push myself to reach for the stars? 

However, in moving on, I realize that I do have very high expectations for my children.  I have struggled in the past with balancing my expectations with not driving my children to need weekly therapy.   So far, I have well-balanced children.  In fact, because of my expectations my children know specifically how they are to behave in public and in a  very wide range of social situations.  My children are expected to use their manners:  “Please.”  “Thank you!”  “It’s so nice to meet you.”  “Thank you for having me.” 

Yes, manners!  Is that almost an extinct anomaly in 2013?  Gosh, help us all if it is and basic social courtesies have become less than the norm.

My children are expected to get good grades.  I do not have to bribe them nor do I have to reward them as a mechanism to perform well in school.  Honestly, it is a simple as that.  My children are required to do their homework before any other activity.  Again, it really is that simple.  Of course, some days there is a fair amount of griping and complaining, but it gets done.  If my children fail to perform at school – whether it be not adequately studying for an exam or not getting their homework done; they suffer consequences.  Consequences that hurt them square in the tummy – they will miss their beloved sports, they will lose valuable TV time, or they will lose an electronic device.  HARDASS.  I think not, I think that is just the premise of being a parent and upholding the fundamental parenting rules.  I cannot be entirely sure as I did not get the Parenting 101 Manual at any of my children’s births; but so far, my "HARDASS" method seems to be working.  I am a hardass because I expect my children to eventually function in the real world.  Mmmhhhmm, okay.

My children are not expected, but required to respect adults and authority figures.  There is absolutely NO room for any flexibility in this demand to treat your elders and your superiors with the utmost proper behavior.  I am a hardass because I insist that my children know precisely their role in the hierarchy of the social web of our human race.  Uh-huh, yup.

Furthermore, my children have roles within our family unit; within our household.  They have chores that they are mandated to perform as a basic, fundamental privilege to being a part of our family unit.  We help each other.  Sure, they have additional chores they can do for the purpose of earning an allowance.  However, all three of my kids understand that in order to function as a family, we have to support each other in the day to day operations of this house.  Chores give my children a sense of responsibility and contribution to the overall well-being of our home.  Chorse also give my kiddos the skills needed to eventually function in the real world on their own!  Shhhh, please do not let that word out on the street.  Whispers, "Hardass!"

I had an episode this week where an unknown 19 year old child publicly disrespected me on a social media forum.  I reported some suspicious activity within my neighborhood and simply asked the local police to check it out.  Not only was this child entirely disrespectful and rude, but the string went on and escalated to the point where additional young adults were crying foul play and victim – because several adults called out the inappropriate behavior of the aforementioned punk .  The impulse reaction of a kid, who decided to comment on a string that had nothing to do with him whatsoever, spurred great emotion.  Several of these young adults, including the first commentator had NO problem posting incriminating and inflammatory verbiage ON the local police department page.  NO fear of any repercussions from the police, from their adult relatives on the same social media forum, and further more actually challenging the adults who stood up to their unacceptable behavior on the thread?

I am bothered. 

My tummy hurt all night.  My head spun with disbelief.  Is this truly the future of our country?  Are our children not being taught the simple basics – manners, respect, and courtesy?  Do they not know how to function in the real world? 

Wow.  I am a hardass.  I will remain a hardass.  However, I will reassure you that my children will be one of the few that will persevere and grow into successful adults because of my hardass lessons at home. 

My children will not cry foul when reprimanded by an authority figure.  My children will apologize for any mistakes they will indeed make.  Further, they will say thank you for the opportunity to learn and grow from their shortcomings. 

Welcome to the real world. 

(And if you ever see my children demonstrating this behavior that I abhor, I demand that YOU take them by the ear and lead them to the corner for an age appropriate "time-out").

<Stepping down from my pedestal, small and short curtsy before scurrying off.>

The Basketcase

 My kids recently returned home from a night at Gramma's, announcing that they had all cozied up for movie night and watched The Breakfast Club.

While I am not entirely ready for my 6 year old to ask me the meaning of a hot beef injection, I still think it's a timeless classic and I may as well let go of the notion that they are going to be watching episodes of Little Bear for all eternity.

Frankly, the movie had been on my mind.

Not only is it a theme in my kids' recent favorite movie, Pitch Perfect, it also just happened to have been a topic of conversation at a recent family gathering. My sisters and our husbands were all able to identify the character from The Breakfast Club that most closely  mimics our own personalities.

In other words, 5 out of 5 people in my family agreed that Ally Sheedy and I are one. My older sister? The Nerd. My younger sister? The Princess.

I hadn't been sure it was that black and white. As far as I am concerned, there are little pieces of all of us in all five. I always saw something of myself in this guy:

Does the population boil down to only five types of people? Or,is it just that it is too easy for us to identify with one generalization?

 

And, if that is the case, which one are YOU?