The Basement

A few weeks ago, another blogger wrote that May was the springtime version of December.  Reading that felt like such an epiphany because YES OF COURSE IT IS.  May is the month of last-minute school projects and graduations and end-of-the-year programs and teacher gifts and so many other things.  In this week alone, our household is celebrating two graduation ceremonies (one preschool and one high school), one eighteenth birthday, and one big party combining the two.  There has been so much to do and not enough time and my general feeling about May is that it is beating me up.

<Insert visual of me waving the white flag here.>

However, it's also a time of celebrating.  It's a time to be proud of things accomplished.  It's the last push of energy and exertion before we exhale and relax into summertime and easy living. It's also a time of reflection. It's that reflection that I want to write about tonight, but I'm not sure how because writing about this particular topic is hard.  Whenever I think about sitting down and writing it all out, I'm not sure if my instincts are encouraging me to be fearless and to just do it, or if they are actually cautioning me about being reckless.

I guess if I publish this, you all will know which voice was loudest tonight.

So, enough dancing around it: what I want to reflect on with you tonight is teenagers.

You guys.  It's really hard having a teenager.  I also vaguely remember that it was hard to be a teenager, but (and maybe this is the distance of time speaking) having experienced both now, I'm almost certain that it's much harder to raise a teenager. Here's why: as an adult, one has all this hindsight.  You try to offer it to the teenager.  You try to use your experience and hindsight to guide the teenager when you see them making mistakes.  You offer your hindsight and (here's the sucky part) .... they don't want it.  They don't give a rat's ass about your hindsight.  It has absolutely no relevance to their life.  They don't need it.  They don't see it.  They. Do. Not. Care.  They have girl problems (or boy problems).  They have acne.  They have hormones.  They're just trying to figure it all out and sure, yeah, you can try to help, but at the end of the day you're just in their way.  You're basically left on your knees, hands lifted in supplication, reaching out, weakly calling "But....I- I have this hindsight."

And you realize that somehow, you have become as lame as you feel.

Wait. It gets worse.

When you are a new parent there is all this information.  If you need to talk to someone about your baby, you can go anywhere.... the Internet, a friend, a bookstore, heck- walk into any grocery store- and someone there will have a listening ear and an opinion about whatever it is you want to know about your baby.  But then, if you fast forward thirteen years, you will find that you'll have SO MANY questions and hardly anywhere to turn because no one can really help you with your kid.  These problems are as unique as your child is, so there are no answers.  You are on your own.  Furthermore, you won't WANT to share these problems with the world because some of them will be horrible and shameful.  You won't want to expose your child (or yourself) to that kind of judgement from the world.  They may be teenagers, but what they really are is itty bitty baby adults, and you start to understand that what we're doing during the teen years is birthing little baby adults into the world.   I would no more want anyone judging my baby-adult harshly than I'd want someone to judge an actual baby. They are just too new.  The world is just too mean.  So you keep them under your wing best you can- but it's a bit like loving on a barbed-wire fence.  It's prickly and frustrating and painful and.... lonely.

And there you are.  Alone with an angry baby-adult who thinks you're lame, and no one to talk to about it besides your spouse (That's if you're lucky. Even if you have a spouse, sometimes you won't even agree on how to care for the baby-adult, so feel free to go ahead and compound that lonely feeling by two.)

A few months ago, a blogger wrote about this same topic- parenting teens- and a few people in the comment section complained that it was too negative.  They said it reminded them of when people would tell them "horror stories" about pregnancy and child birth just to scare them.  I wanted to respond to their comments by replying back, "Shhhhhhhhhh.  We're talking.  Clearly this is not about you.  I'm sure your child's years as a baby adult will be perfect and stress-free.  Right now, there's someone here that's like me.  I need to hear because no one really talks about this."

Yet another blogger (Yeesh. This is the 3rd one I've mentioned tonight.  Perhaps I should stop reading so many blogs.) ...has a page on their blog titled "The Basement".  It's actually a brilliant idea- if there is something you need to share but aren't able to do so publicly, you submit your piece to her "basement", and she'll publish it for you.  There was a lot of heavy stuff down there, but you could see that it was a healing place too, since there was a lot "me too" in the comments.  In these last few years, it's occurred to me that parents of teens could benefit from a basement.

This has been a hard year for us and 9.  I'm okay with writing that. I don't mind if he reads that.  He knows it's true.  There were times this past year when I was so completely pissed off at him that I couldn't even talk to him.  I had to talk to friends or family instead and ask them to show me an empathetic perspective.  Then I had to actually work on feeling that empathy, like I was some kind of robot with programming instructions.  I had to actually practice feeling empathetic because none of the nicer feelings were coming naturally to me. There was too much anger in the way.  (It's okay with me if he reads that too, as he lived it and knows it to be true.)

Of course, details and events are all part of 9's story, and I won't be sharing them here.  I can only talk about my feelings and my reactions, which I know, leaves a big hole in the story.  That's why I said earlier that this is a hard thing to write about.  At the end of the day, here's what I would be whispering into the basement: he lost his mom four years ago and we all know that a lot of this past years' turmoil came from.  In the middle of all the turmoil were big mile markers; getting his license, attending junior and senior Prom, performing in the school play, birthdays.... and next week will be graduation.  Each time one of these events pass, as I'm snapping a picture of him behind the wheel of his jeep, or in his tux, or blowing out candles, I get choked up- not on pride- (although I feel pride too) but guilt.  I always feel guilty that I'm here and his mom's not.  It's a weird kind of survivor guilt, I guess.  Usually when I try to talk about this, people rush in and talk over me and tell me that it's good, it's so good, that 9 has a person to fill in the role of motherhood.  And I nod and give up, because yes, it's good.  I'm not diminishing my role in his upbringing.  But I'd love it if people would just sit in the knowledge that it is also really unfair.  It's a bad break for everyone, especially 9 and Michelle.  It's okay to say that without trying to make it "better".

Those big moments that Michelle is not here for, it's true that she should be here, but I know also that she'd have traded anything, all her worldly goods, to be here for the crappy stuff too.  She didn't tell me this, but any mom knows it to be true.  And understanding that puts a different spin on it.  It doesn't make it easier to deal with teenager angst and inexperience.  It doesn't make me feel less frustrated.  But it does bring more meaning to the task.  The good stuff is easy, maybe that's why I feel guilty about it.  The blood, sweat and tears that goes into the hard stuff feels more "earned" somehow.  It's still bittersweet.  It's still unfair.  But having a role, working with his family to help him grow from a baby adult to a mature (and hopefully happy, healthy, productive) man has been worth it.  And that is one thing that has always been clear.....

He's always been worth it.  

The High Road

   
     Hey all!  I feel like I've been out of it for a while.  It probably hasn't been that long, but since the last few months have been all about flooring renovations and Matt being gone a lot and Prom and end-of-the-year things- with a little flu bug thrown in to the mix- I've learned a few things.  One is that time is weird.  Why does it feel like we've been working on our floors for a decade when it's only been a month and a half ?(Only a month and a half? Snort.) And how is it that 9 attended his Senior Prom when it feels like I just met him as a Kindergartner. There's no way that could have been more than five years ago.  Could it have been? 
     So weird. 
    The other thing I learned is that there is some kind of weird correlation between my bouts with the flu and the appearance of Hamburger Helper commercials.  Seriously. NO ONE with an upset stomach needs to see that many closeups of ground meat floating in fake cheese.  
     Anyway.  I wrote this post a year ago and never published it because I didn't have a way to finish it. Yet it's always stayed in the back of my mind because it's about a topic that is often relevant to my life.  It's about taking the high road.  Or not taking the high road.  It's also about being a grown-up and how much it blows at times.  Like I said, I didn't have a way to finish it.... until tonight.  Tonight there was an incident at the Costco Gas Station and I swear to you guys, it was like God came down and said "BAM! There's your ending!" And I was all, "Whoa, Lord.  You are SO right! Thanks, man." 
(Cause in my head, God is hip like that.) 
     Anyway.  Enough talking.  Here's the original post.  I'll jump back in to finish it off with the Costco story.  See you all there. 
     (Um, I mean, I'll see you at the end of the post, not at Costco.  Just clarifying in case you are confused- which I wouldn't blame you for.)
****
     Have you guys ever taken the Meyers Briggs Personality Test? I'm pretty sure anyone who's taken a Psych 101 course has taken the Meyers Brigg. I've taken it a few different times in my life, and the one thing that has remained consistent throughout the years is that I've always scored as far over as one can get on the "Feeler" side. That means I make judgements based on my feelings, rather than logical reasoning.  Shocker, right? I'll give you a minute to pick your jaw up off the floor. 
Kidding.  Logic and I have never been simpatico. My feelings are big, big, big.  Sometimes too big.  Often times too big.  That's one of the reasons I like writing..... writing often shrinks them down into a manageable perspective.  
     And while my big emotions are one of the things I treasure about myself, as I've matured I've also become hyper aware of some of the consequences of letting my feelings all hang out- especially the negative ones.  For one, sometimes it freaks people out.  Two, sometimes it gets me in trouble.  Three, it's often a terrible way to model appropriate behavior, especially....say.... on the road when your children are in the car with you.  

     So yeah, over the last ten years I've become much better at handling my emotions.  But in the process of reigning my emotions in, I've been swallowing a lot of anger.  That's probably why it's such a recurring theme in so many of my posts. And I've just spent a lot of time lately wondering what it is all you normal people do with your anger?  Because while I get that loosing it on somebody just reflects poorly on you and sends negative energy out into the world, I'm finding that I still feel punished after handling a situation the "mature and responsible" way because I end up being angry for days.  

    For example, a few weeks ago, my sister and I took our kids out for a hike at a nearby trail.  The hike follows the fault line out here for a while before ending at an oasis surrounded by palm trees.  It was a great day- not too warm, not too hot- and the trail meandered up and downhill just enough to make the change in scenery interesting. The kids, as kids do, were stopping every few minutes to pick up a rock, a stick, a chewed piece of bubble gum…. any random item they found interesting.  Sara and I were taking our time, intermittently stopping our conversation to herd the kids back together if a few fell too far behind.

    I'm telling you all this to point out that it was a great day.  We were all having fun, until the "incident".  As we got closer to the end of the trail, I turned around to warn the kids that they would need to drop anything they had collected before we left the path.  Then Sara and I picked up our conversation again.  A few minutes later, an older couple passed our group walking at a brisk pace.  As they passed, the older lady turned and to my surprise, starting scolding Roo. 
 “You know what, little girl?”  she said.  “You shouldn’t throw sticks!  Don't you know that?"
Roo, who is pretty shy around strangers most of the time, didn’t answer.  As for me, I’m used to strangers stopping to engage Roo in conversation, but up to that point it had always been because she’s cute.  It took me an extra second to figure out that wasn’t the case here.

     The lady continued on. “You shouldn’t throw sticks because they hurt people!”  And she continued to rant at Roo while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Being a former elementary school teacher, I’m totally comfortable with calling out other kids on their bad behavior, but if their parents are around, I leave them to it OR I talk to the parents.  This lady just lit into my kid while I was standing there and didn’t bother to clue me in as to what she was so angry about.  A quick glance at my sister proved that she was just as confused as I was.

     “I’ll take care of it.  Thank you.” I said, swooping in to grab Roo’s hand.  Admittedly, the annoyance I was feeling came through in my tone. 

     “GOOD!” the lady snapped.  Then she stomped away.

     I leaned over to interrogate Roo.   According to the other kids, the couple had come from behind to pass our group and as they did, Roo threw her (small, 8 inch) stick to the side.  It hit the lady in her shin as she was passing.  So, bottom line, it was an accident.  As far as I could tell, the lady was not bleeding.  She was not limping.  Being that she was an adult and Roo was 4, I would think that she’d be able to see that it was an accident.  At best, she could have let me know and I would’ve made Roo apologize to her because yes, absolutely, Roo should learn to be aware of what’s around her before she throws things.

     But again, she’s four.  She’s learning.  It was an accident. 

     I reprimanded Roo by telling her she needed to be aware of her surroundings, but inside I was seething.  I felt like that one incident ruined a perfectly nice day.  I wanted to pick up a stick and throw it at the lady’s head.  I wanted to run ahead and confront her.  I wanted to spit insults into her face.   I wanted to run her over with my car.  All these things I wanted to do, yet when I looked at the situation without all the crazy making emotions, I saw that I had handled it in the most mature, adult manner possible.  I had kept my temper, got rid of the lady quickly, addressed the situation with the kids, and explained why the old witch lady went batshit was angry.
     Ahem.

     In the end though, none of that mattered.  Taking the high road didn't make me feel any better.  I was still pissed as all hell.  And it stayed with me for DAYS.  

*****************
     That's where I ended the post when I wrote it last year.  Then, tonight at Costco Gas, I had a confrontation with another person in which I TOTALLY did not take the high road.  I gave this rude, rude woman a piece of my mind and told her she was a miserable person and I may or may not have given her a nice, long, extended look at my middle finger.  I wrote out every little detail for you in an indignant huff, but then I deleted it all because I realized that sharing the whole thing with the world is not going to make me any more right.  Also, I realized that you may not care about my drama as much as I want you to and I want to avoid being annoyed by that because in this case, I WAS SO RIGHT.
     I also deleted it because I'm already well over 1000 words. You're welcome, and don't worry.  I'll wrap this up.
     Here's what I'm taking away from this.... whether I take the high road or jump off of it with both feet, I still feel angry and frustrated at other people.  'Cause here's the thing about the high road-no one ever says, "Hey, good job taking the high road!"  And I feel like that's wrong.  YOU GUYS.  We need to tell people how awesome they are when they take the high road becaaaaaaauuuuuuse........(deep breath) BECAUSE when you take the high road over and over and over and no one ever acknowledges how hard that is, it starts to feel like the stupid people are winning.  And tonight, in my moment of confrontation at the gas station, I could not bear the thought of letting the stupid people win again.  This resulted in me acting beneath myself, which yeah, I feel bad about.  I guess that should be my motivation for staying on the high road.  However, I'd like to think that perhaps, maybe, if someone were there with me when the incident occurred, I would've handled it better and they would've patted me on the back and said, "Good job, sistah.  That woman was ridiculous.  Nice job taking the high road with her."

Because sometimes that's all you need to hear. 

ABC Countdown: Parent Takeover

Beginning today, we have exactly 26 days of school left.

Want to know how I know that?  I'll tell you.

I know we have exactly 26 days of school left because the school's annual flyer that announces the ABC COUNTDOWN showed up in the backpacks this week.

Does your child's school do this? Do you know what it is? If you believe the flyer's explanation, it's "a fun way for us all to enjoy the end of the school year!"  The first year, I believed the flier.  Truly, I bought into it one hundred percent.  I pulled that colorful paper with the cute clip art out of PG's Kindergarten sized backpack and I was all "Ooooohh CYYYYUUUUUTTTTE!!!!!!!  Look, baby!  We're counting down to the end of school!  Tomorrow you get to bring an apple to your teacher!  How FUN!  Then it's Bad Hair Day!  And..... cool! Look! Wednesday is Canned Food Drive Day!  This is sooooooo adorable! "

Then I commenced the next 26 days of assembling last minute costumes for "Future Career Day" and "Western Day" and having to make a stop at the grocery store on the way to school to pick up a rose for "Bring a Rose to Your Teacher Day" and cans of food for "Canned Food Drive Day", and...... let's just say that my enthusiasm for the whole thing had waned when it was all over.  By a LOT.  It's not that I don't appreciate the school's efforts to make the end of the school year fun..... I love that my kid's school does fun little "extras" like this.  It's just that 26 "extras" at the end of the school year when I'm at a crawl and the finish line is just riiiiiiigggghhht there, is a little.....um.... well, it turns out that it sucked.  Like, really hard.

The next year, I pulled out the flier and I'm pretty sure that my expression was that of a parent whose child had just handed over a "gift" of soggy Kleenex found on the ground.  I managed a weak "Yay!" and a forced smile while cursing under my breath.  Then I silently walked to the fridge where I
hung the ABC COUNTDOWN Calendar and looked forward to the day- 26 of them to be exact- when I would take it down and rip it into millions of teeny-tiny itsy-bitsy little shreds.   Because I am passive- aggressive that way.

Before I go on, I'm going to stop and put my hand up, because I know what some of you are probably thinking of me right now.  You're thinking that I'm a kill joy.  A sour puss.  A disrespectful nuisance to the teachers and staff who create fun stuff like this for our kids to enjoy.  And to you, I say... just stop.  Stop right there.  Let's be honest for a moment.

There are 26 days of school left.  Aren't you tired?  Don't answer that.  You'll probably try to lie to prove your point.  I'm going to just tell you..... girl, whether or not you admit it, you are tired!  Your kid is tired.  Your kid's teacher is tired.  We are ALL tired.  And it's okay.  It's okay to be tired.  It's even okay to do the cursed ABC Countdown, but do we have to be genuinely excited by it? NO! No we do not.  I mean, you can be excited about it if you want. I wouldn't understand it, but I guess we could still be friends (after a short period of separation, because I would need it to gain some new perspective on you).  But the rest of us, we'll go ahead and  fake it a little for the kids, because that's why we're doing this, right? It's fun for the kids; the way the Elf on the Shelf thing is fun for the kids, the way the Tooth Fairy is fun for the kids, the way Chuck E. Cheese is fun for the kids.  We just grit our teeth and do it. For the kids.  Yay, kids.

However.  Because I am passive-aggressive and not a little dorky, I did come up with a fantasy version of the ABC Countdown that caters to parents.  If I was the boss of the world, this is the list I would be sticking on a flier and ending the school year with:

A- Alarm Clock Banishment Day.  Turn them off and get a taste of what summer vacation will be like.
B- Bad Hair Day.  Parents, don't worry about doing your kid's hair.  Take the extra time and enjoy a second cup of coffee.  You deserve it!
C- Celebrity Gossip Magazine Drive Day.  Stock up on your summer reading by exchanging gossip magazines.
D-Drink With a Straw Day.  Whatever you put in the cup is up to you! (wink!)
E-Every Excuse Flies Day.  Dog ate your child's homework? Did your alarm not go off? We're taking all excuses, no questions asked on this day!
F- Eff the School Parking Lot Day.  Nothing really different about this day.  We all think it.  Now it's just official.
G- Get to School Whenever Day.  Go on, you and the kids sleep in.  You get here when you get here.
H- Homework Pass Day.  No homework after school.  Wheeeeeee!
I- I Don't Care Day.  Tired of battling your kids over clothing choices? Hairstyles? Whether or not they brushed their teeth? Take the day off! It's I Don't Care Day, so you don't have to care.
J- Just Putting In the Time Day.  Again, nothing really different about this day except that it's the truth  we're all living at this point and now we're acknowledging it.
K- Kids Make Their Own Lunch Day.
 L-Lazy Day.  That's what they all are at this point.
M- Make You Kids Give You a Massage Day.  Seriously!  Refuse to feed them until they comply.
N- No Need to Come to School Day.  No explanation needed.
O- Organized Parent's Stay Home Day.  Honestly, you just make the rest of us look bad, so if you are one, hurrah! Enjoy your day off.  The rest of us will enjoy a day free of guilty comparison and feelings of inadequancy.
P- Project Recycling Day.  Got a project due? Today your child has a pass to just re-turn in an old project that they did at some point in the previous year.  No sweat!
Q- Quit Trying Day. This day actually occurred sometime at the beginning of May, but again, we're here just to make it official.
R- Recycle a Project Day- see "P" above.
S- Slap a "Stupid Driver" Sticker on the Car of Any Dumb Drivers Who Frequent Our Lots Day.  If you've been holding back frustration in the school parking lot, now is your chance to let off some steam.
T- Tardy Free day.  It's like Sleep In Day, but with a different name.
U- Useless Information Day.  It's going in one ear and out the other, so let's let it all go. (See letter Q if you need clarification.
V- Valet Parking Day.  Complimentary valet parking in the school lot.  Enjoy a stress-free drop off and pick up!
W- Wine Day.  Duh.
X- Xtra Hour Day.  No hard start or finish times! Pick up your kids anytime in the hour before or after school.
Y- You Are Almost There Day.
Z- Zip Up Your Backpacks and Go Home Day.

That one is actually a real day on the kids' ABC Countdown.  It's their favorite day. It's mine too. Twenty Six Twenty Five days until we are there!  Hang in there, parents! 

Little House in Indio; Laundry Day Edition

I hate laundry.  I hate laundry so much that for a few years, I was guilty of using this blog as place to complain specifically about doing laundry.  Then I realized that that was probably very boring for the readers, so I promised to stop..... and I did.  Until today.

Today I have to tell you about something I did that's laundry related.  It's a little embarrassing.  I'm not really ashamed of it per say, but it's a little wacky and I'm worried that someone may read this and report me to CPS because I fear that's the norm nowadays when people hear that parents are actually making their children do labor.  Either that, or you all could judge me and call me a "mean mom"- to which I guess I'll have to remind you all that this blog is titled Meanie Mom Diaries, so if you don't like it, don't go looking for it.

Anyway, it's possible that it's a bigger deal in my head.  Here's what I did:  I made my kids do their own laundry.  If that doesn't sound like such a big deal, listen to the rest of it: I made them do it "Little House on the Prairie" style- as in, I gave them buckets, a bar of soap, a clothesline and told them to get to work.  If we had a creek, I would've sent them down and told them to find a good rock to scrub with.

Crazy, right? Mr. C thought so too.  He saw the kids scrubbing their clothes in the buckets and looked at me, shaking his head.  He didn't say anything out loud though.  You know why? Because it was laundry day and on laundry day, I am scary.  I am scary because the rest of my family has driven me absolutely insane with their refusal to follow the simple procedures required to complete laundry operation for a family of 6.  It's a simple enough procedure: you wear clothes, you put them in hamper. Once a week, I take that hamper and I wash the clothes inside.  Then I give the clothes back, and you put them away.  You wouldn't think that there's a lot of room for error in that system would you? It seems simple enough.  But here's what my kids like to do:

• shove their dirty clothes back into their drawers with the clean clothes
• shove dirty clothes into various hiding spaces, wait until there's a lot of it, and then put it all in the laundry at once- thus giving me two weeks worth of clothes to wash instead of one
• put their clean clothes back into the hamper because they're too lazy to put it away
• attempt to wear the same dirty outfit to school two days in a row- or for as long as it takes for me to notice what is occurring
• BONUS- Roo likes to put her baby doll's clothes in the laundry for me to wash as well-because doing laundry for six people isn't enough.  Now I have to do it for little filthy-faced plastic baby dolls too. 

So yes, on laundry days, as I am sorting clothes from the hampers, I am a beast.  I am mean.  I am snarly.  I am sarcastic.  I am fed up.  I know this sounds stupid to you.  You want to know how I know? Because I've danced around the subject with other moms, hoping to hear someone hint that laundry turns them into monsters too.  But nooooooo, from what I've gathered, most of you moms just roll with it.  I don't understand.  How do you guys do that?  Because for me, when a kid puts clean clothes back into the hamper, it feels like a HUGE act of aggression against me.  The kids may as well be sticking their tiny little middle fingers up at me and saying "EFF you, mom.  E-heh-heh-heff YOU."

Anyway.  Enough ranting.  Here's picture proof of my mental breakdown.

There they are washing their clothes in a bucket.  Notice it's only one load that I made them do.  Do me a favor and make that clear when you file your CPS report, okay?  I fear my case will need all the help it can get.

And here they are hanging it.

The idea was that they'd hate this process so much that, in the future, they would want to follow the simple basic laundry procedures that I outlined above.    However, I believe this whole thing may have backfired on me.  There was no gnashing of teeth or cries of "Unfair!"  In fact, I think they liked it. I mean, they were  smart enough to not admit it to me it (the way all kids are usually smart enough to know it's rhetorical when an angry adult spats "So, is this FUN for you? HMMM?)  But I wonder if they may have found the bucket of sudsy water and spending the day outside by the pool somewhat appealing?

There is no winning at this.

I'd ask you all for advice, but honestly, I think the next step may be just to throw all the laundry in the pool and let them do it there.  At least they'd know how to do their own laundry after CPS comes and hauls their mother away.

Saved By A Cherry Tomato- My Messy Beautiful

Hi friends!  I originally posted this way back in 2010, when I was too shy to let the Facebook world know that I was writing things.  I'm re-posting it today as part of  Momastery's Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project. To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

     This is the dumbest "How I Came to Jesus" story ever. Really. It's so dumb that I'm afraid that Jesus himself rolls his eyes and shakes his head whenever I tell it-which is not often. I am not someone who's really comfortable talking about my faith- mostly because I am such a poor example of a Christian. I read the bible, but most days my mind wanders off topic (I blame the "begot lists" and the parables.) Also, I don't like the judgmental thing that a lot of Christians do- I'm more in the Rodney King "can't we all just get along" camp. However, I do like going to church, especially lately. It's probably because it's the only time during the week where other adults watch my children while I have a cup of coffee and listen to a sermon that requires me to think deep, intellectual thoughts about faith, love, right, wrong, and spirituality. The music is good too.

     So, I have church and I have my dumb little coming-to-Jesus-story, and that's what I'm going to share with you here and now. I hope this post is worth your time.

     When I was six, I was helping my mom make a salad. She left me alone in the kitchen with a pint of cherry tomatoes and instructions to halve the tomatoes with a knife and then put them into the salad. As an adult, I kind of wonder why my mother would leave a six year old alone with a sharp knife, but then I remember- every tomato I tried to slice would just end up smooshed under the weight of what must have been a very dull knife. It's little seeds would puke out through it's skin, and I'd end up throwing a raggy, saggy mashed up tomato into the lettuce. Not at all the culinary vision my six year old self had for the salad.

     So while I was making this salad, I was talking to God in my head. I don't remember what I was saying. If I was anything like my own daughter, it was probably just a lot of "why" questions. The Holy Spirit could've been very annoyed with me, but they do say that God's love is long suffering so I'm sure he was used to it.

     Anyway, around this time in my life someone had been talking to me about asking Jesus into my heart. I didn't know what that meant except for the fact that I was told it would guarantee me entry into Heaven. Since being a good girl was so important to me (and because what 6 year old girl wouldn't want to ensure a postmortem pair of beautiful white wings and a cool gold halo?), I decided to pop the question to Jesus. But the thing is, I didn't just ask him into my heart. I told him he could come into my heart if he was real. Even back then I was a suspicious little thing. I told him if he was real, then he'd help me cut the next tomato perfectly, and if that happened, I would let him into my heart.

    Well, you can guess what happened. The knife slid right through the very next tomato like it was butter. It stopped me right in my tracks. I stared for a second at the perfect half sphere's laying there on top of the bed of lettuce thinking, "Whoa!". Then I said a prayer, asked Jesus into my heart, and finished making the salad.

     See? Silliest story ever. But there's a reason I'm sharing it with you. Jesus and I did not have a happily ever after. There have been many times since then, and many times even now, when I question the existence of God. Adolescence was hard and uncomfortable. I talked to God a lot, but I didn't feel like he was listening. Moving out of my home town and waitressing in a resort area started out very lonely. I stopped thinking about God and focused on fun and friends. I completely lost my head after breaking up with my first love and had to escape to college. And in college, I learned of a lot of ideas and philosophies that had me all but convinced that God was as real as Santa Claus. Even today, when I have everything I've ever wanted- a wonderful husband, beautiful children, a home- I sometimes doubt God. But every time, at every doubtful point in my life since I was six years old, I think about that knife sliding through that tomato perfectly and I believe again.

     I can't tell you how grateful I feel for my dumb little tomato story. There's this great quote by Albert Einstein that says "There are only two ways to live... one is as though nothing is a miracle... the other is as if everything is." If not for my little tomato, I would've slipped into a non-believing world, where there's a scientific answer for everything, where black is black, and white is white. But because of a dull knife and my 6 year old skepticism, I can believe in a world that has divine order in chaos, where anything and everything can be wondrous and miraculous- even if it is just a dumb little cherry tomato.

Memento

You guys.  I think my Google account is mocking me.  I just tried to sign in with an old password and suddenly a message appeared that read "Your password was changed FOUR months ago."  Just like that- with the word FOUR in caps and everything.  While it didn't actually add the word "jackass', I feel like it was strongly implied.  My feelings are a little hurt. I kinda want to write Google a letter that would say:

Dear Google, CALM DOWN.

Sheesh.

Today I want to tell you about the crappy week I suffered through a few weeks ago.  Actually, I was going to tell you guys about it last week, but then I got insecure and decided to hold off.  I had been an accidental witness to a mean girl conversation and you know what I learned?  I can NOT be around people like that anymore.  I can't.  My backbone disappears and I turn into an quivering insecure amoeba who walks around afraid that everyone is judging me in the same mean way that I heard the mean girls judge others. It's probably bad karma coming around to get from my own mean girl conversations in the past.

Anyway, because of the mean-girl aftermath, I got insecure about posting this because most people don't want to share what I'm about to share. While many people have shared with me that what I'm about to share with you is actually a completely relatable experience, there are many people would say I'm over-sharing.  I'm going to share anyway because I think it's funny and I like to share funny things with you.  Plus, I'm actively trying to set a record for the number of times the word share appears in a single paragraph.

There.  That's over.  Thanks for sharing and being a part of it.

(Sorry. Maybe I should take ADD medicine.)

I'll change gears before I lose the 2 of you who are still reading.

Do you guys remember the movie Memento?  It came out around 2000.  Guy Pearce stars as a man who, because of a debilitating brain injury, is incapable of making new memories.   His wife is murdered and he has to solve it by backtracking through records of sticky notes that he writes for his future self.  He even tattoos some crucial information on various body parts.  To be honest, it's a pretty confusing movie and it doesn't help that the whole story is told backwards.  However, in honor of what I am now referring to as "The Week The Universe Turned On Me And Went To Crap", I thought it'd be cool if I told the story backwards, Memento style.

Here it goes:
9:30 Thursday night, on one of my most stressful days in recent memory, I am standing over a stove with a plastic shower cap on, separating curds from whey and pressing it into homemade cheese.  Are you intrigued?  Are you wondering why? Believe me.  I was wondering the same thing.

7:00 Thursday night: Pieces of my vacuum cleaner are strewn about the floor.  It's broken.   I am crying a little bit.  Hmmm?  What could be going on?

5:00 Thursday late afternoon:  This is the state of my laundry room.  In case you're wondering, while it's not usually spic-n-span, I am usually able to at least see the floor. You can't tell from the picture, but the piles spill from the laundry room out into the hallway.  I've been doing laundry for hours with hours with more hours yet to go.

4:00 Thursday afternoon.  I am at my client's house watching him try not to stare at my hair, which is pretty much slicked back into a greasy bun loaded with coconut oil.  I am greasy.  I smell like overwhelmingly like coconut (And it's not the good suntan lotion smell. It's more like a cooking oil smell.)  I am obviously frazzled.  I try to apologize to my 15 year old client for my appearance and he endears himself to me forever by saying "It's okay. Sometimes I get really greasy too." 

Bless his heart. 

3:00 Thursday afternoon: Our living room is filled with trash bags crammed with stuffed animals, pillows, and jackets. My girls pose for a picture, because I already know that someday I'm going to write about this. Their hair is slicked back into buns too.  And even though I am pretty much in the middle of total chaos, I still take the time to notice how beautiful they are.

(Sorry.  Total mom moment there.  I'm allowed once and a while.)

Anyway, I'm sure by now you know where this is going, don't you?  Here's the final piece of the puzzle:

10:00 Thursday morning: While cuddling with a sick Roo on the couch, I look over and see this.

Lice in my household.  I have never dealt with this before.  Not in all my years of parenting, not in the years I spent teaching, nor ever as a child myself.

So that, my friends, was the icing on my crappy sundae of a week.  And if it seems terrible going backwards, that's nothing compared to stress of the chronological events.  My whole week was bad, from start to finish: Matt was gone on a business trip, I had to cancel a bunch of clients, my kids got sick, I had to cancel more clients (some for the second time in the same week), one of my kids was rude to a friend at school and the opposite parent and I had to get involved, I was practically mugged by a homeless person, and then finally, my Grammy had a stroke and ended up in the hospital. (That actually happened on the morning after the lice episode. She's doing better now and is in a rehab facility. My family and I would appreciate your  prayers and good thoughts, though. We all love her so much and need her to be healthy. Thanks.)

Anyway, all that (except for Grammy's stroke) preceded the lovely climax to my epically crappy week.  One of the worst things was that I was so busy running around, picking up the kids, notifying friends we'd interacted with, giving the kids treatments, picking through hair and cleaning, that I had no time to get my own head checked.  I could practically feel them crawling around on me all day long, which only lent to the barely-below-the-surface panicky feeling that shadowed me.  By the time the vacuum broke, I was done.  Like I said, I cried a little.  Then I took another deep breath and did the following:

Vented on Facebook.
Gave the kids frozen waffles and burritos for dinner because it' all I had in the house.
Put the kids to bed.
Continued laundry.
Finally had husband check my head; he declared me clear of lice.
Disbelieved my husband and called my sister to see if she would come over in the morning to check my head and bring a vacuum.
Gave myself a treatment.
Sat down on the couch.
Remembered that J had a school project due the next day in which he was supposed to demonstrate how to make homemade cheese and bring it in for the class to taste.

And that is how it came to be that at 9:30 at night, on one of my most stressful days in recent memory, I was standing over a stove with a plastic shower cap on, separating curds from whey and pressing it into homemade cheese.

Isn't that a pretty mental picture? It's like I was a twisted version of Little Miss Muffett.

So now it's a new week.  We're off to a much better start. Somehow the boys and myself escaped lice.  I'm sick with a head cold, but I'll take that over lice any day.  My grammy is on the road to recovery, my clients are back in full swing, my kids are well, and hopefully the only memento that remains from the whole lice episode is this blog post and a healthy fear of sharing hats and hairbrushes.

Thanks for listening to my pity party.  Have a good night!

Preschool Fashion

My time as a preschool parent is coming to a close.  There are only a few more months, and then Roo will finally be off to Kindergarten and I will have to say goodbye forever to the sweet little school and staff that I’ve been bringing my kids to since 2007.  And while there are so many things I love about this school- the teachers, the curriculum, the fact that they’ve seen me through various stages of motherhood and have not once treated me like the crazy person I know I appear to be- there is one thing that I may miss the most when I leave preschool....... and that is the fashion.

If there is a group anywhere on this planet that is less inhibited than the preschool crowd in choice of clothing, I’d like to know who they are.  I’d also like to know what it is that they are smoking because the batshit blend of colors and whimsy that one sees on a preschooler is most likely unattainable without the help of hallucinogens. (I'm serious.  You can test this theory.  Remember the Rave parties that were so popular in the 90's? Imagine a group of kids from a Rave side by side with a group of preschoolers. Other than the fact that one group would be about two feet taller and high as kites, aren't they otherwise dressed identically?)

Now, in the past seven years, I have observed preschool fashion closely and tried my best to understand the wee one's process when it comes to creating an ensemble.  Years of study has taught me that their logic seems to be so completely creative and pure that it’s very difficult for us jaded, practical adults to understand.  However, I have compiled (to the best of my ability) a list of what I gather to be some general rules that the 5-and- unders follow.  I wish I knew this when G was four years old and stubbornly refusing to wear the ribbons and bows that I was always trying to put her in.  Would've made for much more peaceful mornings.  Oh well.  C'est la vie. 

Anyway. Here they are:

-Rubber rain boots go with anything, anytime, anywhere

-When you find a clothing item that works for you, stick with it.  In fact, don’t let your mom wash it.  Just keep wearing it.  Over and over and over and over.

-Glitter is the new black

-Superhero capes are the new black.

-Everything is the new black, except for black.

-Brushed teeth and hair are optional, as long as your outfit of the day is killin’ it.

-All clothes should be worn unapologetically, with extreme confidence and with pride.  Don’t listen to the adults who try to get you to match.  Be assertive.  Scream if necessary.  Don’t let them break you.

A few years ago, I heard of an artist in Japan who takes children’s drawings and re images them in photographs. That gave me a great idea. What if we did that with children’s fashion?  What if Milan’s fashion week featured a show in which the models walked the runway outfitted in clothes chosen by a preschooler?  What fun!  What magic! 

Then I realized it was really a terrible idea.  Never mind.  Never mind it at all.  A half-starved giraffe of a model would never be able to wear the preschool look with the joie de vivre it requires.   

Man, I’m going to miss preschool.