Life's Quests, Quirks, and Quandries

The Day The World Stopped Turning

2014-09-11T21:24:00.000-04:00

I was in Spanish class and trying so very hard to stay awake. I don't know what I was thinking, signing up for a 7am Spanish class when I struggled to be awake before noon most days. I didn't know it at the time but I wasn't just a seventeen year old being bested by an early morning class; I had mono. I'm pretty sure I slept through at least half of the class despite my best efforts to stay awake and focused. I'm an overachiever and making a good impression on the teacher is of the utmost importance to folks like me. I do know that we covered the Spanish alphabet and maybe some basic classroom furniture. Class finally finished at 8:15am and I slowly, so very, very slowly, gathered my things and began the trek across campus. My walk to get back to my dorm took me through the student center and past the huge television housed there. I noticed a very large group of people gathered around the television but was too tired to process the sounds and the expressions my fellow co-eds were making. Almost back to the dorm. Then I can get back into bed until I have to go to work. Just a little further. Keep. Moving.

I think as time goes on and 9/11 becomes more and more talked about, publicized and commercialized, I become more and more emotional about it. September 11, 2001 was a very important day. A life-changing day for millions of Americans. It will be written into history books for children of future generations to learn about just as our generation learned about Pearl Harbor during World War II. Just the fact that we can say two numbers and everyone knows exactly what you're talking about signifies just how significant that single day was. Each year when the anniversary of 9/11 rolls around, I feel like it resonates in a new and deeper dimension within me. It gets a little harder to fight back tears when I see pictures. I take more time to reflect on the significance of that day. I feel more compelled to do something to give back to society because it just seems like so much was taken away on that day.

The elevator doors opened on the 8th floor of Wood Hall and I dragged my backpack down the hall and into my dorm room. My roommate had the tv on and was watching the news. She didn't say a word to me but she didn't need to. Her face told me everything I needed to know. I gave in to gravity and dropped onto my bunk and raised my gaze to the television. A national tragedy had happened and hundreds, maybe thousands of people were dead. The World Trade Center was hit by two commercial planes and it was too odd of a situation to be accidental. As much as I wanted to watch the events unfolding on tv, I was probably one of only a few people who dozed off during the live broadcasts. Mono had taken over my body. The phone rang some time later (probably only a minute or so after I dozed off but time was so abstract at that point) and it was my mother. She was very upset. I can remember her tone but I can't remember her words. I don't know what I said to her, except that I returned the sentiment after she told me she loved me.

I was in 6th grade when we went to New York City. We took the train from Connecticut to Grand Central Station. There was so much city to squeeze into the time constraints of a day-trip and we had to pass up some prime attractions. We went to the top of the Empire State Building. We went on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty (though we didn't go in). We rode on a double decker tour bus and my dad snapped a photo of two men hanging out a window with a poster that said, "It's okay to be gay" with rainbows drawn all over it. He also snapped a picture of the World Trade Center marquee as we drove past the buildings. We had wanted to go in and go to the top but we didn't have time. That was the first and only chance we would have ever had to go in. My cousin and her then fiancé, who had taken us on the trip to New York, went back to the city a short time later and filmed their trip to the top of the World Trade Center for us and mailed us a copy of the tape. I remember watching it and thinking it was so cool and wishing I could have done it myself. I really hope we still have that tape lying around somewhere. It would be a whole new experience watching it again.

I slept away the afternoon on September 11, 2001. I woke up in time to make it to my dinner shift at the Weathervane Restaurant where I worked as a waitress. My boyfriend had moved down to live in southern Maine that day and came to see me at work to let me know that he had made it safely. I remember his mood being subdued and him mentioning the plane crashes to me but I don't remember much else.

Maybe it's because I spent so much of that day in a fog that I feel more and more emotional about it as years pass. Maybe I'm simply leaking out emotions that I would have had if I had been lucid enough to experience them as the actual tragedy was occurring. Maybe it's because I'm a mother now and have a whole new perspective on life and a deeper understanding of life's journey. Maybe it's because my brother went on to fight in the wars that resulted from the events of that day. Maybe it's because I've learned that time is fleeting and every moment is precious. Life can change in the blink of an eye. Literally, in the blink of an eye. That person you waved goodbye to as they drove out the driveway may never enter that driveway again. The job you worked at for thirty years may cease to exist after a lone phone call. The dreams you've dreamed since your childhood may never have a chance to become reality. It's deep stuff. It really hits you hard once you get thinking.

I guess you can say this is my tribute to 9/11, one that was thirteen years in the making. It's one of millions and millions that have been made and it certainly isn't an outstanding one or one that will change lives. It's just my own personal story and somehow it makes me feel better to get it out there. I was alive on 9/11/01 and I will never, ever forget that day as long as I shall live.

You Know When You're Getting Older When....

2013-11-11T21:27:00.001-05:00

1) Your Christmas gifts include glucosamine and topical joint analgesic...and you're thrilled about them.

2) You find gray hairs in your eyebrows and start convincing yourself that the risks associated with dying your eyebrows aren't that bad.

3) Children you used to babysit are getting engaged/married/having babies.

4) You hear a song play and remember when you used to listen to it on cassette.

5) You move up to a new age bracket when taking surveys.

6) You remember when getting a dollar from the tooth fairy was a whole lot of dough.

7) You get overstimulated by the latest video game systems and yearn for the days of trying to get a chicken to cross the highway on your Atari.

8) In pictures, your birthday cake looks completely engulfed in flames when the candles are lit.

9) You actually understand the difference between a 503(b) and a 401k.

10) 8:00pm seems like a perfectly reasonable bedtime...for an adult.

11) You contemplate buying a parrot but then realize that you'd better make provisions for it in your will.

12) The heels on your shoes are getting smaller and smaller if not altogether non-existent.

13) You have been to a specialist where over 70% of the patients in the waiting room were over age 65.

14) You hear yourself saying things like, "when I was your age," and "back in my day."

15) You are shocked when people in their early twenties have no idea who Elton John, CCR, Kurt Cobain or Poison are.

Ode To Hormones

2013-09-29T19:59:00.001-04:00

Oh wretched hormones, how I hate thee.
You turn me into a nasty word that starts with a "b".

At 30 years old, there are more zits on my face to be seen
Than when I was an awkward, unpopular girl at the age of fifteen.

My pants get tight when you make me bloat
and I can't button the buttons on my fall coat.

I get resentful and mad and mutter as I putter about
washing dishes, mopping floors, and throwing junk out.

I'll hear a song that reminds me of my dead childhood cat
And be balling and sobbing at the drop of a hat.

I turn into an emotional mess in my mind
and to cope I'll sit and eat a whole apple pie.

My husband just has to breathe and I want to slit his throat
and toss his body to the bottom of a deep, dark moat.

Oh hormones, you are the opposite of my friend
to the point where my husband said the world doesn't deserve to experience me pregnant again.

A glass of wine, a good book and some peace and quiet
would be super helpful if I could ever find it.

Hormones, you suck. I'll be quite frank.
You can go suck it and f*ck off, point blank.

You Know You're A Mom When...

2013-09-18T20:33:00.001-04:00

I was cleaning up the living room after having dropped off my son at daycare this afternoon and inspiration for this blog came drifting into mind...

You know you're a mom when:

...you bring your child to daycare during your time off and are excited because it means you can get so much more cleaning done.

...you delay picking up your child from daycare because you want to sit and enjoy the house in its clean state for a little longer before it returns to its previously trashed state.

...you choose shoes based on their ability to allow you to chase after a toddler on the loose.

...you think that spending a day or two in jail sounds like a pretty nice getaway. Food you don't have to cook, the chance to lay around all day, and nobody to clean up after? Yes, please!

...you consider a handful of nuts, a cheese stick, and a cup of applesauce to be a complete meal.

...grocery shopping alone is something of a mini vacation.

...you have more boogers, drool, and spitup on your clothes than lint.

...your turn-ons now include a man who does the dishes, puts the kids to bed, and folds laundry.

...you know that, no matter how crazy, stressful, and exhausting your life is, you feel so blessed to be able to do it all again the next morning.

Necrophilia

2013-08-27T21:40:00.001-04:00

Bet that title got your attention! No, I'm not afflicted with an addiction involving sexual acts and deceased people. I do, however, have a twisted little obsession involving death. I get super, duper absorbed into the deaths of celebrities. Not all celebrities, either. For some unknown reason, some passings interest me more than others. For example, a few weeks ago I heard something on tv talking about how James Dean had died in a car accident. Not knowing much about him but knowing his name quite well, I wiki'd him. I learned that he was a racecar driver in addition to being an actor and hearthrob. I also learned that he had died while test driving his new racecar. I googled the accident and read about it and looked at crime scene photos for hours. I couldn't get enough and wanted to know more. I wanted to read more eye-witness testimonies. I wanted to know the names of the ambulance drivers that took him away from the scene of the accident and what was going through their minds when they came upon the accident.

I haven't been sucked in to the deaths of celebrities like Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Elvis Presley, and many other household names. I have been pulled in by the passings of Heath Ledger, JFK, and Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez, though.

One celebrity death that I've been absolutely intrigued by is Kurt Cobain. I'm a big fan of his music, his life, and his legacy but even more intrigued by his death. While the police and coroner identified Kurt's death as a suicide there are many conspiracy theories out there. One very prominent one that has had books and films created about it is the theory that Courtney Love was involved in the death of Kurt. Strong believers in this theory cry foul at the shotty police investigation into Kurt's death and say that Courtney had strong motives to want Kurt dead and had a sketchy, violent past that would indicate that having her husband murdered wouldn't be a far stretch. I've done many, many hours of reading, researching, and video watching and actually believe this theory to be true. I've looked at crime scene photos, and even listened to audio clips of phone calls that Courtney Love participates in. Call me a nut or what have you, but I really think the evidence speaks for itself.

So there's my macabre secret. I'm sure I'm not the only one out there with a somewhat disturbing compulsion. Now go ahead and tell me yours...

James Dean with his new race car shortly before his fateful accident.

Chickens Come, Chickens Go

2013-07-28T22:26:00.000-04:00

Today was something of a tragic day in our home. Let me start from the beginning. I came home from an overnight shift at work this morning and, as I have been for many weeks, anxiously awaited to see my four feathered ladies run out of their hiding spot to greet me. I got to the top of the driveway and didn't see them, so I started looking around. I noticed that their water bottle in their coop was knocked over and laughed, assuming they had gotten a little rowdy this morning before my husband opened the door for them to get out. I started calling to them and looking under porches, cars, and their other typical cubby holes. My husband opened the house door and came onto the porch. He looked at me and said, "they're gone." I looked at him and smirked and he said, "I forgot to shut the coop last night. If they're not out here greeting you, they're gone." I stared at him for a minute and waited for him to bust out laughing. He likes playing cruel jokes on me like that occasionally. He didn't laugh and I started to panic. I began running around the house, calling my girls. I got back to the coop and looked closer and noticed a whole lot of feathers on the grass and some of them had blood on them. I noticed a trail and followed it to the edge of the wood on our property. There I found a big clump of feathers with a blood on them and stopped myself. My husband wasn't joking. He had forgotten to shut the coop. They were like sitting ducks and an easy target for the family of foxes that live up the street. I was heartbroken and my husband probably more so because he felt the guilt of being the one who forgot to close the door. We processed our feelings for a bit and allowed ourselves to feel our emotions. We discussed with our son what had happened and he seemed to handle it better than we did. After a short time, I decided that I needed to get more chicks. I absolutely adored my chickens. They were fabulous pets and were oddly very calming to me. Whenever I'd get overwhelmed of feel stressed, I'd go take a few minute and sit outside and watch and pet my chickens. They were low maintenance and I got a kick out of how they'd follow me around the yard and run out to greet me whenever I came home. I even caught three of them watching my husband and I working on the water filter in the basement through our basement window yesterday. It scared the crap out of me when I peeked up and saw three little faces staring at us but then I couldn't help but bust out laughing. It may seem somewhat heartless to just go out and get new chicks so soon but it's part of my coping strategy. Who can stay sad when you have four little fluffballs growing into their feathers and learning about the world? Another part of my coping strategy is writing this blog. Perhaps you didn't want to read about my chickens becoming a feast for the fox family up the road but I needed to write it out and share it. I'll miss my four little chickens and they'll never, ever be replaced. They'll forever live on in my heart and memory as the little feathered individuals that they were.

Lucy

Lucy was the leader of the flock. She was gutsy and brave and wasn't afraid to wander away from the others. She was always the first one out of the coop in the morning. She couldn't stand to be held or pet but, ironically, she was always the first one in line when the group ran out to greet me.

Dingbell

Dingbell, despite her name, was probably the smartest one of the crew. She observed everything and took her time making decisions. She was the prettiest of the clan, in my opinion. She wasn't much of a snuggler but tolerated me petting her soft feathers.

Carter

Carter was my nature lover. She was a great hunter and could catch dragonflies and bugs right out of the air. She was also the only one who loved to eat the worms I would find for them. Carter was super friendly and didn't mind being held. She'd even sometimes hop up onto my lap and hang out for a bit.

Duck

Duck. Oh sweet, sweet Duck. I know it's probably not very nice to say I had a favorite chicken but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't true. Duck was my sweetheart. We didn't think she'd make it when we first got her. She was a tiny runt who seemed to struggle to make it through each day. Somehow she managed to make it out of chick-hood with lots of snuggles from me and the other chickens looking out for her. Duck would often run right up to me, jump in my lap, and lay down and close her eyes when I was outside. If she didn't jump herself, she'd always welcome me picking her up and cuddling her. She let me preen her and kiss her little head and pet her soft little back.

There you have it. I'm going to miss them a whole lot but I'm going to try and dwell on the wonderful 11 weeks I had with them instead of their tragic, horrible exit from life. Many lessons were learned on mine and my husband's behalf from this incident and we'll definitely be putting these lessons to use with the new batch of chicks we picked up today. Rest in peace, dear Lucy, Dingbell, Carter and Duck. May you frolic in an endless field of grass, dragonflies, green bean sprouts, and flowers without a hawk or fox in sight.

30

2013-07-16T21:39:00.001-04:00

This blog opens with the Jaws theme song. Why am I telling you to mentally cue the Jaws song? Because it's coming.....the big three-oh. 30. The age where women stop aging chronologically and instead begin celebrating anniversaries of their 29th birthday. This year I will celebrate the first anniversary of my 29th.

Some people welcome their third decade of life with open arms and a welcoming smile. That sure as hell isn't me. I'm pretty sure I've went through all the Kubler-Ross stages of grief:

I denied that it could all ready be my thirtieth birthday and that I must have simply miscalculated. Or they typed my birth year on my birth certificate wrong.

I got angry that time could have passed so damned fast and made me thirty years old all ready.

I became depressed that I was getting to the age that I used to consider old when I was a teenager.

I began bargaining with myself about my personal spending budget and saying that I really did need a donut every morning to cope with my upcoming milestone birthday.

I accepted that I was turning....aw hell. No. I haven't accepted shit. So maybe I just went through four stages.

Anywho, you may be asking why I'd be going through the stages of grief about turning thirty. What's the big deal, right? I'll tell you that it isn't the grey hairs (I've had those since I was 17) or that I can't wear the same kinds of clothes I did ten years ago. Want to know the reasons why? Here you go:

1) For some reason, the 30-year milestone has become a reference point for me. I think back to when I was getting ready for college and imaging what my life would be like when I was thirty. I thought I'd be married to a super-savvy business man that I could hold theoretical conversations with after the kids were in bed. I thought I'd have my PhD and would be well on my way to obtaining tenure at a reputable college. I thought I'd have a couple of kids and live in a beautiful home within driving distance to the ocean. Let's assess where I stand with those goals, shall we? I'm married, but to a mechanic who can fix my car but doesn't do much to stimulate the nerdy side of my brain. I've got my bachelor's degree and a bunch of certifications that add letters after my name but not money to my paycheck. I have one child who is active and needy enough to suck up the resources of a couple children. I do have a cozy home that isn't too far from the ocean, so I wasn't that far off with that one. See the pattern? I'm nowhere near where I thought I'd be at thirty. For an overachiever that's absolutely depressing.

2) As cliche as this sounds and as much as I never, ever thought this would bother me, my biological clock is ticking. I'm definitely not ready for another munchkin anytime soon. I am, however, one of the few mommy-friends I know that still has just one child. Most of my mommy pals have moved on to have two, three, or even four kids. I'm good with the one for now. I may be good with the one but in the very next breath I'll tell you that it worries me that the scary, high-risk 35 is coming down the pipes rather quickly. My uterus is screaming, "hurry and use me before it's too late!" but my wallet and brain are screaming, "shut the hell up, uterus!" TMI ALERT: Also, my IUD expires just after my son turns 5, which happens in a year. I said I'd evaluate if I wanted another child at that point and that point is coming super fast.

3) The years between twenty and thirty have flown by and are something of a blur. My life and lifestyle have changed so drastically in such a short time span that I can't help but wonder how fast my life will pass between ages thirty and forty. Between twenty and thirty I went from a senior in college with an almost full-time job and an intense focus on school to a mom and wife living in my own house with a full-time job that I've been at for over six years. In ten years my son will be just shy of fourteen. What will my life be like? Will I have gone back to school? Will I be a bum on the street? Living in the same house I am now? Will I have three more kids or just my son? The unknown is pretty darn scary to me and seeing how fast things can change makes me get whiplash just thinking about the next ten.

Just as with anything, there are songs out there talking about being thirty. Two particular ones come to mind for me and I'll post them below. One of them is quite a downer (Backside of Thirty by John Conlee) and one of them is more introspective and hopeful (Next Thirty Years by Tim McGraw). Twenty-something Cheri would have chosen to focus on the downer song and think of how things are all downhill from here. Soon-to-be-thirty Cheri will instead choose to focus on the hopeful song and think of how to embrace thirty and make the next thirty years of my life the best they can be. Will you look at that...I just reached the fifth stage of grief. Acceptance.

Backside of Thirty

Next Thirty Years

Inner Beatrice

2013-06-21T19:34:00.000-04:00

First off, let me explain what a "Beatrice" is. When my son was an infant and would cry his usual, shrieking, high-pitched, feminine cry, my brother would laugh and say he sounded like a girl, and told him his new name was Beatrice. Now that you know what that's all about, let's discuss my son's inner Beatrice.

My son has always been quirky. He's a unique little guy that has many interesting mannerisms, habits and qualities. He isn't afraid to be who he is and I think that's probably the thing I love the most about him. Some of these unique qualities are what some may consider controversial. As a parent, I have the ability to either accept these qualities and help foster them or to encourage my son to disengage.

Colby loves things that are feminine. He has been trying on and playing with my shoes since he was two. He also begged me for a purse, which I purchased for him. There was one morning that we were getting dressed and ready to go to daycare/work and he asked to wear a dress. I froze in my tracks and had to think of what to do and how to handle his request. I told him he didn't have any dresses but if he really wanted to, he could wear one of my tunic shirts with an empire waist as a dress. He put it on and was ecstatic. Just before leaving, he decided to take it off because it "wasn't too good for playing in." He has also requested to put on my makeup and did an...um...interesting job of applying it to himself. He was so proud of how he looked afterward that I couldn't help but feel pride in his pride. (Don't worry folks, I told him that makeup is something people do for fun and that he is handsome and beautiful even without makeup.) He's also confiscated some of my lipstick and refused to give it back because he wanted it for himself.

I have no problem with my son's desire to satisfy his feminine interests. If he wants a purse, I'll get him a purse. If he wants to bring it in public, it doesn't bother me. If he wants to wear makeup to a friend's party, I'll hand it over and let him do himself up. I don't care what others think of him or me because I know that those who truly care and love us won't care if he indulges in girly things. I love him because he is uniquely himself and is an all-around amazing kid. My husband, however, has more reservations.

My husband is right when he says that our son will face judgement and cruel, harsh words someday if he continues to carry a purse and wearing makeup in public. He says he doesn't care if he does it at home but he wants to protect him from the rest of the world by discouraging Colby's guilty pleasures. He tries to tell Colby that purses are for girls and that boys don't wear makeup. Often times my son will simply look at his father and say something like, "Well, then I'm a girl!" I know my husband loves his son and is only trying to protect him from unkind people. I completely understand his concern and his protective instinct. My take on it is, he'll face unkind people and harsh words no matter what he wears. If someone is going to be mean, they'll find something to tease him about whether it's his name, his size, or his purse. Colby is happy being who he is, purse, makeup, monster trucks, straw hat and all. He knows who he is and he's absolutely okay with it. I want him to continue to be okay with himself and for that to happen, we need to teach him about self-esteem and self-confidence before he goes to school and faces more public exposure.

The world can be a cruel, unforgiving place. Colby may face scrutiny and judgement by his peers or other parents if he continues to choose to express himself with makeup or ballet flats. He may tone himself down a little, or he may not. All I know is that he should be able to be comfortable enough at home to be who he truly is....whether he feels like being Colby or Beatrice.

Rocking my red platforms!

(-)

2013-06-09T22:46:00.001-04:00

In case you didn't understand the symbolic meaning of my title, this post will be about negativity. I've been struggling with feeling bitchy and testy lately and my husband and son have told me that they've noticed. I thought maybe it was PMS, maybe it was the stress of the uncertainties at my work, or not getting enough sleep but it turned out to be none of those. Well, okay, maybe it does have something to do with my work, but not in the way I thought.

I get that there are many different kinds of people in the world and that's what keeps things interesting and in balance. I've worked hard to embrace the qualities I possess but there is one that I've been working very hard to change. I was a pessimist for as long as I can remember. I had hopes and dreams but in the back of my mind I always expected them to fall through. When they did, I felt justified in my thoughts and felt I was just doing myself a favor by predicting failure. I've since learned that you often attract the kind of energy you put out. You might not know it, but you subconsciously setup a self-fulfilling prophecy that will guide you down the path you had predicted. I know this may sound like complete bologna but I have watched it happen many, many times in my line of work. A client of mine may say something like, "I just know they won't hire me at any of the jobs I've applied," and because they have such low hopes their interview goes horribly because they don't put forth the enthusiasm, attention, and interest necessary to impress the employer. Voila, you have a negative prediction that just came true. Don't get me wrong, there are times when you think positive and are hopeful but things don't happen the way you want it to. That's where faith, hope, karma, whatever you want to call if comes into play. I, personally, believe that everything happens for a reason. The reason may not always be immediately clear but it usually reveals itself at the right time.

Back to the present and the cause of my current bitchy funk. My clients are typically in a difficult stage of life when they're participating in our program. Given their histories, most of them turn to negativity to cope with stressful situations. The negativity offers the sense of protection I talked about earlier. A major side effect of that negativity, especially when there's more than one client engaging in it, is that it rubs off on others. Incessant complaining, constantly self-identifying as a victim, and acting entitled for extended periods of time can turn even the most positive-polly into a negative-nelly. A client complained to me about the house being out of milk and how her child now had no milk for her cereal that morning. The complaint went on for several minutes and then continued when my client went into the kitchen and a fresh audience entered the room. All ready jaded from working a 24 hours of my 28-hour shift, the continued complaining infuriated me. I handled it by being passive aggressive and purchasing a few gallons of whole milk, a few 2%, 1 1/2%, and 1%. Nobody had better complain about God-damned milk anymore. I totally could have dealt with it in a more productive, professional way but I just wasn't in the space to do so. My positivity and endurance had been beaten down and I gave in to my inner aggressions. Sometimes I just want to yell and demand that they cut the crap and count their blessings. Remind them that they have so much to be thankful for even though it may not seem like it at this very moment. Tell them that things could be so much worse and that they're on a path to a better life.

When I came into work this morning I was looking forward to a relaxing, low-key 24-hour Sunday shift. Weekends can usually be fun and relaxing at my job and I often look forward to them. Everything was going great until a client got overwhelmed and began vomiting negativity. I immediately noticed my jaw starting to clench and my pulse starting to rise. My hearing became more tuned-in to what was happening out in the milieu. My adrenaline began to flow and I was ready to react at the drop of a dime, if necessary. I was taken aback by the quick change in my physical being and took a moment to breathe and relax myself. I wasn't able to fully relax and stop the chemical stress soup that was brewing in my brain until the house was quiet. It was then that I realized the absolute toxicity of negativity.

Even if it isn't aimed directly at you, negativity from those around you creates a dangerous pool that all around must swim in. Sure, you can use self-talk and relaxation techniques to counteract it's effects but eventually you get tired. So freaking tired that you just can't fight anymore and it becomes easier to just fall into the negativity pit. My co-workers and I try hard to teach by example and demonstrate positivity and hope because so many of our clients have no idea how to embrace it. But how do you cope when embracing becomes too scary for those you're trying to teach and you're stuck in a seemingly endless stream of negative toxic waste?

Chickens!

2013-05-12T22:09:00.000-04:00

I've written in prior blog posts before that I was so excited to have a house of my own because I wanted so badly to get chickens. Well folks, the time has come! I ordered and received four adorable baby hens! I got two Easter Eggers and two Dominiques. My son decided to name them Lucy, Carter, Dingbell and Duck. The chick that would be named Dingbell was almost immediately named because she seemed to fit the name. Duck went to the smallest of the chicks because that name just seemed to fit the bill (haha! That pun was completely unplanned.). Lucy was thereafter given and so that left the last chick to be called Carter by default. I've thoroughly enjoyed spending time with them and even snuggle Dingbell and Duck, who seem to enjoy a good cuddle. Lucy and Carter, not so much. Out of curiosity, I offered one of the chicks a worm I had found outside. They were so excited and a game of chase-and-take ensued. I went and found several more worms and they all enjoyed a feast. I was impressed with such strong instincts to eat the worm (and how to manage doing so) at such a young age! Colby has enjoyed having the chicks but he gets way too excited and instead ends up poking them, knocking them over, squishing them, or jumping around so much he hits their bin and scares the crap out of them. We've asked him to just stick to observing them until they get a little bigger.

Now, without further adieu, here are the ladies!!

From R-L: Duck, Lucy, Dingbell and Carter is on the bottom

Settling in to their home!

The sweet digs awaiting them when they get old enough!

Toddler Stages of Exhaustion

2013-04-19T21:30:00.001-04:00

The inspiration for today's post came from observing my three year old son. He didn't nap today and so I anticipated for him to get tired earlier than usual. When I noticed him showing his telltale signs of fatigue I caught myself labeling the stage of fatigue he was in. So without further delay, I present you with "The Toddler Stages of Exhaustion."

1) Slow-Motion Babe: In this stage you may notice your child's activity level dropping rapidly. They may choose to sit down and look at books or watch a movie instead of pretending to be Spiderman and attempting to climb the walls with his spidey powers.

2) Droopy Peepers: Your toddler becomes plagued by heavy eyelids in the second stage. Each blink takes a little longer to recover from and there is typically eye rubbing involved. If you innocently ask a toddler if they're tired, your toddler will immediately respond by shouting "NO!" in your face. This brings me to the next stage...

3) Whiney Whineburg: This is by far the most annoying stage of exhaustion. Most parents can't stand this stage and as a result most children are put to bed when everything their child says becomes a whine. Everything from "I have to pee" to "I love you" to "There's a monster in the trash" becomes inundated with the most annoying intonation known to man.

4) Psychotic Pee-Wee: This stage is perhaps less commonly experienced than the other ones. Either parents throw in the towel (and their child into bed) while the child is in an earlier stage or the child succumbs to sleep on his/her own. Some children push through the prior stage and enter the realm of psychosis. They will start laughing to the point of tears at absolutely nothing. They will run around yelling, laughing, or screaming, and will often shed their clothing during this process. A few toddlers may even throw words like "poop" or "booger" in with their shrieks because such words are hilarious.

5) Whatchou-Talkin-'Bout-Willis?: In this stage, your beyond exhausted toddler reverts back to a normal behavioral pattern and normal activity level. They'll act like the prior stages never happened and won't seem the least bit tired. Few children usually reach this stage and either lose the battle to the sand man before this stage or get stuck in a stage (usually the Whiney Whineburg). WARNING: Children in this stage can regress into a previous stage at any moment and often without provocation. Don't let your guard down completely and attempt to find the nearest bed, pile of blankets, or hay stack and put that munchkin to sleep!

There you go. The official Toddler Stages of Exhaustion. My son went through all five stages tonight and has managed to maintain stage 5. We're both currently snuggled into bed, playing on our respective technological devices. Time for this mama to shut down before I start rapid cycling the stages myself.

Self-Discovery

2013-03-19T21:46:00.000-04:00

I embarked on this blogging journey with one thing in mind. For the first time in my life, I was going to start taking time to turn my focus inward. A person can learn a lot about themselves by making observations about their behaviors and emotions. My one year blogging anniversary happened this past January and I felt it appropriate to reflect on the past year...well, maybe 14 months of blogs and see what I've learned about myself.

1) The first thing I've learned is that I like to itemize things in my blogs by using numbers and a closed parenthesis. I could simply write in paragraph form but something about adding a number makes it seem more organized and satisfies my inner perfectionist. I'm sure it drives any die-hard proper English readers absolutely batty.

2) I clearly have a conflicted relationship with my child. Whether or not it's normal is up for debate but I love the kid with all that I am but at the same time there are moments when I want to run down the road screaming and never turn back. He's never been what some might call an "easy child," and maybe that's part of the reason. He's way too clever for his own good, is very emotionally keen and sensitive (I dare say this is his realm of genius), and is the cutest 3 year old boy I've ever laid eyes on. I strive to be the best mom that I can be but I can't help feel that sometimes my own personal demons get in the way. I try and remind myself that at least I'm aware of them because then I can work on leaving them out of my parenting practices.

3) I may have made progress in my quest for acceptance and appreciation of what I'm lucky enough to have but I still have a ways to go. I find myself wanting more than what I have but in a less pressing way. I want more income than I currently have. I want a better decorated home. I want a more romantic marriage. It's not a bad thing to have higher aspirations because I strongly feel that one should never stop growing or pursuing personal betterment. I may have curbed the extent of my desire of everything better but it's still at a level that is affecting my relationships and personal happiness.

4) Reading over this last summation made me realize that I also have struggles with accepting my own personal flaws. I've improved in acknowledging them but still need to work on accepting them. Whoops, this item is further evidence because it's about having a problem accepting my problems. Stupid perfectionist Virgo tendencies.

5) I have struggles with finances. I certainly talk a good talk when it comes to buckling down and getting on a more sturdy financial path but I can't walk the walk. I gotta get me that Dave Ramsey book or something.

6) This blog has be beneficial in more ways than I anticipated. It not only serves as a creative release but allows me to sound off my frustrations and personal opinions, seek advice and tips from others, and offers a terrific introspective window into who I am and who I truly want to be. It'll be interesting to see what I've learned about myself when I do the two year anniversary review.

Before I sign off and eat my bowl of extra noodle soup, I want to thank each and every one of my readers. The ones who comment, the ones who share this blog with their friends, and the ones who silently lurk in the shadows and read the blogs but don't let on that they do. You are more appreciated and valuable than you will ever know.

Hospital Bills

2013-02-09T20:58:00.001-05:00

I watched the Michael Moore documentary, Sicko, for the second time. It was just as shocking and saddening as the first time I saw it but this time I had a little more background experience to add to it. Now I'm left with a helpless but determined feeling. I feel like I need to do something but then again I feel like I'm just one measly person. Then again, Canada credits one single man as being the catalyst for the initiation of their universal health care system. They said his name in the film but don't ask me what it is because I was building an amazing train track for my son while they were talking about it.

My husband, son, and myself are all covered by health insurance we obtained through our employers. My husband covers our son but the insurance is anything but phenomenal. It's pricey and has a high deductible and even after the deductible is met there are lots of expensive co-pays and co-insurance situations. I, however, am super fortunate that my employer not only offers amazing insurance but pays the entire premium for me. It gets a little pricey to add dependents, however, but at this point my husband and I are still considering transferring my son over to my insurance. We have good reason to do so.

Back in October, my son swallowed a marble. He panicked, was crying, coughing, and gagging. As sad and awful as it sounds, my first thought was "oh my gosh, I can't afford to take him to the emergency room." My husband kept telling me to put him in the car and immediately go to the ER because we weren't sure if it was one of his magnetic ones and he was coughing and gagging several minutes after having swallowed it. Instead, I opted to call his pediatrician's office to see if they felt I really needed to take him to the ER. They asked me a few questions and recommended I take him to the ER as soon as I could. Thankfully, everything turned out to be okay and my son was able to pass the marble without medical intervention. What wasn't okay, however, is the hospital bill I received for our time spent in the ER. For a visit that took no longer than a couple of hours, included two x-ray, and about 10 minutes of a doctor's time, rang up a bill of $700. My son's insurance covered $200 of that cost, leaving us with a $500 bill from the hospital and a $60 bill from the radiology people for taking the time to look at the x-rays (the insurance didn't pay any part of this). If this is what it cost for him to swallow a marble I don't want to see what it'll cost when he takes a spill off his dirt bike and breaks an arm!

Back to the movie. Insurance companies employ people whose job security and salaries depend on how many claims they deny. The more money they save the company by denying expensive medical treatments, the higher their salaries and positions in the company. It didn't matter if denying these medical treatments/tests/procedures resulted in the deaths of thousands of clients, the insurance companies still saw it as a successful way to increase profits. Then you have countries like France, Canada, England, and even Cuba that have universal health care for all their citizens. If they cut their fingers off, they go to the hospital and get them sewn back on. If their child swallows thirty marbles, they get examined. The best part is that there are no hospital bills. No insurance premiums and copays to worry about. Yes, they pay more in taxes but it's designed so that those who have help those who have not. The socialist medical system isn't as horrible as most people think it is. Doctors still stand to make a good salary and people aren't stuck waiting 18 hours in an emergency room for treatment like they are here in the U.S.

After I watched the movie, I went to my husband and told him that he is never to give up his Canadian citizenship. This may mean that he can't ever get a passport (he'd have to declare himself as an American citizen) but it's a small sacrifice to make. I then told him that if he, our son, or I ever get seriously ill, that we are up and moving to Canada for treatment. If I can't afford my son swallowing a marble, there's no way I could afford cancer or dementia. He said "okay," and I told him I was dead serious. I was when I said it and I still am now.

President Obama passed legislation that I was pretty excited about at the time. It was touted as bringing universal health care to our country. That excitement died when I went to have my taxes checked to make sure I was doing them properly. The tax preparer told me that starting in 2014 people will face tax penalties of $400-something a year if they don't purchase the government health insurance. In 2015 those penalties will go up to almost $1000 per person. This isn't quite the universal coverage I, and the rest of America, had been hoping for. Who are these penalties going to effect? The poor. Those who make too much for Medicaid (which is pretty much anyone being paid minimum wage) but not enough to afford private insurance. If they can't afford the insurance in the first place, how are they going to afford the penalties? Those who could afford the penalties won't have to worry because they'll all ready be in a place to afford the benefits offered to them through their workplace. Granted there are some employers who don't offer benefits, but those who can afford the penalties can usually afford individual policies.

I know this won't fix the whole corrupt medical care system, but what if insurance companies (and drug companies for that matter) were made to be non-profit agencies? Why are people trying to make money off of people's health misfortunes and denying them the treatment they need to survive?! When did this become okay!? It would force them to be held more accountable and for their bookkeeping to be more transparent than that of a for-profit agency. Yes, they could still pay their CEO's crazy salaries and give out ridiculous bonuses, but I can't help but feel like they would have to be more responsible and pragmatic if they were made to follow non-profit guidelines. There's just no way we can have a fair, affordable universal health care system if we don't do something about the money-hungry corporate bozos and politicians first.

After writing this blog I feel that I need to clarify that I was born in America. I make contributions in efforts to help my fellow citizens and pay my taxes and follow the laws like any other law-abiding citizen. I support our troops and even have a brother who dutifully serves in the US Air Force. I love my country but when it comes to things like health care, I can't help but get the feeling that my country (or, realistically, the government running it) doesn't love me back.

I Can't Stand Him

2013-01-25T19:35:00.002-05:00

I'm having to swallow a lot of guilt and shame to write this blog but I'm going to push through it. I may face a lot of judgement, receive harassing comments or have rumors started about how awful I am, but I'm writing it anyway. I'm hoping that by doing so I will help offer solace to at least one person who may be feeling the way I do. I have no idea if what I'm going through is normal or not, but here it goes anyway.

My son is 3 years, 5 months, and 13 days old. He is clever, he is adorable, he is witty, he is sensitive, he has great intuition and fantastic logic, he has a gigantic heart and is a tremendous snuggler. But right now, I can't stand him. Being next to him literally makes my blood pressure rise. I'll now stand to accept my "Worst Mom of the Year" nomination.

I guess it all started about a week ago. Colby has been deep into an "I love daddy" phase for the past month or so. He enters these phases where he'll want nothing to do with one parent and everything to do with the other. He's done it since he was born and for him it's quite normal and is usually easy to deal with. Not this time. Colby's obsession over his father has caused him to become quite difficult, unruly, and just plain mean toward me. I know, I'm the mom and am supposed to be a bigger person, suck it up, and remind myself that he's just a toddler. Easier said than done, my friends. I'll shine a light on our routine the past several days:

Morning:
* I wake Colby up by gently rubbing him and saying something to the effects of, "good morning, sunshine! Time to open your eyes and start your day!" I'm usually met with "I'm still tired, let me sleep", a shove, or am just plain ignored.
* I have to pin Colby down in order to get him dressed. It's not like I can just send him to daycare in his pajamas because he usually sleeps naked. Dressing him lately has taken about 15 minutes. He'll rip off most of what I dress him in and express that he doesn't like those clothes but then he'll refuse to choose his own. He'll then start yelling that he only wants daddy to get him dressed.
* Try and get him to brush his teeth. He used to just accompany me and copy exactly how I brushed my teeth and we'd laugh at ourselves about it. Lately, Colby will make me chase him and will clamp his jaw shut when I try to put the brush in his mouth. Or he'll spit toothpaste-saliva mixtures at my face while I'm brushing.
* Now mind you, all this extra chasing and crap has made us late. Now I have to dress an either corpse-stiff or completely limp toddler in his boots, hat, coat, and mittens. Then put him in the car while he's making himself as stiff as a board or spreading his arms and legs so I can't get him past the door opening. This wouldn't be so difficult if Colby was a small child. He's not, though, he's 40lbs and quite strong.
*Drop-off with the sitter hasn't been too bad lately, so I won't elaborate on that.

After Work:
* I arrive at his daycare to a happy, smiling boy. I have high hopes for a wonderful evening full of laughs, fun, and cuddles. This has been ending horribly when I have to chase him around the house to catch him and then dress him to leave. This resembles how we do our morning outdoor clothes routine. Today wasn't too bad, however. He fought at first but then agreed to let me dress him so long as we put the coat on in the living room, mittens on in the kitchen, etc. Whatever...it's better than it has been.
* Driving home has been full of demands. From, "change the song!!!" to "turn off the radio and sing me songs!!" to "I don't want daddy downstairs when we get home!!" Sometimes I ignore, sometimes I'll oblige, depending on the request and if I can get him to rephrase it nicely.
* We get home and instantly the fight begins with Colby wanting his daddy to come upstairs and stay upstairs. If his daddy doesn't listen immediately, I'm left to hear him scream and demand that I make his father come up. Any options given are ignored, typically. I try to cook dinner in the middle of this. I hear "mommy" at least a dozen times per minute. He wants applesauce. He doesn't want eggs, he wants a brownie. He wants juice, oops, he spilled the juice and now I need to pick it up. He took it upon himself to dump an entire bag of bird seed onto the birds' tray (and the floor) despite me asking him not to touch it. I'm exhausted from working all day, I've got a million and five things to do before I can go to bed, and my son is just amplifying the difficulty quotient.
* After dinner, we all usually try to relax on the couch together. The past few days, Colby has been screaming at me and even hitting and purposely hurting me because he doesn't want me anywhere near his daddy and him. I can't even sit and enjoy a relaxing evening with my family. There have been few, if any, moments of fun at all during my day with my son lately. My husband has stepped in and intervened when I've reached my tolerance level of intervening myself. I won't lie, I've come close to smacking my son because I get so absolutely frustrated.

I absolutely hate that I can't look at my little boy and feel love and happiness. I hate that I look at him and see an annoyance. A work-multiplier. A cause of stress and discomfort. Maybe it's a bunch of things in my life that are culminating into this dislike of my very own flesh and blood...the child I wanted so desperately to have. Whatever is causing it doesn't matter because I just want these feelings gone. I see parents with toddlers who behave like angels or are appalled at the extent of Colby's behaviors and I just want to smack them. It isn't fair! Why do I have a difficult child? I know it's a call to rise to the challenge but it's so....f&$*#(%.....HARD! For crying out loud, my husband had to tell me to leave the living room because I was so bothered and upset that I was amping up my son's misbehavior. I've barricaded myself in my bedroom (ok, it's Colby's bedroom but I sleep in it because my husband snores horribly) and have shut the door. I need to be alone and to process my thoughts. I need to figure out why I can't look at my son lately without feeling like he's a burden and feeling like I want to run and not look back.

*Deep breath* I love my son. He is smart, he is loving, he is clever, he is understanding, he is forgiving. He loves me. And I love him.

B.C.

2013-01-15T21:46:00.001-05:00

I'm not referring to "before Christ" but to the time period I like to refer to as "before Colby". I absolutely, completely adore my son. Yes, he can bug me as much as a mosquito in the summer time, but it's all part of the package. My 3 1/4-foot tall, 40 pound, blue-eyed, hilarious, golden-hearted kid. I love every bit of him...even the things he does that drive me batty.

Most parents-to-be know that their lives will change forever once their baby makes its grand entrance. I certainly had expectations of how my life as a mom would be but that doesn't stop me from missing certain things. This list started wafting into my brain as I was showering this morning and so that's where I'll start.

I miss:

taking a shower in peace and quiet. Peace and quiet that doesn't mean my son is up to no good. I remember the days where a 15 minute shower wasn't unheard of and I could manage to get through an entire shower without a half-clothed toddler leaping into the shower with me or hearing something like "mommy, I lost one of the birdies" (we have parakeets).

eating supper. The days of eating my meal while it's hot or without having to get up once while eating. I also reminisce about the days where my dinner didn't consist mainly of half-chewed food or three foods that have been squished and mixed into an unrecognizable and oddly colored casserole simply because I don't want to waste.

being called by my first name. Sometimes I forget that before being known as mom, I had an identity as Cheri. I had interests, hobbies, and this fleeting concept called "free time." Someday I'll reunite with this being called Cheri. At some point. Maybe.

having great boobs. Perhaps I should have mentioned somewhere in this blog's introduction that this list would also be shameless. Pregnancy growth was definitely not contained to my abdomen and I nursed my son up until he was 11 months old. The girls have served their purpose and did their job well. But all their hard work took quite a toll on them. Any time I see a little 20-something year old walking down the street with a nice rack, I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her to enjoy her perky, non-National Geographic boobs while she still can.

wearing a bikini. I suppose I could still wear one because, let's face it, I've seen some very...um..interesting people wearing bikinis on the beach. Alas, I'm a self-conscious person and wouldn't be caught dead wearing one P.C. (post Colby). Post-baby boobs and tractor trailer tracks across my mid-section mean my bikini wearing days are over. If you've ever shopped for a woman's bathing suit, you'll know that it's damn near impossible to find a flattering, cute one-piece that is under $50. Most one-pieces in my price range either look like something Honey Boo Boo's mom would wear or something that would attract looks from 65 year old men.

shopping for myself without guilt. I never was someone who would spend excessive amounts of money on myself. I never could stand to pay more than $20 for a pair of jeans or more than $10 for a shirt. Now, pretty much the only new clothes I get are from my mom who takes pity on me for still having the same wardrobe I had when I graduated college 6 years ago. I still wear some of my maternity shirts, even! Ok, and a pair of maternity capri pants but they're just so darn comfortable! Anywho, even if I pick myself up a shirt off the clearance rack for $5, I feel super guilty and think of all the things I could do with that money. It may only be $5 but $5 is still $5. What really cracks me up is that I can drop $30 for a stupid turtle with star cutouts on its back and not feel nearly as guilty. Or spent $50 building up Colby's collection of monster trucks over the past year. Meanwhile, I had to do major self-talk to not have a breakdown in the middle of JC Penney when I bought myself a pair of winter boots for $60...and it wasn't even with my money!

I could ramble on for many more paragraphs but I'm sure you're tired of hearing me getting all nostalgic on you. I hope I didn't come across as an ungrateful parent because I'm not. I know how lucky I am to have my son and I wouldn't trade having him for anything in the world. It's just pretty freaking amazing how many things you take for granted before you have kids.

Change

2013-01-13T22:06:00.001-05:00

I don't really know how to start this blog. No clever opening statement or joke or witty line come to mind. Change is something I hate. Well, mostly hate. If someone came to my door and handed me a million dollars with no strings attached I wouldn't be so opposed to that change. Heck, I'd probably pass out and then knock the money-giver over with a massive hug once I regained consciousness. Most change isn't like that, though. The change I'm going to be talking about is more mundane, more common. That doesn't seem to make it any easier, however.

When you're little you get asked what you want to be when you grow up. You get asked it a lot. Some of my aspirations were to be a ballerina, a teacher, a fire dog (don't laugh....ok, fine...laugh and get it out of your system), a pediatrician, a business mogul, (are you still laughing? Come on, now!), and an MTV VJ just to name a few. People often commented with some generic reaction, "oh, how sweet!" or "you'll make a great _________.) Their encouragement was and is greatly appreciated but it would have been fabulous for an adult to take me aside and tell me something similar to the following: "Look, kid. It's great that you have goals and dreams but there are a few things you need to realize. There's this thing called reality and it'll throw you curve balls throughout your journey. You're going to travel down roads you never thought you'd even lay eyes on. You're going to make sacrifices and hard choices. You're also going to have to endure changes. Lots and lots of changes. And I'm not referring to the David Bowie song here, kid."

Can you tell I don't like change? I've blabbed on to preface what exactly is changing in my life for two whole paragraphs. And two..well, make that three, sentences. After working for my current employer for 6 years and 5 days, I'm leaving. I'm pulling a Benedict Arnold and am accepting a job somewhere else. I honestly didn't plan on taking this new job, I just applied and interviewed because I had been out of the job market for 6 years and wanted to practice. I didn't want to look rusty if I needed to get serious about looking for a job. My current employer is facing cuts from its main revenue source and I was worried about what that meant for the security of my position so I wanted to practice and be prepared if the time came to find a new job. What I didn't expect was that the job I interviewed for made me a pretty irresistible offer. The pay was less than what I am currently getting paid but it was more than what I would be paid when all our clients left and I wasn't going to be getting paid for overnight shifts anymore. It also offered good insurance for a great price. My son and husband can finally get good coverage for less than what we're paying for crappy coverage now. That means that if my son decided to swallow anything else that scares the crap out of me, I won't be stuck with a $500 hospital bill (and that's after insurance paid it's dinky little part). It's a great opportunity for me professionally and I've been reminded this by many people. So why, then, do I feel like crap and fight off anxiety attacks just thinking about it?!

I think one of, if not the, major reason I'm struggling so much is because of the people I'll be leaving behind. When you work with the same people for six years, sharing a tiny office and even sleeping quarters for overnight shifts, you can't help but develop a relationship with them. I've got my boss, Kathy, who is supportive, strong as hell, and not afraid to call me (or anyone) on their shit. There's our clinician, Michelle, who is intelligent, grounded, and is secretly a little zany. Denise, who manages to remain calm and level-headed through just about any crisis and Meegan who is creative, talented and always good for a laugh. Then there's Amie, the baby of our little family. She joined us three years ago and is always eager to help and seems to have a good comeback for just about anything. These ladies are like my adopted family and I care for each of them deeply. I almost feel like I've issued them divorce papers and now I have to figure out how to reconstruct and live my life without seeing them several times each week. But maybe, just maybe, this change will be as good for them as it is for me. It also helps that Kathy has told me that when, not if, I realize my new job sucks, that I can come right back "home."

I just have to keep reminding myself that change can be good. Diaper changes are good. Well, for the changee, maybe not so much the changer. New appliances are fun and exciting. Wow, how domesticated am I? A pay raise of good. The increase in taxes, not so much, though. See what I'm doing? I'm negating every opportunity that can be considered good. I've gotta knock that off because it appears that opportunity is knocking at my door and it's time to put on my big girl pants, smile, and let opportunity in.

The Real Killer?

2012-12-14T20:04:00.000-05:00

A true tragedy occurred today, resulting in the taking of the lives of 20 children and 7 adults. Details are still very fuzzy and a lot remains unknown but the hard facts remain. There were too many people who left earth way too early. I can feel the tension brewing just below the surface as people focus on their grief and disbelief. Once their brains and hearts have had their fill of processing today's unbelievable events, they will turn to the age-old question: How do we prevent this from happening again?

I don't hide my stance; I'm pro-gun. I was raised around and with guns. My father, however, always made sure that we respected his firearms and recognized their danger. When we were old enough, he taught us how to shoot (starting with a bb gun) and how to handle a gun properly. When my brother was old enough, he took my brother to a hunter safety course before my brother was allowed to go hunting. My father also made sure that his guns and ammo were locked up tight and we knew better than to ever try and get them out. If we wanted to see a gun or try it out, we just needed to ask and my father would find the time to show us. Despite being raised in a gun family we didn't run around brandishing an AK-47 when we had play dates with our friends and we never accidentally shot each other when we heard rustling in the kitchen at 3am. Now that I'm grown, I have a handgun of my own and my husband owns a couple of "assault rifles" and reloads his own bullets.

I may have mentioned before that my father had a belt buckle that pertained to gun ownership. It read, "If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns." I didn't understand what it meant as a child but I sure do now. If you ban guns, the only guns remaining will be in the hands of the ones who don't care that they're banned. There's actually a Simpsons episode that plays out this scenario and it's very relevant and intriguing despite it being an animated parody. I listened to a couple of talk radio shows after learning of the shooting and there were some very interesting discussions. One man mentioned that people are killed every day by drunk drivers but there aren't mass movements to ban cars or alcohol. You can rest assured that talk of needing stricter gun control laws will flood the media with renewed momentum. Another person said that there needs to be mandatory safety trainings for all gun owners. Really? You think thugs and mentally unstable people are going to pay attention to safety statutes? A really well-versed woman said that guns clearly aren't the problem because some of the industrialized nations with the toughest gun control standards still struggle with high numbers of gun-related deaths. Mexico is a great example. To get a gun you need to get it through the government. Does this prevent a black market for firearms from developing? Nope. Is there still shocking amounts of gun violence? Yup.

So if I'm defending guns and saying that they're not to blame for today's (or any other day's) tragedies, then what/who is? The short answer is society. The long answer is as follows. A normal, healthy, gun-possessing citizen doesn't wake up, grab their revolver and head down to the local Starbucks to shoot the place up. Take a look at the people who do such things and you'll find amazing similarities. They either suffer emotional traumas that haven't sufficiently been dealt with or some form of physical brain deficiency that prevents them from seeing and functioning in reality properly. We are the industrialized nation with the highest rates of mental illness. I could write a whole other blog about why we are so mentally ill but I'll save that for another day. We are also one of the very few industrialized nations (if not the only) that doesn't have health care available to all of its citizens. If you're lucky enough to have health insurance, you may be able to get the counseling and/or medication you need to help you live as normal a life as possible. For the millions who are under or uninsured, they may not have access to such luxuries as counseling and psychotropic medication. If they're lucky, they may get sporadic treatment at a psychiatric facility or an emergency room but most often they'll meander through life untreated. One would think it would be in their and everyone else's best interest to ensure treatment for these folks, right? What also pairs nicely with the high cost of health care and the staggering number of people who can't afford it is the fact that there are many, many people who are struggling to make a living. Our social services system is also very broken (I've written a blog about this some months ago) and many people are faced with huge amounts of stress just trying to figure out how to feed and house their families. Take a mentally ill person who just got the news that their work hours are being cut and they will no longer be able to afford their apartment and you get a prime situation for a psychotic break.

Regardless of how these children and adults lost their lives in Connecticut today, it's still an unnecessary loss. People are going to be left to work through and live with unfathomable trauma as they begin to reconstruct their lives. Nothing can take away from the sadness we and the rest of America feel for those affected. The reason I wrote this blog is not to sound like an insensitive gun-freak but because we need to get to work on fixing the problems that let mass shootings happen. Stricter gun-control laws aren't going to fix it, gun bans won't fix it, passing the blame won't fix it. We all need to pull our heads out of our asses and look within. We need to get back to basics and remember how to live as civilized people. Treat each other with kindness because what you say could either inspire someone to take the path of righteousness or to fall prey to their inner darkness. Look out for one another and keep in mind that personal sacrifices are sometimes necessary for the greater good of society. One person's life is not more valuable than anyone else's. A doctor's life has no more value than that of a struggling drug-addict. If you beg to differ then you really need to evaluate why you feel you have the right to pass that judgement. Bring back please and thank you. Teach our children about realities like winning and losing and that, while life may not always be fair, they are amazing people and are loved unconditionally. It is us, the people, that will be the spark that ignites the changes needed to prevent more bloodshed. It starts at home and within ourselves. So before you start crying out for more gun control, more metal detectors at schools, or more policemen patrolling the streets, ask yourself what you have personally done to help make the world a safer place for future generations. Metal detectors and laws are superficial band-aids that cover a deeper problem. The real fix must come from within.

Why Can't Everyday Be Like Christmas

2012-12-05T22:02:00.001-05:00

Those of you who know anything about music, Christmas music more specifically, know that the title of this blog is the title of an Elvis song. Obviously that means this blog is going to be about Christmas but it's also going to be about tradition. I'll do my best to not cry as I'm writing this blog because I'll be talking about the things and people most sacred to me. Should I get teary-eyed, I'll simply remind myself of a line in the aforementioned song, that "this is the season of cheer."

As my faithful readers know, I grew up kinda poor. We never went without and had all our basic needs met, but we didn't have many of the luxuries my peers and neighbors did. Following in the "poor folk" fashion, our Christmases were never huge mega present spectaculars. I remember hearing a classmate of mine saying she was upset that year because her parents could only spend $500 on each child that Christmas. I don't think my parents spent half of that on my brother and I's presents combined. I like to say that I was a pretty appreciative child and was glad for every single gift I got but it still stung when the kids brought their new walkmans and Nike shoes to school after the holiday break. I often times would go to school with new clothes that I needed anyway (from the Kmart clearance rack) and perhaps some neat pens or something.

I sit in my living room with nothing but the lights on the Christmas tree illuminating my workspace. I bask in the warm glow and realize that this one, simple symbol holds more importance to me than any pair of Nike sneakers ever could. What we didn't have in cash we made up for in tradition. We put up our Christmas tree on December 6th every year as far back as I can remember. That date also happens to be my brother's birthday so it was a special event for more reason than one. While we put up the Christmas tree, we would play the Elvis Christmas cassette that my father had. My father was not known for enjoying Christmas festivities (actually, I'm sure he made past popes roll in their graves with all the swears he'd utter while hanging up the exterior lights every year) but on that one day, he'd let loose and enjoy the celebration. He'd sing along to all the songs and I can remember him sitting and really taking in the more meaningful ones, like "Silent Night" or "Little Town of Bethlehem." On the more upbeat ones, he'd dance around the living room, sometimes even with the giant Santa bear my brother won in a raffle when he was just a toddler. My parents still have that bear, you know. Ugh, crap. Where are the tissues.

It wasn't just the act of putting up the tree that was special. Every Christmas Eve, my mother's side of the family would get together for a family Christmas party. More often than not, it was held at our house. My mom has eight siblings and each of those has children so it was a pretty wild, fun party. Millions of laughs were had by all and I can't imagine a better way to spend Christmas Eve. After the party (typically about midnight), my brother and I were allowed to open one present. Then we'd leave our cookies and milk for Santa and go to bed. Once we woke up on Christmas morning, we'd head to the Christmas tree and take in all that Santa had left for us. My mom would then brew a pot of coffee and she and my dad would pour themselves a cup before we would start opening presents. Those five minutes always felt like centuries for my brother and I. Then we'd tear open the paper on what presents were left by the jolly old man. My mom would then dive into cooking a decadent Christmas dinner which usually centered around a ham. Christmas night would be spent watching movies or playing with our new toys or putting away our new clothes. There was always a feeling of contentment and ease, just like what's felt after eating a filling, delicious thanksgiving feast except that the feeling lasted all night.

As a parent, I found myself easily getting caught up in the Christmas hub-bub. I've been in hyper-shopping mode, constantly picking up little things here and there that I think my son would love. I want to give my son better than I ever had but I think I'd forgotten what I'd had. I don't think I could do better than what I had if I tried. What I had were feelings and memories that lasted long after my favorite toys and clothes had worn out and been thrown away. Some of my more religious friends may remind me that Christmas is truly about the birth of Christ and what his coming meant for us as a people. I do acknowledge this, but I cherish Christmas so much because it's all about love, caring, togetherness, and family. I could fill my living room with new presents for him to tear open on Christmas morning but the spirit of Christmas would be lost. Instead, I can make a gingerbread house with him every year. We can listen to the same Elvis Christmas music that I used to as a child when we put up the tree. We can read The Night Before Christmas 1,000 times before Christmas arrives. The best things I can give him truly aren't things, they're memories. When he's my age, my son sure as heck won't remember what he got for Christmas when he was seven but he sure as heck will remember what we did that holiday season.

Raising Average

2012-11-14T21:54:00.000-05:00

If you've been a diligent and faithful reader (which I hope you have been), then you are well aware that I'm an overachiever in recovery. Having a child has put me at high risk for a relapse several times but I've managed to reel myself in and maintain. I'm proud to say that the other night I hit a new level of recovery. I accepted my son as average.

I've pretty much strived my entire life to be above average. I got above average grades but that's about it. I was either average or below average in most other things in life, like sports, math, coordination, physical appearance, and the list goes on. Being average or below average is a severely painful experience for an overachiever, type-A person like myself. Now that I have a child, my sick desire for above averageosity has transferred onto him. I want him to have an easy life and to succeed at anything he puts his little mind to. I think any parent wants that for their child, but I tend to want it more than one should.

I work with disadvantaged, high-risk children who often have some sort of delay in their development. When you work with children who are behind in their development due to very unfortunate circumstances or trauma, it's easy to begin seeing your child as superb in comparison, no matter how "average" he may be. The real kick in the pants comes when I am exposed to other children who are developing at an average or above average rate. I watch my son run around with his cousin. I can see that my nephew will be a great asset to a track team someday because he's slim, trim and fast. My son, on the other hand, runs like a 300lb lumberjack trying to imitate a fairy. It's the cutest thing in the world but it certainly won't get him a spot on the track team. My three year old son can count to ten (when he wants to) and I'm quite proud of that. He's had friends, however, that have been able to count to ten in English and a second language since they were two. A friend of mine posted a few videos of her three year old daughter spelling a few short words and using phonics to ensure they were correct. My son can spell his name...sometimes.

They say that everyone has an area that they excel in, some area in which they're super intelligent. My son's isn't in physical abilities, language, spatial relations, or any other typical "smartness." My son is gifted in the area of emotions. Since he was about two years old, my little man has been able to label his emotions and even identify some of the emotions of others. Most two year old children cannot do this. This is an ability that usually emerges between the ages of three and four. Since he began labeling emotions, the depth of his understanding has only grown. For example, here's a conversation he and I had a few weeks ago:

Me: Colby, you're such a big boy now and I'm so proud of you!
Colby: Yup, I'm so big, big! Just like daddy!
Me: You know, since you're growing so big and you don't need your baba (bottle) to take naps at the babysitter's anymore, maybe we can throw them away?
Colby: Yup, cuz I'm a big boy.
Me: So I can throw them all away?
Colby: Not all of them. Keep one baba because I'm a big boy but sometimes I'm still little inside.

He was able to recognize that, at times, he isn't able to self-soothe like a big boy and still needs the help of his baba to calm down and relax...much like a little baby. Maybe it's because I'm his mom, but I think that's absolutely genius.

By most accounts, my son is average. He's happy, healthy, and developing at a normal rate. Normally, this word would sting worse than being slapped on the sunburned spot where a bee had just stung me. But because it's describing my son, it doesn't hurt so much. This may sound cruel but rest assured that it's not. I love him unconditionally, uncoordinated running and all. He makes being average okay because I'm able to see him as a whole from an outside perspective. I can see that, despite his flaws, average, and even sub par abilities, he's still an amazing, fantastic human being and the world is lucky to have him. He makes me proud to say that I'm the parent of an average toddler.

Average, and darn proud of it!

Honey, The Michaud's Are Home!

2012-10-26T20:14:00.000-04:00

I realize that I should have written this post a little while back since we officially moved into our house on September 19 but we've been busy. Anyone who has ever moved with a small child understands how crazy it is, not to mention that we only had the help of one friend to move and I did the final cleaning of our apartment alone. What matters is that we're all moved in and about 99% settled. The only thing remaining is to finish hanging pictures on the walls but that'll happen some time or other.

We are absolutely in love with our new home. It has tons of space for all our junk, we have enough space to house our family when they visit from afar now, and we have an amazing yard on an amazing dead-end street with amazingly friendly neighbors. It's, well, amazing. It took a couple of weeks after moving in for me to actually accept that us owning a house was real. I kept waiting for someone to come knocking on the door and say, "We're so sorry but there's been a mistake. It turns out we don't want to give you a mortgage after all," or "It turns out this land was actually sold to someone else prior and you have to move out," or something equally as lame. It finally feels real now. This is my house. I can run around singing made-up songs about cleaning my ears at the top of my lungs. I can do laundry at midnight if I want to and not have to worry about the washer waking my downstairs neighbor when it enters the spin cycle. I can paint the walls neon yellow with red stripes and adopt seven baby pigs if I want to! I won't, but I could. And, get this...I have my very own bedroom to sleep in so I don't have to listen to my husband's god-awful snoring at night. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call living the dream.

There have all ready been a few surprises that have popped up since we moved in. Shall I tell you about them?

1) We discovered that living in our house could cause lung cancer shortly before moving in. I conducted a radon test in our basement and was absolutely shocked when the results came back. Our home had levels seven times higher than the EPA's safe limit of 4.0 something-per-something. Thankfully we were able to get in contact with a knowledgeable radon mediation team and had it taken care of for a good price. Now we can take deep breaths and not worry about how many minutes we've just shortened our life.

2) We had a fire inside the house. While I love my husband, I won't hesitate to say that he has his fair share of idiot moments. He was charging a lithium-ion battery in the basement for our son's modified powerwheels four wheeler. Even though his charger told him the battery was unsafe to charge, he told it to proceed anyway. Thankfully, he stayed downstairs because a few minutes after he told it to charge, he heard a sizzling sound coming from his work bench and knew immediately it was the battery. He ran over and grabbed it to try and throw it outside but it burst into flames before he got to the basement door. He dropped it on the floor, flames and all, and ran upstairs looking for our fire extinguisher. I had no idea where I had put it and after searching for a little less than a minute, he grabbed a pot and ran downstairs and threw it over the flames. Meanwhile, the smoke detector was going off and Colby, our son, was freaking out. The house smelled like a burnt battery for a few days afterwards but I'll take that over having to rebuild the home we had lived in for about two weeks.

3) Finally, we had an earthquake whose epicenter was located less than 3 miles from our house. It started with two bangs and felt like someone had picked up our house and dropped it back onto the foundation. My father, father-in-law, husband, son and I were all home working on various projects around the house. We all thought it was different things at first but my father identified it a few seconds after it began. My poor son was in his bedroom alone and ran out crying in fear. His biggest concern was that a picture in his room fell and, if it was broken, if we could replace it right away. We inspected the house inside and out that night and again in the daylight of the next morning and found that the house hadn't sustained any damage. Not so much as a crack in the wall or a popped nail in the ceiling.

We're hoping that the next few months will be a little less exciting and a little less hazardous. We're definitely looking forward to spending the holidays in our new home and are happy to be hosting family this year for Christmas! While there were moments in my life that I thought I would never be able to own a home, I have living (well, ok, not living) proof that good things do come to those who wait.

In Defense of Famous Dysfunctional Families

2012-09-26T22:52:00.000-04:00

I won't deny it, I thoroughly enjoy watching famous dysfunctional families like the Osbourne's and Honey Boo Boo. There are many people who shun the airing of such craziness but I think it's great. Joy Behar recently went public with her feelings on Honey Boo Boo. Namely, she thinks that they're all fat and disgusting and that Alana, the six year old star of the show, is overweight and on her way to being a fat slob. One of the fabulous things about living in America is that we have freedom of speech and Joy is entitled to sharing her opinion. I happen to have this right as well and, as I'm sure you guessed, I'm about to share my opinion.

I need to clarify something up front. I don't support all famous families that have their own reality show. I could definitely do without the Kardashian's. So why do I love the Osbourne's and the Boo Boo family? Let me tell you.

The Osbourne's

Ahhh, good 'ole Ozzy, Sharon, Kelly, and Jack. And a million and six dogs. Sure, they swear like sailors, they've had plastic surgery, and they're way richer than the majority of their fans. In these ways, they may differ greatly from the average American or British family. There are a few other ways that they differ from the modern day family but they're good differences. The family has good lines of open communication. When you take away all the cuss words you can see the wholesome connection. Ozzy and Sharon do their best to parent on the same level. When Kelly came home with a tattoo that she showed Ozzy, he told Kelly that she either had to tell her mother about the tattoo or that he would. The love for one another is also quite apparent. Ozzy goes to great lengths to make Sharon comfortable and build her a fire on the beach when she's in the midst of battling cancer. Jack and Kelly had quite wild and indulgent childhoods and adolescent years and Sharon and Ozzy had their share of over indulgences in their lives but the fact that the family structure remains intact and the basic elements of a family exist have helped to guide each family member back to the right path. Who hasn't had their time of rebellion or strayed from the path and needed guidance to get back on the right track? The Osbourne's are humans just as we are. The main difference is that they've had their lives publicized.

Honey Boo Boo

I think there may be more criticism for this family than the Osbourne's and I'll admit that I feel more defensive of them than the Osbourne's. June, the matriarch of the family, says that she doesn't care what others think but the Osbourne's aren't afraid to tell you to $%&# off. Yup, they're all "pleasantly plump" as Sugar Bear would say and they're somewhat deficient in the manners department. What do I love the most about them? They're 100% real and aren't afraid to be themselves. Their morals may be hidden deep in their uncovered sneezes and mumbling southern drawl but they're there. They love each other and support each other. They're budget conscious and use coupons to make ends meet. June actually interacts with her children and isn't afraid to get down and dirty while playing with them. With America's constant strive to keep up with the Jones' and achieve perfection, this family is a breath of fresh air. They're not perfect and they're not afraid to admit it. Their 17 year old daughter is pregnant out of wedlock and people gasp because it's a taboo being "glamorized" by being aired. It's not glamorous, it's reality. Teen pregnancy rates are low compared to previous years but there are still thousands of babies born to unwed teen mothers every year.

I may not have very much in common with the Boo Boo's or the Osbourne's but they do have qualities that I admire. They are who they are and they're okay with that. On some level, they also accept each other for who they are. They stick by each other and show support for each other. It may not always be overtly apparent or in a "normal" fashion but the support is there. Lastly, there's love. Despite all the shenanigans, yelling, swearing, and zaniness, there's love and they all know that its there. There is a basic family network that serves as a safety net and its always there to catch a family member that falls. These families encompass what I want for my family:

Unconditional Love

Morals

Support

Communication

Self-Acceptance

I Ran A 5k

2012-09-11T21:51:00.000-04:00

Ok, maybe I didn't exactly run it, but I did run about three-fifths of it. While I didn't meet my ultimate goal of running the entire thing without stopping, I did at least run more than I walked and I was pretty happy with that. After all, I wasn't able to get out and train as much as I had hoped (perhaps part of it can be attributed to the fact that I constantly made excuses not to go for a run because I absolutely abhor exercise). I was also struggling to control my allergies which activate my asthma. As with the few training runs I took before the 5k, I did learn several things during the actual race. Here's the rundown:

1) If you are aware of a physical ailment that tends to be activated during physical activity, wear the proper support device(s). I have a knee that hates formal physical activity as much as I do and I definitely should have worn a brace or wrapped it or something.

2) Don't wear two shirts. I put the event shirt I got for participating on over my running shirt and regretted it the moment I began to sweat.

3) Don't judge people's abilities by their age. An 80 year old woman finished the race before I did!

4) Do not take the cup of water they offer you in the middle of the course. Not only is it hard to drink without stopping or slowing, but you run the next mile with a stomach full of water, burping, and nausea.

5) This one is more for race observers than runners. There was this one little girl who stood at about the 2 1/2 mile mark and clapped for the runners with a huge smile on her face. That encouraging little gesture and her big bright smile gave me more of a boost that I could have ever predicted.

6) If there is a chair massage offered after the race is done, skip it. Stick with the tables where the massage therapists help you stretch. I got a chair massage and the therapist tried to undo knots that would have taken an hour or more to undo in about ten minutes. The pain of that massage far surpassed any pain experienced during and after the actual race.

On top of all I learned, I finished with a time of 40.59. It's certainly not record-breaking (I was second to last in my age category and my own mom beat me by seven minutes...go mom!!!) but I was satisfied. I can't say that the race has converted me into a hardcore runner and that I'll be doing several more 5k's before the year is done. There are a few things that I can say, however. I can say that I did not achieve my goal of running the entire race but I didn't take a huge self-esteem hit because of it. I managed to be happy with what I did achieve and, for me, that is quite the accomplishment. I can also say that I may be more likely to sign up for and run another 5k in the future. Now that I know more about to and not to do, I can enter into the race more confidently and focus more on my technique and building my endurance.

My mom ran out to meet me so she could run with me to the finish line. She had all ready finished her race.

My mom and I, immediately after I finished my race!

Ghostly Encounters

2012-08-25T22:52:00.002-04:00

I haven't posted in a while because I've been wanting to write about something other than being a mom or my own journey of self-improvement. Although I will throw in a few snip-its about the topics I didn't want to write about.

1) My "baby" just turned three. He's turning into a young man and as much as it's amazing, it's awful at the same time. It means he's that much closer to going off to college, falling in love, and replacing me with the true love of his life.
2) Our house is almost complete! We hope to close by mid September and be moved in super shortly after. It's coming along wonderfully and we're absolutely in love with it!

3) I need a vacation.

Anywho, onto the topic that has nothing to do with any of the aforementioned items. I'm going to talk about ghosts/aliens. I understand that I may just have lost some of you but that's ok. I am one of the wacko nutjobs who believes in both ghosts and aliens. I've had "moments" with both and will indulge in sharing some of them now.

First, we'll tackle the alien thing. No, I've never been abducted or probed and I didn't marry one, though sometimes I do wonder. My husband and I were at Old Orchard Beach to watch the Fourth of July fireworks some years ago. We were looking up at the sky, waiting for the show to start. It was a clear night and we were finding constellations. Inexplicably, one of the stars began moving. We would have written it off as a satellite except that its movements were of varying speed and not in a set course. The light moved slowly upward, paused, quickly moved diagonally down and right, hovered, moved left slowly, hovered more, and then shot upward very quickly. We both looked at each other after it disappeared and said, "did you see that?" Neither of us has ever known a star, satellite, comet, or any human-made device to move like that. It was definitely a UFO in that it was an unidentified flying object. Was it an alien space ship flying in to check out the fireworks show? Perhaps...

Ghosts are something that I've been captivated by and afraid of for as long as I can remember. As a child, I always took the standard precautions to protect against monsters and ghouls. I slept with my back against the wall, a crack in my bedroom door so I could see if any apparitions showed themselves, tucked the blankets tightly under me so no demons could get me, and never, ever let my limbs hang over the edge of the bed. I would stay awake late into the night because I was so scared that, as soon as I closed my eyes, some evil ghost would appear and try to steal my soul or disembowel me. I was able to fall asleep earlier and easier if my cat came and perched on the foot of my bed. Everyone knows that animals can sense spirits before us inferior humans can. Did I mention I also had a lot of nightmares as a child?

My personal experience with a ghost happened much later in my life, however. My beloved cat, Fozzie, my furry ghost radar, my personal protector, lived to the ripe old age of fourteen. She stayed with my family when I went away to college and also when I got my own apartment. My husband is deathly allergic to cats and so I couldn't take her to live with me. Despite the distance, we had a bond and she and I savored every moment of my visits up home. When she passed away, I wasn't able to be there for her and it broke my heart that I couldn't say a proper goodbye and thank her for the many years of friendship and love. About a month after she passed away, she came to visit me. I was asleep in my bed in the middle of the night. I felt the familiar shake of the bed that happens when when a pet jumps onto the bed. I was awaken by this because we didn't have any pets and it surprised me. I kept my eyes closed, however, because I was too tired to open them. I felt the familiar sensation of a cat kneading the blankets and it slowly traveled up to my knee level and stayed there for a few minutes before returning to the side of my feet. This is exactly how Fozzie would behave when she would visit me in the night. The kneading continued by my feet for a few seconds and then disappeared. The most shocking part to me was that I wasn't scared in the least; instead I felt comforted and calm. I knew who my nighttime visitor was and she simply wanted to say hello and let me know she was still keeping me safe.

She didn't just visit once, no. It was about a month later that she visited again. The encounter began exactly how the first one did but this time I could hear purring. When she reached my knees, I held out my hand and I felt her. I'm not kidding...I felt her. I kept my eyes closed because I didn't want to open them and ruin this amazing experience. She returned to my feet and kneaded a few seconds more and then she left. Here comes the craziest part. My mother-in-law and my nephew were visiting us and sleeping in the living room. The next morning, my mother-in-law asked me if we had rats or mice. I told her we didn't and asked why. She said that in the middle of the night she felt something jump on her bed and go up to her knees. Knowing we don't have a cat or dog, she jumped up and turned on the lights to look for whatever had jumped on her bed. She looked into my nephew's playpen to ensure that whatever jumped on her bed hadn't jumped into his. She couldn't find her nighttime visitor. I had to chuckle because I couldn't believe it. Fozzie had gone to visit my mother-in-law the same evening she had come to visit me.

I'm sure a couple (or maybe all) of you reading this blog may have lost some respect for me or at least come to believe that maybe I'm stranger than you initially thought. Be that as it may, I stand by my stories. I haven't seen any UFO's or experienced any other ghostly encounters since the ones I've recounted but that doesn't make my beliefs waiver any. I truly believe that, even when we think we're completely alone, we may not actually be by ourselves.

My dear Fozzie

Mommy Meltdown

2012-07-31T23:26:00.001-04:00

In my last post I mentioned a mommy meltdown that I had. I didn't post the details of how it happened or the soul-searching that happened as a result. I've talked about it with a few people that I trust and hold dear to my heart and found it therapeutic to say the words that had been bouncing around my head since the meltdown. I'm sure I'm not the only mom who has had her moment(s) where all control is lost so I thought I'd offer up my meltdown story for all the moms out there. May you find something of value in it.

It was a Saturday morning and Colby and I had plans to meet up with a friend and her son to see Big Foot at a shop about a half-hour away. Colby isn't typically what I'd call a "morning person" but that morning he was exceptionally grumpy. Everything was wrong, nothing was good enough, and he didn't feel like cooperating in the least. There was lots of screaming, hitting, and attempts to break my heart by saying things like, "I no love you anymore" and "I no like you, I only like daddy." We finally got into the car but we were late.

Being late is something that I cannot stand but I find it happens almost anytime we have somewhere to be by a specific time. Pre-Colby I was never late. Now being on-time is a fleeting fantasy. Colby continued his grumpypants behavior during the ride to see the monster truck. At one point Colby told me he needed to pee. I told him to hold on just a minute and I would pull over as soon as I could. It took a few minutes but I drove into a back alley behind a strip mall and opened my car doors to serve as a privacy barrier for Colby. Apparently this was too boring for him and my half-naked son insisted on climbing a steep hill to pee on some plant he saw at the top of it. Tick-tock...we're getting later by the second. While I'm trying to grab my exposed child from the hill and convince him to go pee, a lady walks by us on her way to the employee entrance of a store to start her shift at work. We got quite the look from her. Tick-tock...we're even more late. My anxiety is sky high by this point and I'm beyond frustrated. I ask Colby if he actually has to pee and he says he doesn't. I buckle him back up and we continue toward the damn monster truck.

Colby continues to cry, scream, and throw things at my head. Managing downtown traffic whilst dealing with a tantruming child mixed with being late put me at my tolerance limit. I approached the shop where the truck was and put my blinker on to turn left into the parking lot. I stopped and waited for traffic to pass but then realized that the parking lot was full. I looked in my mirrors and checked my blind spots and put my blinker on to re-enter the flow of traffic. There were no cars that I could see so I started driving forward. As I began driving, a Jeep came flying around the corner. I stepped on the gas so I wouldn't get rear-ended, put my blinker on to turn right and pulled into a parking lot to get out of his way. I was almost hit by a car, my son is being a brat, I'm late.....I'm about to lose it. I take a deep breath, turn to my son, and firmly tell him to cut the crap because I've had enough. I go to open my car door and see the Jeep that almost hit me is parked right outside my door and the man is staring at me. I opened my door and he began berating me as a mother and a driver, blaming the almost-accident on me. I was completely shocked and wasn't able to get my bearings quickly enough to remind him that the almost-accident was entirely his fault. Instead, I pointed to my tantruming child and said, "Do you want to drive with him?!" He pointed to his own child in the back seat and continued to discount me as a mother as he drove off. Now I'm left standing there alone in the parking lot with the gas station attendants a few hundred feet away watching me. I opened the back door and sat down in the backseat and began sobbing. Colby began to scream at me to stop crying. I'm late, I can't manage my toddler, I just got insulted as a mother and driver, I'm being watched by the two yahoos at the pumps......it's too much. Now my child tells me he has to pee again. Done. I'm....just.......I'm done.

After Colby peed in the parking lot, I sat and cried some more before getting back in the driver's seat and driving off. Colby managed to calm himself down and, without solicitation, told me he was sorry. I calmed myself down and we were able to go see the monster truck together. Later that evening, I was again overcome by a dreadful sense of being utterly overwhelmed. I sat at the bottom of the tub and cried while the sound of the water falling on me from the shower head drowned out my sobs. I let it all out and then I began to think.

What about this particular day's events brought me to my breaking point? Yes, I've had a lot on my plate lately with uncertainties about the future of my employer, new certification requirements, building the house, and managing daily life, but it's not like I haven't experienced chaotic periods in my life before. It wasn't making sense......then it hit me. I know why I broke down the way I did. I've known for a while that I'm a high-anxiety person. I've done a lot of work on managing my anxiety and I've made a lot of progress in the past years. What I still struggle with, however, is managing myself in the anxiety-provoking moments. In those moments, my patience fades, my tolerance levels plummet, and I can be prone to being not so nice. It's not like I hadn't had high-anxiety days before, especially since I'd become a mother. What was different about this day was that I had been caught. The lady in the alley had seen me yelling at my son and speaking harshly to him. She saw me handle him probably a little rougher than I should have. The man driving the Jeep had seen my frustration with my son and expressed his opinions of me as a mother (regardless of how true/untrue they were). The two men working at the gas station watched me physically and emotionally crumble in the back seat of my car. I had been seen at my worst, treating an innocent child in a way that no parent would be proud of.

Guilt. It all came down to guilt. I didn't beat my son or leave marks or bruises, I didn't call him names, I didn't deprive him of the things necessary to satisfy his basic needs, or anything else of that significance. It still rocked me to my core, though. I'm educated in child development and general psychology, I had over a decade of childcare experience under my belt before I became a mother (and I had never reached frustration levels like I have with my son), and I teach classes to my clients about how to be a better parent. Yet, I still acted the way I did. I should have done better by my son. I could have done things differently. Guilt. Guilt thicker than molasses in the winter time. I let my anxiety over stupid little things like being late and having to pull my son off a hill with his manhood hanging out get the best of me. I let it affect how I treated my son...and I had been caught. What kind of person am I?

That last question resonated in my head for several days. Thankfully, I have some amazing people in my life who were able to remind me that I do have good qualities to balance out my inner demons. I've been told that every mom has those moments, that they just aren't talked about much. This post is to change that last one. I'm talking about it because I want other moms (and dads) to know that these moments happen. We're only human and can't always be perfect in our own eyes or anyone else's. These moments of weakness give us opportunities to teach our children. How we handle and recover from them lay the groundwork for how our children will handle themselves when they trip and fall as well. Because, after all, they're only human too.

No Time

2012-07-23T23:28:00.001-04:00

I find it quite ironic that I haven't had the time lately to post a blog about how I don't have time. Well, I've all ready addressed the main subject in that first subject and could leave you with this Cliff-notes version...but I won't.

I've been feeling quite overwhelmed lately with all the crap that has been floating around my head and intruding in my daily life. Some of it is unavoidable, like toddler misbehavior, and some of it is, like having to take on extra chores because someone else decided they wouldn't do them. I reached a breaking point the other day and it made many things crystal clear. I could benefit from having a clone but then again it would be weird and it is, as far as I know, not possible yet. I need my husband to step up to the plate and help out a bit more when it comes to the care of our son and helping around the house. I need to make better use of my social resources for emotional support and pawning my child off now and then to get a couple moments of peace. Heck, nevermind peace, I'd just like to be able to go to more than one store in a row to take advantage of coupons and low prices.

I won't go into the exact series of events that led to my meltdown-turned-epiphany. I'll instead give you a snapshot of what my day might look like so perhaps you can see how it contributed to my meltdown. I'll then give you my husband's day for comparison. I'm sure my own perspective is skewed (and perhaps tainted by my residual bitterness), but I'm guessing most moms lead a life somewhat similar to this.

Cheri's day:
6:15am: Wake up and shower. Enjoy the peace and let the hot water usher me into consciousness.
6:30am: Get dressed, put my hair up, brush my teeth.
6:45am: Get Colby's clothes out for the day and make sure he has spares in his daycare bag. Start preparing his food for daycare
7:00am: Wake up my mini morning grumpypants (this is not an easy task)
7:15am: Transfer Colby to the living room to dress him and then redress him after he takes off what I just put on him
7:30am: Running late, as always, throw all his food into his daycare bag and drag a screaming child out the door. Strap him in the car and drive to the babysitter's house.
8:00am: Arrive at daycare. Get Colby settled in and make sure he isn't assaulting infants.
8:15am: Leave daycare, drive to work with a stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way.
8:45/9:00am: Arrive at work (I'm usually late and closer to the 9am mark) and start the day
5:00pm: Leave work and travel to babysitter's.
5:30pm: Arrive at the sitters and work on getting Colby ready to go home.
5:45pm: Leave sitter's and drive home.
6:15pm: Arrive home and begin cooking dinner while entertaining Colby's imaginary play scenarios.
6:45pm: Eat dinner (or at least Colby gets to eat his dinner).
7:15pm: Bathtime for Colby while I clean up the bathroom or do laundry or something
7:45pm-9:30pm: Dishes, vacuuming, picking up toys, laundry, etc.
9:30pm-ish: Attempt to put Colby to bed. Sometimes it's successful and he's asleep by 10pm. Other nights I'm not quite so lucky and he's still fighting sleep at 11pm.

Bruce, my husband's, day:
6:00am: Wake up and shower
6:15am: Eat bowl of cereal and watch the news
6:30am: Watch news and doze on couch
7:30am: Leave for work
7:30pm: Arrive home from work and dive into dinner
8:00pm: Browse internet for stupid shit or doze on the couch
10:00pm-ish: Go to bed

Mind you, this doesn't include the grocery shopping, trips to the post office, taking out the trash, and a million other things. Don't forget to throw in activities with my son so his life isn't a complete bore. I don't endorse negative thinking and try to avoid it as much as possible. I'm a pessimist by nature so it's quite the battle. I do, however, feel that I'm justified in my bitterness at this unfair division of labor. A vagina doesn't brand me as a maid/secretary/personal shopper/nanny/etc. Or does it?

In summation, I feel these two videos embody my feelings about my being overwhelmed as a working mom and wife:

Day of a Mom

Day of a Dad