My dishwasher's possessed!

I Get By with a Little Help from My Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 02:28:00 +0000

I belong to, arguably the oldest union in the world, “The United Federation of Moms.”

I was a probationary member the day the stick turned pink, but was issued my permanent card 14 years ago when I had my first child. I held my beautiful baby boy in my arms and became a proud member.

Whenever I'm facing a particular pesky parenting problem with one of my children, I fall back on the safety of my fellow members.

Mom: Why can’t I have ice cream for breakfast? Why can’t I jump off my bunk bed into 20 pillows? Why can’t I go without my hat and scarf during a blizzard?

I have found the quickest answer to be, “It's against union rules.” Believe it or not, this works most of the time.

My relationships with other mothers has, and continues to be, vital to my sanity as well as my parenting.

Who but another mother knows what it feels like to love somebody so much you feel like your heart is going to explode?

Or be driven so crazy by the same child that you find yourself singing “brush your teeth and go to bed” to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” just because you're getting tired of your own voice and you need a little variety.

When I had my first child, Tom, we had recently moved to Queens from Manhattan, and I found myself a little isolated, caught between the world I knew and a world I hadn't completely accepted.

After four miscarriages, I finally had the most perfect, beautiful little boy known to mankind. I retired from my office job and was now a stay-at-home mom. I was thrilled, but I was also lonely. I missed the city and the daily interaction with my co-workers. The long hours my husband worked seemed endless, now that he was one of the few adults I had to talk to.

I needed friends and I needed them fast.

In those first few months, I used to joke that I felt like a single woman cruising the bars when I would go out searching for mom friends. I would walk through my neighborhood in Queens looking for women pushing strollers.

I joined a gym, took a baby-and-me swim class, and went to the library, but I had little or no luck. I might strike up a conversation with a mom or two, but they usually were on their second or third child and had an established group of friends. They were friendly and polite, but I didn’t feel I belonged.

My first year home, I went to my local Dunkin’ Donuts so often that the people behind the counter bought my son a Christmas gift. He still has the stuffed bear.

I still remember the day I met Debbie. She was walking to Dunkin’ Donuts, and I was on my way home. Our eyes locked, and it was kismet. We looked in each others carriages, joked about our lack of sleep and exchanged numbers. That was the start of many coffee, I mean play-dates, quieting and entertaining babies.

Soon after I met Debbie, we met a few other moms and formed a mother’s group. Our union local was born.

We cheered each milestone our children reached and worried when there was a problem. We saw each other through sleepless nights, trips to emergency rooms, speech delays, and the Terrible Twos.

The other day I was looking over some pictures from Tom's first birthday party, and there we all were. A group of extremely tired, but very happy moms. We were sitting in my basement that was decorated with Blue’s Clues balloons, holding our babies, and feeding them their first tastes of pizza and cake.

Eventually we moved from Queens. It was really hard for both me and a two-year-old Tom to leave the safety of our friends who had become so important to us.

But time moved on, and so did our friends. Our families expanded, the children got older, and soon schedules were filled with preschool and other activities. Time together got less and less frequent. New friendships were made, and new alliances were formed.

This Wednesday Tom graduates from middle school and will begin hIgh school in the fall. The other day I read a Facebook status that the oldest child in our group now has her learner’s permit. The babies that played in basements and playgrounds are now all teenagers who have little or no memory of each other.

But I will never forget them or their moms. I am forever grateful to those women and the memories I have from that very sweet time in my life.

I needed those friends to get me through the baby and toddler years, just like I need the friends I have today that see me through the fears and triumphs of the school years.

I am and will continue to be a very proud member of the United Federation of Moms.

Authors Note: The topic and main idea of this essay is from one of the very first posts I wrote for the dishwasher titled, The United Federation of Moms. It was first published in December 2010 when my blog was on Momster.com under the pen name, Blessed Mom of 3. I used it again as a guest post under my own name for the blog, Life As Five, in July, 2011. It then appeared on this site on January 19, 2012. The essay you read today has been updated from the original.

I Can Be Silent No More

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 01:19:00 +0000

Every now and then I have found myself in a relationship that stopped working for me but for the sake of members of my family I have continued to keep the offending party in my life. I’ll look to see what these relationships can teach me, see where I’m at fault, and do my best to change.

But today I have come to the realization that there are some things that just can’t be repaired. I can be silent no more.

Dear Peter’s Sneakers, Tom’s English Assignment and Lizzy’s DVD of a Christmas Story;

It saddens me to say this, but I can no longer handle you. Your constant need to disappear has reached a point where it’s no longer healthy for the rest of the family.

All day, the three of you have caused perfectly lovely children to cry, scream and fight with each other. Enough is enough.

First off, Tom’s English assignment, how dare you just disappear right before he needs to hand you in? Forget that Tom has known about you for a week and just realized the day before you’re due that the assignment sheet with the instructions is nowhere to be found. Don’t you have feelings? The life of a 14-year-old is hard enough without papers vanishing.

You caused an otherwise very rational, well mannered and happy boy to simply lose it. Did you not know how important you were for the world to continue to rotate on its axis?

You are irreplaceable. A call to a friend or an email to a teacher can not solve your disappearance. Personally if I ever see the words “English Assignment” again on a piece of paper, well, let’s just say, you should be afraid.

And, just so you know, we did contact his teacher and the idea Tom came up without you and worked on all day is perfect for his assignment. So as it turns out, you weren’t needed.

Lizzy’s DVD of “A Christmas Story.” Well, what can I say? For weeks, you have caused our very sweet daughter nothing but heartache. Did you not know you were her best friend and she does not know what she will do without you? For such a happy holiday movie, you have wreaked havoc on our otherwise blissfully happy household.

We have searched everywhere that a DVD could possibly be. Underneath beds, behind dressers, and even in the very unlikely places of two dvd players and the three cases we have that manage to keep all your other dvd friends perfectly happy.

Why, oh why, did you just leave your happy DVD case? If you were tired of her playing you every single night, couldn’t you have just told us? Did you need to resort to such drastic lengths?

I would like you to know that your services are no longer needed. Lizzy found three other DVDs. She likes them better than you. I realize that in a few days she might once again mourn your loss. But she is 11 now and is really leaning that if you can’t love the one you want, you can love the one you’re with.

And, now for Peter’s sneakers. What can I possibly say to you to make you realize how you ruined a very happy, charming little boy’s Sunday? (Not to mention the huge migraine you gave me.)

Do you know because you disappeared, he got into a fight with his brother and sister? Then he got sent to his room because everyone knows that you can’t hit people just because you are heartbroken over where your shoes are.

He also missed running errands with his father. That is just unacceptable.

I hope you know he almost considered leaving the house with his, (we know now) way too small dress shoes or his sister’s flip flops. I am glad you finally decided to show up after being missing for four hours. Peter is very glad to be able to visit his grandfather. But I am thinking that your days on his sweet little 8 year-old feet are numbered. Get ready for that big shoe bag in the sky.

Let this be a reminder to any other items that are thinking of leaving our house, or just as worse thinking of disappearing under a chair for a few hours. If you harm any member of my family, or cause me a mind numbing headache I will go after you. I have a blog and I’m not afraid to use it!

Sunday in the Car with Fran

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 02:13:00 +0000

My name is Kathy. But my mother, the woman who named me, has a habit of calling me Francine.

Now I know what you must be thinking, I have a sister named Fran, and she just mixes us up. This would make perfect sense. Heck, I’m guilty of mixing up all three of my kids’ names, and I have two boys and a girl.

But Francine is not one of my sisters. She’s my aunt. For some reason, I’ve never figured out, my mother always calls me by her older sister’s name.

This can get a little confusing, especially when all three of us are together.

“Fran.”

“What?”

“She’s not talking to you Aunt Fran, she’s talking to me. Mom, I’m Kathy. Your oldest child. You named me.”

“Very funny Fr... Kathy.”

Then we all start to laugh.

Today we were all together for a few hours. Oddly, not once did my mother call me Fran. I believe this may be the first time, ever, this happened.

Feeling a bit like a sprung inmate from my wonderful, but exhausting family, I had taken a ride with them to visit my aunt’s home and get a few of her summer clothes. My very independent aunt has been living with the comedy duo, otherwise known as my mom and dad, since she started her second round of chemotherapy in November.

Two months ago, her doctor said she was cancer free. Though she was still very weak, the hope was that her energy would soon return and she could go home. Perhaps even be able to go back to her job as a high school drama teacher.

Last week we found out that the cancer is back. She can not be alone.

As we pulled up to my aunt’s house, I could see all of Fran’s beautiful flowers. Gardening is a passion of hers, just like it is with my mother and me. I knew it was killing her that she couldn’t work in her flower beds.

It occurred to me that as long as I have known my aunt, this has been her house. This was where I learned to swim and eat with chopsticks when I was little. It was also a place of refuge when I was a teenager.

The free-spirited choreographer who always looked so graceful struggled to just get out of my mother’s car. The chemo had erased her dark curly tresses from her scalp. Her body, once lithe and graceful, moved slowly and cautiously. She was clearly worried about falling. She held on to the car, then shifted her weight to her cane as she slowly made it up the stairs to her home.

As my mom and Fran went through the mail and got what she needed, I sat on the couch that I remember helping her and my mother pick out years ago. I looked around at the Asian art and pictures of dancers on the wall and remembered how much I use to love to come here.

Her home always seemed much more exotic and interesting than the conventional decor of my parents’ house.

“Fran, three dresses? That is all you are going to take with you? Three dresses?” I could hear my mother’s voice from down the hall.

“Yes. This is all I need.”

Both women looked at me with frustration about the other.

I laughed and realized how different they were. To my mom, the clothes she wears and her looks are a vital part of who she is. Whenever I say I have somewhere to go, her first question is almost always, What are you going to wear?

My aunt has always been more comfortable in t-shirts and flowing skirts that allow for easy movement. Fashion has never been important to her.

I always wanted to be more like her. Free-spirited and committed to my art. It took a while, and enough money spent in therapy to buy a small house, to realize that as much as I admired her free-spirited artistic ways, I longed for security.

She has always made her living as a dancer, director, choreographer, and teacher. I left acting years ago in order to pay my bills. I worked in an office and then left work to take care of my children. Very different choices from the ones she made.

We took one more look around and left. But not before my mother made one more mention of the fact that three outfits were not nearly enough.

“Aunt Fran,” I said. “My mother will be on her deathbed, and she will ask me what I’m going to wear to her funeral and suggest what piece of her jewelry will look best.”

We both started to laugh as my mom got into the driver’s seat.

“Are you two making fun of me again?” she said, laughing.

“Yes,” we both replied at the same time.

As we left the house, I wondered if I we would ever get to come back as the three of us. Everything was up in the air. Would she try chemo again? Would she decide she has had enough? Nothing was certain.

“Fran, before we go too far, get your water ready and drink some. You’ve only had one bottle, that’s not enough.” My aunt looked back at me and made a face.

“Kathy is my sister making a face at me?”

I was very struck that my mother very clearly called me Kathy.

Mommy Makes The World Go Round

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 27 May 2013 02:52:00 +0000

In my fourteen years of being a mom, I’ve had my share of tough questions.

The ones that induce the reddest blushes have to do with sex.

What is sex? Do you and daddy have sex? When do you ever find the time to have sex? These are the tip of the iceberg in a long line of questions from my three kids that I’ve fielded over the years. Usually while we are all at the dinner table and my mouth is full of tea or pasta.

I will never, ever, forget the time our eldest child needed the complete, don’t-hold-anything-back, tell-me-right-now, explanation of sex.

We had already dealt with the basics of where babies came from. I always answered every question that was brought to me. But every time we would get to the nitty gritty part, Tom would change the subject.

This day was different. He wanted the truth, the whole truth. Nothing else would suffice.

Of course this was also on a day that my dad was over. I will spare you the details of our conversation, but let’s just say that five years later, I still haven’t completely recovered from having to explain ejaculation to my son IN FRONT of my father.

I give my dad extra points for remaining very calm and then patting me on the back for a job well done.

Some of the toughest questions I have had to answer have been about our beautiful 11 year-old daughter. Lizzy is beloved by her two brothers, but her brain disorder that still has no name stumps some of the top medical professionals in the world. How do I answer questions about what her future will be when I don’t know?

Being a mom means being prepared for anything. I get that. I am also fairly proud of my ability to appear calm and unfazed even when I’m laughing or dying inside.

But I have to admit that I was caught off guard the other day when eight-year-old Peter asked me if he really had to go to heaven one day, and if he did, could our whole family go at the same time.

“Can I at least go with Grandpa Warren?”

Peter has been struggling with life, death and what it all means.

He has become painfully aware that he only has one grandma.

My husband lost his mom when he was 12. Peter has figured out that if his dad’s mom can die when he was little, it could happen to him too.

My explanation that I am healthy, and that Grandma Josephine had cancer a long time ago before there were so many good medicines to help have done little to calm him.

What is heaven? Where is heaven? Can we all go at the same time?

Peter asked these questions as I was serving dinner.

I did my best to reassure him and let him know I believed heaven was a beautiful peaceful place where we would be with God and see all our loved ones who went before us. I said that it must feel comforting to think that we would all be together, and that even if we didn’t all go to heaven at the same time, I believed we would all be together again one day.

He smiled and he asked for a hug. I added that I really thought we were all going to be here for a long, long time. And I let him know that when I was little, I was worried about my parents dying and leaving me.

“But now they are really old, right mommy?”

“Oh yes, Peter, really, really, really old!”

As we were laughing at this I looked over at Tom, Lizzy and Peter and I realized that to the three of them, I wasn’t just an important part of their life, I was their life.

I am the filter that they see the world through. If they are scared, they come to me. If they are sad or not feeling well, or happy, they come to me. They adore their father. They love their grandparents, but it is me that has been their constant from the day they took their first breath.

All at once, I felt grateful, humbled and a little scared to be that important to not one, but three of the sweetest people on earth.

Motherhood is a strange job. The hours are crazy, the working conditions are not alway optimal, and the people that we work for can sometimes seem very demanding. I don’t always feel up to the job. Yet, on that day I was once again reminded that it is not so much what I do that means the most to my children. It is that I am there to do it. I may not be my ideal of the perfect mother, but I am theirs.

Twenty Ways to Deal with Writer's Block

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 20 May 2013 00:15:00 +0000

Ever since I decided to go back to blogging on a regular basis, I’ve been plagued by a massive, dare I say epic, case of writer’s block.

For the last week, I’ve wracked my brain for a topic to write about.

Each time I sit down at my desk and look at my empty screen.

I went over past blog posts. I spent hours on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest trying to find an idea that would be worthy of an essay. And, just to be clear, all the hours reading social media sites was only for research. I did not enjoy doing any of these things. (I sense your doubt.)

No ideas were coming to me.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Finally at the end of my rope, I came up with twenty ways to get over writer’s block:

Moan, groan and complain that you have nothing left to write about. Use a very dramatic voice for more effect. If you can conjure up some tears, it will totally add to the “poor me” effect.

Sit down and try to write again. Start and throw out 10 essays.

Ask all your writing friends for ideas on how to get over this annoying block. Love the ideas about unplugging from the computer and walking away from writing. Hate the ideas about having to just sit down and write because if there is one thing you don’t want to do to get over your block, it’s write.

Remind yourself that your friends are talented writers, feel intimidated, quit writing, take up underwater basket weaving.

Spend some time thinking about whether or not there really is something called underwater basket weaving or was it just something your high school choir director would tell you would be your major in college because clearly you would never be good enough for anything else.

Go into kitchen where family is eating a late lunch and beg husband for an idea.

Get into argument with husband when he tells you that the only way through your writer’s block is to sit down and write. If you feel up to it, throw back in his face all you have done to help him over the twenty years you have been married.

Plead with all three of your children for an idea, any idea.

Dismiss the eleven-year-old’s suggestion of writing about princesses and the eight-year-old’s idea of writing about his deep fear of animals. Not because they are not good ideas, but because you have already written about them

Decide that you have exhausted everything in your life to write about and that you are a complete failure as a writer. You might want to throw in a few more minutes of deep self pity here, but that’s only a suggestion.

Get another cup of coffee.

Look around for a snack that is only 2 points with Weight Watchers because you blew 5 points on the chocolate that you swore would end your writer’s block. Sadly it did not.

Start to get not-so-secretly annoyed by 14-year-old son, who has clearly become too much like his father when he laughingly suggests writing about the “Harlem Shake.”

Now that husband is laughing along with son, go ahead and give the man a very dirty look. Make note of the fact that he gives son secret hand sign to let the poor child know he better quit teasing his mother because husband knows his wife and he knows that any minute she is going to eat her firstborn.

Go into your office, which is really just a small corner of the bedroom, and look at the blank computer screen. Again.

Change the radio station from the soft pop station to the one devoted to songs of the 70s. Maybe listening to the same songs that you did as a child will spark a memory.

Listen to a song from Jim Stafford and realize that the song is about growing and smoking pot. Start wondering if your conservative parents knew what this song was about and if they did why did they let you listen to it when you were just a little girl?

Start thinking maybe you don’t know your parents as well as you think you do.

Make mental note to mention this fact the next time they question your parenting skills because you let your youngest child watch Friends with you and your 14 year old.

When all of that fails to work, write an essay about the ways that you deal with writer’s block.

* I would like to thank the following amazing bloggers for taking the time to give me some great suggestions and support through my (very dramatic) hour of need; Faith of An Edible Mosaic, Gina of Totally Full Of It, Leigh Ann of Greeen 4 U, J.D of Honest Mom, Erica of Northwest Edible Life, Tara of Noshing with the Nolands, Nancy of Skinny Kitchen, Katie of Katie Neuman Photography, Alexandra of Good Day Regular People, Patsy of My Arms Wide Open, Pam of Momma Can and Laura of Find Catharsis. You guys are the best!

When the Whole Wide World is Fast Asleep

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 13 May 2013 01:38:00 +0000

It’s hard to believe but another Mother’s Day is coming to a close. I am now the very proud owner of a beautiful fingerprinted decorated picture frame from my 11 year old daughter Lizzy. A heart shaped wall hanging that my eight year old, Peter, made me and a lovely pair of earrings that my 14 year old son, Tom, picked out for me.

We had a fun day of being together, planting flowers and eating Chinese food. The only missing thing this weekend was a visit with my own mother. But, that will be corrected tomorrow when we meet for breakfast.

Becoming a mother 14 years ago changed my relationship with her in a way I never thought was possible. I now have a much deeper appreciation of who she was, and what she has given me.

I wrote the following piece last May under the title, In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. It seemed especially fitting today. Thank you for letting me share it again.

Peace has descended on my happy home. My house has recovered from a full day of children running around, bouncing on beds and putting their hands all over the walls.

The air conditioner is humming, and I can hear the occasional creaks from a house that is well loved and well used.

No children are laughing, screaming or asking for bowls of cereal.

This is the time that dreams are made of.

Or more accurately, this is the time I should actually be dreaming, because everyone else is sound asleep.

Everyone but me.

I'm so tired during the day that I could fall asleep while standing with a cup of coffee in my hands.

My eyes have such black rings under them that it took me a whole two minutes to realize that it wasn't mascara underneath my eyes.

But I can't give up my midnight rendezvous with someone I don't get to spend much time with: me.

There is something about the middle of the night that is just too seductive for me to resist.

I don't have to worry about a call from a school nurse telling me someone is sick. No calls from my teenager, Tom, telling me that he forgot the book that he has to have for English class.

Not even a call from my husband, Joe, telling me his train is late again or asking me if we need milk.

All my chickens are present and accounted for.

I can breathe. A feeling of serenity comes upon me.

Some nights I just lay in my bed listening to music and the sounds of Joe breathing. Sometimes I catch up on a movie or TV show from the DVR.

But mostly I'm on the computer working or communing with other digital moms in blogger nirvana.

When I was growing up in the dark ages before computers and movies on demand, my mother used the hours after midnight to indulge her passion--cleaning.

As a young girl, I would go downstairs to get a drink of water only to end up scaring my mother half to death as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees--too lost in her own thoughts to hear me approaching from behind.

My sisters and I bruised our shins more times than we'll ever count because we happened upon mom in the dining room or living room, with the furniture rearranged at 3:00 a.m.

I couldn't get over how much my mother was able to accomplish while we were sleeping.

I loved the times I would find my mother wide awake and engrossed in some household task. She would greet me with a warm, reassuring smile as she polished the silver or cleaned out the fridge.

She was a willing and captive audience. I could tell her about my day, or what boy I liked without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my sisters or a call from her office. I loved it.

My mother was a great sport about it. Never once did she complain that I was interrupting her time or make me feel unwanted. For that I thank her.

She might even deserve sainthood for it because now I know how precious the hours between midnight and sunup are for a mom.

As tired as I get and as much as I may regret my lack of sleep the next day, I love and cherish my nightly solitude.

The chance to think a complete thought without a seven-year-old Peter asking to join the circus is hard to give up.

I also love to watch my children sleeping. It doesn't matter what Tom said to me hours before that had me contemplating boarding school, or the screaming fit from Lizzy, my special needs daughter.

Or the endless, yet entertaining questions Peter asks. At that hour, they look like angels. Their beauty take my breath away.

Memories of little babies lying in my arms fast asleep after a 2:00 a.m. nursing come flooding back.

Back then, when exhaustion takes on a whole new level, I would use my second wind to just hold and rock my baby.

I would will myself to remember the feel of the weight of a sleeping newborn, or the sweet smiles of a six-month-old dreaming.

The time goes by so quickly, every day moving faster than the next. One day, sooner than I care to admit, I won't need the quiet of a sleepy house to recharge my spirit. My children will be grown and gone.

I guess I'll sleep then.

For now I will enjoy my peaceful sleepy house. And remember to buy a better concealer for those under eye circles.

Mother's Day In All It's Glory

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 06 May 2013 02:27:00 +0000

Mothers Day will soon be here, and everywhere I look I’m bombarded with ads and commercials that picture a happy mother cuddling her baby or getting sloppy kisses from her toddler.

The second Sunday of May is often depicted in loving images, with husbands giving beautiful and expensive presents and children making breakfast in bed for mommy.

The mother is often portrayed in saintly ways smiling as her kitchen is wrecked by adorable children out of central casting. Perhaps she’s smiling as her befuddled husband tries to get the kids ready for mom’s one big day off and at the end is handed her “prize” of a bracelet or diamond necklace.

I’ll admit that for my first few Mother’s Days I was a little let down that music didn’t play as my kids came in with coffee and homemade cards, or that at the end of cleaning up my children’s latest mess, my husband didn’t look down at my tired, stressed out face, take me in his arms, push the hair out of my eyes and hand me a present to end all presents while my adorable kids giggle in the corner.

I love my life, but it’s much messier than the Madison Avenue version.

If past Mother’s Days are any indication to what will happen next Sunday, I’ll get woken in the middle of the night by a sick child or find an elbow in my face by a kid that has snuck in between my husband and me.

As I clean up the sick child, or try to gently move the intruder back to their own bed, I’ll hear my husband mumble “Happy Mother’s Day” while we both crack up at the way our life turned out.

I’ll go back to sleep only to be woken an hour or two later after one of my sons ask for bacon and eggs. Maybe my eight-year-old will ask if he can join the circus, or live at Grandma’s house. Again I will hear my husband laugh. He’ll tell the kids it’s Mother’s Day and we should let mommy sleep. Again, I’ll go back to sleep laughing.

I will then be woken up another hour or two later to the beautiful peaceful sounds of my daughter screaming my name from my now locked door and my husband yelling, “Let Mommy sleep; it’s Mother’s Day.’”

That will be followed by my husband’s pleas to sign my card and telling someone to stop picking their nose, hitting their brother, or eating the special breakfast that is meant for me.

Then my family will come in my room all smiles.

If I’m really lucky, I may get to hear in no particular order: “Stop hitting me.” “I’m not hitting you.” “You’re a pain in the neck.” (Since we now have a 14-year-old, he may refer to another part of the anatomy when describing his younger brother). “Don’t talk to your brother and sister that way.” But only if I’m really lucky.

There will be my three beautiful children and my husband standing before me with presents, pictures, cards and coffee. My husband will direct each child to give me their present. I will ooh and ah as I hear how they picked out the presents and who tried to make a break for it at the store, or who had a meltdown at the bank because there were no more lollipops.

Then we will have breakfast and go about our day. Maybe we will take a ride to the beach or playground. Maybe we will buy some plants, and I’ll even have a minute to put them in the ground and watch the kids play with the water, getting completely soaked and filthy as they “help” me.

Dinner will be Chinese food and then children will be shooed into the shower and gotten ready for bed.

I will be tired, stressed out and not at all relaxed.

I will look at my husband, laugh and thank him for another great Mother’s day.

And you know what, it will be.

Mother Knows Best

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 14:29:00 +0000

Like all new moms I felt my beautiful son was perfect. Yet I could not shake the feeling that something was not right with him.

He was bright, alert and even used sign language to communicate, but he was not speaking. And not crawling, even though he was nine months old.

I mentioned this to our pediatrician and I was told that babies don't crawl much these days and boys tend to speak later than girls.

Needless to say, I found another doctor.

Tom started to receive speech therapy, physical therapy and occupational therapy and started to make wonderful progress. It wasn't always easy and I had many sleepless nights, but by the time he was three, I was thrilled I listened to my gut. I felt like, "Super Mom," able to handle any problems that may come up as we happily expanded our family.

Then we had our daughter Lizzy and all bets were off. I didn't feel super anymore.

This week on Bonbon Break I share some of the lessons I have learned as the mother of three wonderfully diverse children in my essay, When Something Doesn't Seem Right, and how I have learned that sometimes, mother knows best.

I hope you come over and not only read my post, but all the other wonderful work we have from some amazing contributors!

As always I thank you for your support!

Yes, the times they are a changing

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 01:58:00 +0000

Sitting at my desk and staring at my computer all I can see is my stuffed inbox. My anxiety level is rising by the second as I think of all I have to do.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. As I look up, I notice the pin board I keep over my desk. Among the post-it notes scribbled with reminders of things yet to do I notice a picture of me and my first born when he was just a few months old tucked into one of the ribbons.

How is it possible that the little blonde blue eyed boy who I would carry in my Baby Bjorn and later stroll all over Queens, is 14 and getting ready for high school?

I close my eyes and can almost feel myself back in the nursery with the teddy bear wallpaper and the crib with the bedding it took me weeks to pick out. I would rock a sleeping Tom in my arms and marvel at his creamy skin and sweet sleepy smile.

All of a sudden I’m startled out of my trance by a voice that I have not yet become accustomed to.

“Mom”

“Mom”

Who is this man-child with the light mustache and smile full of braces calling my name?

“Mom... dad is going to kill me.”

There is my baby, now 14 and carrying his cell phone. I have a pretty good idea why he is panicking now.

“Oh, no. Not again. Tom it’s only the 15th. How could you exceed your text limit?”

He starts to laugh a bit.

“Well can I help it if I have friends? I need a social life you know. I am a teenager. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” More laughter.

Now I start laughing. “I understand Tom, but that’s it till the fourth of the month.”

“You know Zach has unlimited minutes and he has the iPhone.”

“Well Tom, Mallory has always been a nicer mother than I am. You know that, I know that, Mallory knows that.”

“Ha, Ha, Ha mom. Very funny.” Then he goes off with a combination smile and sulk.

I go back to my computer, relishing that Peter and Lizzy are sleeping and I have a little time to work.

As I start to get engrossed in my latest task, I find myself startled again by Tom.

“Hi Tom, what is it hon? Do you need something?”

My tone is starting to reveal a bit of my impatience. I look at the clock on my computer. Shouldn’t he be in bed soon?

“Uh..no. I forgot to tell you I got a 91 on my math test.”

Oh, that’s great. You must be happy about that. I find myself smiling and happy but still distracted.

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything else honey? I want to try to get a little work done now that Peter and Lizzy are sleeping.”

I’m starting to get more anxious as I remember that my to-do list is a mile long and no matter how much I do it never seems to get shorter.

“No. When do you think Dad is going to get home?”

“I’m not sure. It’s 9:30 now. Probably soon.”

“Do you think he is going to be really mad that I’m over my texting limiting.”

Now I’m getting really annoyed. Doesn’t this kid realize that I have been up since four in the morning and I still have things that need to get done?

"Tom, he will be fine. But you have to get with the program with the phone. If you can’t manage it, we will have to take it away."

“I know, I know.”

I go back to my work.

“Mom do you want to watch Friends with me?”

Now I’m mad. I start to have a conversation with him in my head. How am I supposed to do everything? I’m not a saint you know. Why do you have to need me now and not when I was trying to talk to you a half hour ago?

I open my mouth not sure what I’m going to say, but totally knowing what I want to.

Then I see those big blue eyes staring back at me.

Not much different than when he was just a little baby.

When did I start seeing this sweet boy as one more thing on my list? It hits me that he is 14 and very soon, I will be begging him for the smallest piece of his time.

Life is going so fast. I have become obsessed with getting everything done that I’m starting to forget what is really important. I am taking my precious son for granted.

“Sure Tom.”

We sit and watch a rerun of Friends that we have seen a million times yet we both start laughing hysterically.

My heart starts to melt. Behind the deeper voice and cries for independence he is the same sweet child who needs me. In some ways even more than he did when he was younger.

“Thanks mom.”

“I love you Tom.”

“Love you too.”

All of a sudden my to-do list doesn’t seem so long.

That Which Does Not Kill Us...

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 02:17:00 +0000

I’ve found in my 47 years on this earth that I’m so much stronger and capable than I ever thought.

I thought I’d die of a broken heart the day I had my first miscarriage 16 years ago. But I didn’t.

Three months later, when I miscarried again, the pain was so intense I wondered how I would go on. I did.

Two more miscarriages, fertility tests, and talk about us never having a child were so painful, I wondered what I ever did to deserve this.

But, each day I got up and went on.

A little more than two years after my first miscarriage, we welcomed our first child into the world.

I went through the storm and came out stronger and happier in the end.

LIfe was good.

Two years later found me pregnant with our second baby. We had just closed on our house and my husband was painting the bedrooms in our new home so we could move in the next week.

The bursting of the dot com bubble and a huge layoff meant that our biggest fear had come true. We had a new house, a two year old and I was only half way through a very complicated pregnancy. And my husband had no job.

I had days when I wondered if I would survive, but I did.

My husband got some freelance work, we still had some savings, and by the time our baby daughter was six weeks old my husband had found a new job.

When my daughter was two I found myself sitting at my kitchen table getting the results from her recent MRI.

I prayed the earth would just swallow me up as the doctor started to explain the results of her test. The damage to her brain was severe. Horrendous syndromes with horrible outcomes were being listed as possible causes.

Surely this would end me.

But it didn’t.

It’s not always easy, but Lizzy is still very much with us. We may not have a name for the disorder that wreaks so much havoc on her or know what the future may hold, but we have our daughter.

We even got a bonus baby. Peter was born three years after Lizzy. We got our dream of three children and I felt very fortunate and blessed.

I may be heavier than I ever thought I would be, but I have survived and even thrived under the pressures of life. I feel strong and really capable of dealing with everything.

But then I got a call on Thursday night that really had me questioning just how much I could really take.

It seemed the nursing home my father-in-law is in, because he recently broke his hip, wanted to release him in the next two weeks. He was not ready, and would not be able to go home. He was going to need to stay somewhere.

The options seemed very limited.

The question was posed, can Kathy do it?

I knew I wanted to. I adore my father-in-law and would do anything for him. But, could I really take care of my three kids with a husband who leaves for work around six in the morning and comes home around nine, deal with all the issues Lizzy has, continue to build a business and take care of my father-in-law?

I had my doubts.

I even lost it a bit.

“Joe, I’m not a saint, I’m just a person, I don’t know if I can do this.”

He agreed. This was huge. We were going to have to think about it. I was going to have to think about it.

I called my mom. We went over the logistics of my house and what room my father-in-law would be comfortable in. I thought about it. I could do it.

I was nervous. But I felt that if anyone could figure this out, I could.

I felt strong. Even capable. Imagine that?

How did that happen? How did the girl who thought she couldn’t do anything all of sudden feel like she could figure anything out.

I realized this weekend that all the things I thought I could never survive did not kill me. In fact, it made me that much stronger. Life was that much more precious. My knee-jerk reaction of “I can’t do this” has become, “yes I can.”

As it turned out, it looks like we found a much better option for my dear father-in-law. One that will work much better for everyone, especially him.

But it was great to feel like I could be there for someone who meant so much to me.

The lessons that I thought would end me did anything but. I feel like I have just started.

And for today, it feels good.

My Daughter My Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 00:57:00 +0000

I didn’t know what to expect the other day when we were touring our daughter Lizzy’s new school.

This was a “special” school for children with disabilities so severe that the district school could no longer teach them.

Lizzy hasn’t been learning all year. Her teacher has told us that she frequently “leaves” by getting lost in her imagination. Some days she insists she’s a princess. Other days she’s in frogland. Then there are days she just says nothing.

The tests say her IQ has declined.

I knew the day would come when our district would no longer work for her, so it’s not as if I was shocked. I just hoped it wouldn’t be for a few more years.

Now I was touring a new school with my daughter and mother, and as we entered a classroom,
Lizzy looked at the teacher in the middle of the room and the children listening to her. She walked right up to an empty chair and sat down.

The teacher handed her a sheet with words for the song the class was singing, and she started to sing along.

Another little girl lit up as soon as she saw Lizzy and asked if she could sit next to her.

My daughter sat in the middle of the class and looked as if she completely belonged.

My mom started to cry.

The program director was thrilled and kidded that we were going to have a hard time getting her to leave.

From the time Lizzy was six weeks old, I’d been concerned about her development. Despite all the doctors, therapists, and teachers we’ve seen, no one has been able to clearly diagnose my daughter’s condition.

While I’ve given up hope of getting a permanent answer for what ails my daughter, I’ve learned to take some comfort in the small victories. Here was another example where my daughter’s adaptability provided the answer all of us needed.

The Dishwasher Does Not Like To be Ignored!

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 00:15:00 +0000

Back in November I made the hard decision to unplug my dishwasher. It seemed the best thing to do at the time since being a mom to three, wife to one and a Co-founder of Bonbon Break left little time to write anymore.

At the time I wondered how the dishwasher would take to being ignored. I expected the possessed appliance to show its displeasure by making lots of unexplained noises and lighting up at all hours of the day and night.

Damion did not disappoint me.

Not a day goes by without my crazed appliance showing me its not happy about my decision to ignore it.

In the beginning I didn't pay it much mind. I was far too busy working and getting ready for the holidays and dealing with all the other things life has to offer a busy mom of three.

But lately I have been feeling called back to my little place in cyberspace. For as much as my dishwasher has missed being in the spotlight, I have missed it.

I miss writing. I miss having a place where I can share the funny and not so funny things that happen in our crazy house. I miss the dishwasher.

So, I'm plugging it back in.

Quietly as first.

Without too much fanfare.

I'm back.

I wonder what the dishwasher will think?

Unplugging My Possessed Dishwasher

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 02:12:00 +0000

It is so hard for me to believe that it's been two years since I hit published and started this blog. Thanks to my very possessed dishwasher I have gone from a woman who didn't even have an email address to a woman who now co-owns and edits an online magazine.

Never could I have imagined what starting this blog would mean for me.

I made a promise to myself that each week, come rain, shine or kids throwing up, I would publish one essay a week.

Each time I got a new follower or a new comment I felt as if I won the lottery. I never expected to feel so connected to people I never met in person.

But mostly, I could not believe that anyone would take a minute out of their day to read what I wrote about my life as a mom, wife and of course owner of a crazed appliance.

Me? A writer? Of a Blog?

My kids didn't even know I knew how to work a computer. They were pretty impressed at first and loved when I would put them in the blog. We even celebrated with a cake when I reached 100 followers!

It is with mixed feelings, and a little bit of fear, that I unplug my possessed dishwasher. But, it's time.

For those of you who are regular readers, you know that "Damion" does not like to be ignored. I'm guessing that the repairman will be making a few visits in the weeks to come.

I am also very excited for this new chapter in my life.

Bonbon Break is growing and is such a fun place to hang out and find new sites to explore and enjoy. I love what my partners and I have created over there. If you have not checked it out yet, come on over!

We have a great issue this week full of ideas for the kitchen, family room, bedroom, playroom, mom cave and backyard. Plus, there is my recipe for preparing the one thing that I never see in any magazine or blog: The children! Kinder Souffle: How to prep your kids for Thanksgiving!

Thank you! Your support has always meant so much to me. Feel free to drop me a line either here, at Bonbon Break or at kathyradigan@hotmail.com.

Much love,

Kathy Radigan

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was A Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 23:31:00 +0000

Ever since my partner Val Curtis and I launched our weekly online magazine, Bonbon Break the dishwasher and I have a new routine.

(Forgive the shameless plug!)

Where I once got ready to publish a new essay each Sunday, I now go through my old pieces trying to figure out which one fits the best for the place I'm in this minute of time.

I have to say I enjoy it. It's sort of like going through a box of old pictures. I start to read an essay and I am instantly transported back to the day I wrote it.

This essay, originally titled: The Long Goodbye, was first published in July of 2011. I'm happy to report that Fuzzy, though even older and more frayed than when I first wrote about him, is still going strong. Although Peter doesn't need him as much, often forgetting about him for days at a time.

The hard truth is Fuzzy's days are numbered.

Peter is seven now and desperately trying to be like his older brother. But, every now and then I can still find him sound asleep in his bed, Fuzzy safely in his arms.

Thank you for letting me re-visit this essay.

Watching someone you love get older and change is hard. The obvious question comes to mind, how will you go on without them in your life?

The time has come for our family to face a harsh reality: Fuzzy the Bear isn't looking so good and probably doesn't have much time left.

Fuzzy is the closest companion of our youngest child, Peter. Fuzzy has been a trusted and highly valued member of our family since Peter was nine months old and received him as a Christmas present from my husband's nephew.

At first, Fuzzy was indeed Fuzzy. Fluffy even. He had a big plaid bow around his neck, and our little guy and him were inseparable. The bear was almost as big as Peter was. I loved the peaceful look on my child's face as he would lay in his crib and cuddle and play with his friend.

I totally credit Fuzzy for allowing Peter to sleep through the night and deal with the stress of our family. Things can get pretty crazy around here.

We have gone through the constant ups and downs of having a child with special needs. The ongoing roller coaster of scary tests, scary behaviors, and scary diagnoses being considered and dismissed for our beautiful middle child, Lizzy, has been very difficult for my husband and me. I can only imagine how confusing it must be for both our sons to witness.

Peter was also speech-delayed and having Fuzzy to cuddle and hold made the difficult times a bit easier. Speech, occupational, and physical therapy sessions were a little more manageable if Fuzzy was there. I have to admit there have been plenty of times through the years where I have wished for my own Fuzzy.

Fuzzy has come with us on vacations, daily outings and even two hospital visits. Fuzzy proudly wore scrubs twice when Peter had to have some minor surgery at 11 months and again at 3. He has been returned late at night when left behind at grandma's or lost in the car.

He was even with Peter when he started preschool at two until the school expelled the bear a few months later.

I'm told It was a pretty heated debate among the staff as to who was going to take Fuzzy from Peter the day it was decided that he would have to go it alone so he could learn how to play and communicate with the other toddlers in his speech-delayed class.

Fortunately for us the wonderful head teacher Miss Lara was willing to put up with the two weeks of Peter barely talking to her. The assistant teachers would laugh when Peter would come in all smiles and then just glare at his "once" beloved teacher.

Fuzzy has been washed more times that I can count. It's not unusual for Peter to wait in the laundry room till his friend's "bath" is over. It's not unusual for me to secretly pray that the pillow case I use to wash Fuzzy in will once again protect his aging body from the rigors of the washing machine.

Fuzzy's once fluffy yarn fur is now matted and looks more like a petri dish than a stuffed animal. The plaid bow that once adorned the Bear's neck is nothing more than a memory. But, I suspect that adds to his appeal.

The other day Peter came to my room, crying and saying Fuzzy was broken. I was a little nervous. How would my little guy cope without his dear friend? How could I manage with less sleep than I already get?

Now six, Peter is certainly better prepared to go it alone. Words that were hard to say are coming more easily. Our family is learning how to deal with the uncertainty of Lizzy's special needs. I know Peter could go it alone if need be. He has other animals that would help comfort him as he goes to sleep. But, there is still only one Fuzzy.

I gently took Fuzzy in my hands and gave him a quick Dr. Mommy examination. I noticed that the only thing really broken about Fuzzy, besides the obvious wear and tear from six years of affection, was that his ear was very frayed from where my son fingers him as he lies down to hear a story and fall asleep at night.

"Peter, Fuzzy is not broken, he is just very loved."

"Fuzzy is loved?"

"Yes honey, that's all."

He went to tell his brother his new found knowledge. "Tom, Fuzzy's not broken, he is just loved".

Of course the time is coming when Fuzzy will no longer be there, or even needed. But for now we will both cherish the time we have left. And I'm glad a stuffed animal is all it takes to make the great big world a little more manageable for one little boy.

As always I appreciate the support you give me and my crazed appliance. Don't forget to visit Bonbon Break this week for our special Halloween Issue. We have amazing Halloween themed projects and essays, plus, we are having a fun giveaway/contest each day!

Have a great week!

Happy (almost) Birthday to Me!

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 23:11:00 +0000

Whenever I'm looking for an essay to re-post I always get the strangest feeling when I start reading and I realize that the words I'm staring at are a year old.

How is it possible that time goes this fast?

Here we are a year later and my now 47th birthday is staring me down. 47. Wow.

I look at all that has happened in a year and I'm amazed.

This essay was first published on the dishwasher last year, October 16, 2011. Thanks for letting me re-visit it!

At the end of October, my parents will be celebrating their 48th wedding anniversary. My birthday is the day after. As a little girl I could not understand why people would look at me strangely when I would proudly declare that I was born the day after my parents got married. Or, why my mother was always quick to point out that it was two years after their wedding.

Yes, that means in a few short weeks I will be 46. When I look at the number 46 in relation to me, I just can't quite seem to grasp that I'm "that" old.

There's no way to pretty it up. I may have a kid in first grade and watch the PBS Kids channel, but I'm middle aged.

When you consider that 46 x 2 is 92, I might be even a bit beyond.

"Mom, I just thought of something," announced our 12-year-old,
Tom, a few weeks ago when I was driving him to school.

"What dear?"

"In a few weeks you are going to be 4 years from 50. Isn't that hysterical?"

"Oh, yea, really hysterical. I can't stop laughing!"

Where the heck did the time go? Has it really been 30 years since my Sweet 16 surprise party? It feels like it was just yesterday.

I can still envision the pink rose corsage with the sugar cubes my parents bought me. Or remember how I felt when I went to school and saw the 'Happy Birthday' sign my friends made me.

I was a very innocent 16-year-old. I didn't have my first kiss until the spring of that year. Yet, I do remember it was at 16 when I realized it was official, I was on my way to adulthood. There was no turning back. Some people may have been excited at this prospect, I was terrified.

My dream was to become a singer and actress on Broadway. I wanted to live in Manhattan and had from the time I was a little girl. I saw the skyline all lit up on the few occasions my family would drive through the city to cross a bridge and I was enthralled. I knew in my heart that was where I belonged.

Since I also knew I wanted children one day, I figured at some point I might move back to the suburbs. But, I was adamant... I was not going to ever live on Long Island again.

My plan was that I would marry around age 25 and surely have my first child before I hit the extremely old age of 30. I would effortlessly manage a busy thriving acting career with a very happy home life. Piece of cake.

Ten years later, my 26th birthday found me working in an office job I truly liked and living in the city I loved. My roommate and I had moved into a high rise apartment almost a year before.

I was very excited because it was the first of the five apartments I had lived in that had a dishwasher. I also loved that since we lived on the 26th floor, every night I could look out our window and see the lights of the city.

I had exchanged the dream of an acting career for the reality and joy of paying my bills and eating.

Even though I was four years shy of my 30th birthday, I felt as if my life was starting to take shape. Joe and I had been dating for more than a year, and I was sure that this would be the person I would marry. He had planned a great birthday weekend for me complete with a Broadway show.

Even though I was content to watch others preform, I still felt my creative soul longing to get out. Something felt missing.

I thought of going back to school, and was volunteering at my church's help line calling senior citizens who were shut in. I was content with the decision to stop pursuing an acting career. But at 26, I still had no idea what I wanted to be when I "grew" up.

Fast forward 10 years to when I was six months pregnant with our second child. We had recently moved six blocks from where I grew up, and I was a full-time mommy.

Let me repeat that, I was now living on Long Island only blocks from where I grew up. This was the last thing in the world my 16-year-old self thought would become of me. Yet, I was very happy.

My favorite birthday present was a then two-year-old Tom singing Happy Birthday to me with Joe. I remember that we went out to lunch at Wendy's because that's where Tom wanted to take me, and I was thrilled since I was constantly craving their vanilla Frosties. This craving had nothing to do with me, mind you, and everything to do with the little girl I was pregnant with.

My creative energy was being used raising my son and helping him through his speech delays and suspected learning issues. I was thirty-six, married, a homeowner and a soon to be mom of two. In a few months, I would have the "ideal" family of a boy and a girl. What more could I want?

Occasionally I had thoughts of doing something more, but I was too busy with my life to pay them much mind.

Now weeks away from my 46th birthday, I feel closer to the creative part of myself than I ever have before. Discovering my love of writing a year ago has brought a sense of joy and peace I don't remember having since I was a teenager preforming on stage.

I sit at my computer and let my thoughts take over and form words on the screen. I get excited when the perfect sentence comes to me. It may sound silly or even trite, but I feel alive.

My family is now complete with two boys and a girl. Being the mother to three children, one with very serious issues, takes up most of my energy and time.

But last year when Peter started full-day kindergarten, I found the time to listen to the stirrings my soul. It's a little scary, but also very exciting.

Is it possible to finally find out what you want to be when you grow up at age 46?

Just what will the next 10 years bring? I can't wait to find out.

As always I apprecaite the support you give me and my crazed appliance each week. And, don't forget to visit Bonbon Break
issue 13 will be up and running tomorrow, October 15. We have a great giveaway too, you won't want to miss it!

A Little Cat Named Samantha

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 00:46:00 +0000

Time goes by so quickly. It's hard to believe that it was two years ago when I got a call from my father-in-law that my first "baby," a little cat named Samantha, had died.

It was a strange time in my life since our youngest child had just started kindergarten and after 12 years of never having a moment to myself I now had six hours.

One day I sat down at the computer and wrote about the little cat that got my husband and I ready to be parents. I then decided to use this story to start my blog.

Who would have thought that two years later I would not only be a blogger, but now a Co-Editor/Owner of an online Magazine for women.

It only seems fitting that the same animal that helped me start my career as a mom would indirectly help me start the next chapter of my life.

This essay was originally published in November 2010 on Momster.com, I then posted it on this site last August. Thank you for letting me re-visit it once again.

When my husband and I first thought about starting a family, we decided we would get a cat. We assumed that if we didn't kill the cat, we could probably handle a baby.

Since we lived in Manhattan, we decided to adopt a cat from the ASPCA. Samantha was a cute little thing that was found wandering the streets of New York. We took one look at her sweet face and we were hooked!

Joe and I went predictably crazy over our new addition. Many, many people made fun of how crazy we went over her.

I'll never know why.

Perhaps it was because she had more toys than most children.

Or maybe it was our decision to feed her the pricey speciality cat food that could be found only in pet stores.

But, well we had to do that. The one time Joe had the nerve to pick up a grocery store brand, she picked out each inferior piece and left only the fancy brand in her dish.

Did I forget to mention she was a genius? How could we feed her Tender Vittles when she so clearly was telling us her preference?

Maybe we were a tad obsessive.

It didn't help that poor Samantha had a chronic viral condition, so she frequently got eye and respiratory infections.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit it, but I remember one night at 12:00 a.m. Joe and I got into a cab with our "baby" so we could take her to an all night vet because we were so worried about her.

The poor thing had a plethora of prescription drops and antibiotics. We became quite skilled at getting her to take each and every one, and the skills have been put to good use with three children!

Nights that previously were spent reading or watching a movie were now spent playing with our sweet cat. Joe would take her out into the hallway of our apartment building and run back and forth with her.

We especially loved it when our neighbor’s three-year old son would knock on the door and ask to play with Samantha. She may have looked like an ordinary cat, but to us she was our baby.

She was also a great comfort to us at one of the saddest points in our life.

Each of the four times I miscarried, it was Samantha who would sit with me in the dark as I mourned my loss. Holding her and feeling her warm fur helped with the devastation I felt over our losses.

When we moved to Queens, Samantha kept me company and made the move less traumatic. I could focus on her adjustment to the new house and not think about my own.

Looking back, I crack myself up about just how crazy we went over our cat. But our sweet cat did what we hoped she would do, she helped us get ready to be parents. And, in her own way she made us a family.

A little more than two years after our first miscarriage my husband and I welcomed our first child into the world. If you thought we went nuts over the cat, you can only guess what a fuss we made over our beautiful newborn son.

In the months before Tom was born, I diligently got Samantha ready for the changes that were coming. What I didn't anticipate is that our son would be extremely allergic to our first baby!

Luckily for us, my father-in-law was only too happy to give Samantha a new home. The two of them became great friends for the next 12 years.

This August 30 would have been Samantha's 16th birthday. But last fall, she had to be put to sleep after a long illness.

I always do my best to keep my feelings in check and in control around my kids, but when I got the call that Samantha was gone, I just sobbed. I missed my friend.

I have been blessed with many mentors in my 45 years. People who challenged me to become the person and parent I wanted and still want to be. With the risk of causing my cousin, Donna, a laughter-induced heart attack, I consider Samantha "the cat" one of them.

Samantha got me ready to be a parent like no teacher, parent, or friend could. She gave me first-hand experience in caring and loving something that was totally dependent on me.

I will always cherish the sweet memories of her and how she helped Joe and I get ready for the adventure of raising the three wonderful children we have now.

As always, I thank you for supporting me and the crazed appliance. Be sure to drop by Bonbon Break this week, we have a great issue for you to enjoy!

Meet my teacher...the dishwasher!

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Sun, 30 Sep 2012 22:45:00 +0000

Can you learn from a kitchen appliance? I imagine most people would laugh at this question. After all it is just an appliance.

That is of course unless it's my possessed dishwasher, then you can learn an awful lot.

I realized this last year when it occurred to me that it had been a year since the dishwasher and I met and my lessons began. Now with the dishwasher and I coming up on our second anniversary it seemed like a fitting time to re-visit this essay. Especially when I think of how much my very silly, very possessed dishwasher really has brought into my life!

This post was originally published September 18, 2011 under the name, Lessons I learned From My Dishwasher.

I can't believe it, but it's been almost a year since I went to take a rare nap one afternoon and woke up to a mini disaster.

I've always had a hard time sleeping, even as a child. As a mother to three children, all who have some challenges, it's almost impossible. My girlfriends kept telling me that once all three kids were in school full time, I should get some sleep. It seems easy and logical, but how?

Experience has taught me when I let my guard down for a minute, that is the time the nurse calls me to pick up a sick child, or one of our parents is having a medical emergency or I oversleep and miss the bus dropping off one of the kids.

But a year ago, a miracle occurred and I managed to fall asleep--for almost an hour.

As I went to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee before the kids got home, I heard what I thought was water running. As I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by a flood of almost biblical proportions coming from my eight year-old dishwasher.

The water wouldn't stop. Just when I thought I had it cleaned up, the dishwasher would start up again. Water was seeping into the basement. I was running up and down the stairs. It was a mess.

Frantically I called my dad and asked him to bring towels because I had used my large supply up. Finally it occurred to me to turn off the water. My dad, who is so proficient at fixing nearly everything that my husband calls him "Yoda" declared the dishwasher officially dead. Joe and I bought a new one the next day.

My brand new and not inexpensive dishwasher started acting up the night it was installed. It worked perfectly when the men set it up, but about three hours it's true demonic personality took over. It would beep and hum and light up like a Christmas tree. This would occur at all hours of the day and night. There was no pattern to when it would work or just beep and blink.

The repairman came once, twice, three times. The dishwasher worked perfectly each time he left. Then once his truck pulled out of our driveway, all hell would break loose.

After the fourth time and a new part it finally settled down. It sometimes still acts up but I now know how to calm the savage beast.

As I was thinking about my soon to be one-year anniversary with my possessed appliance, I realized that as well as being a great name for my blog, this silly dishwasher has taught me some very important lessons.

First lesson: Do not overload the machine.

This seems pretty obvious, but somehow it's a lesson I never seem to learn with both myself and my dishwasher. It's just so easy too overload myself, without thinking. The problem is, just like the dishwasher, when I stuff too much in at one time, there is always something that gets neglected. Most of the time it's me.

This can be verified by any doctor or dentist that I make an appointment with and then cancel because something has come up.

Second lesson: The dishwasher needed to be on level ground so that it could work properly.

This was not discovered till our second repair appointment. Apparently our kitchen floor is not level. This meant the dishwasher was not balanced properly.

I too need to be on level ground to be there for my family.This is easier said than done. Balance has never been my forte in life.

This was confirmed one Saturday a few years ago. It was an extremely crazy time in our lives. Our daughter, Lizzy, who has a undiagnosed brain disorder, was having symptoms that was setting off all kinds of scary bells to some of the top specialists in Manhattan. I was getting calls at odd hours of the day and night scaring the life out of me. Some life threatening conditions were being thrown around. We were terrified.

I was also dealing with every other kind of crisis one could deal with at the same time. Parents being sick, the other children's issues rearing their head and the middle of the holiday season.

My husband was out getting my mini-van repaired because I sheered off my passenger side mirror when I hit a repair truck while I was running from picking up Peter at pre-school, only to find out that Lizzy had to be picked up at her school because she was throwing up. Thankfully my mirror was the only thing damaged that day. Joe called to let me know what was going on with the van.

I'm pretty calm and pride myself on not really loosing it too often with my kids. I accomplish some of this by having spent the equivalent of a small house on therapy. The time I spend talking to someone who is paid to listen really helps keep me balanced. Of course with everything going on I barely had a chance to breathe not to mention keeping something like a therapy appointment.

That Saturday I was snapping at the kids in a way I just hadn't before. I overheard Tom pick up the phone and say to his father:"Quick dad get home. Mom has flipped."

This leads nicely to my third lesson from the dishwasher: If something is wrong, make noise.

Unfortunately my family does not have the power to read my mind, as much as I would like them to. If I need help I need to tell someone. Letting my husband know wouldn't be a bad idea.

Unless there's a flood in my kitchen or some other crisis, I really hate asking for help. Being a bit of a control freak I find it easier to do the job myself rather than explain how to do it.

I'm working on this. I have been pleasantly surprised to find out that I'm not the only human in the world who can make dinner or brush Lizzy's hair.

I love being a mother. It truly is something I adore doing and I feel as if I'm really good at it. I adore my children and my husband. But, I'm a human as much as I would like to believe I'm not. I need to do a much better job of caring for myself.

Who would of have thought that one possessed dishwasher could teach me so much?

As always, thank you for supporting me and my crazed appliance! Don't forget to check out the new issue of Bonbon Break
coming out Monday, October 1. Let me know what you think and what your favorite article is!

Much love,

Kathy Radigan

　
　

Do I have A Job For You!

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Sun, 23 Sep 2012 23:56:00 +0000

Most Sundays when I know I'm going to be "hitting up the well" of my past essays, I usually have a pretty good idea of what story I will be using.

There is always something going on in our happy but very nutty corner of the world and I have no problem finding a post that relates to where I'm at.

But, I have to say, today I'm drawing a blank. It's not that nothing is going on. Because, lets face it, with three children, one husband and a possessed dishwasher there is always something going on in this corner of the world.

It's just I can't seem to find anything that is really saying, "Pick me, pick me.." (Yes, my essays speak to me, what yours don't?)

So it seemed like a great time to re-visit a post that I feel sums up the almost 14 years of on the job training I have received as a mom.

This post was originally posted on the dishwasher July 24, 2011 under the name "Best Management Training On Earth."

The other night I was so tired, and our youngest, Peter, was just not going to sleep. It was one in the morning, and I was desperate. I brought out the big gun.

"Peter, that's it. I'm putting on All the Presidents Men".

"No mommy. No All the Presidents Men," came his plea for mercy.

I was too tired for mercy.

Yes, my secret is out. When I can't get my youngest to sleep, I bring him into my room (if he's not there already) and put on a movie that's guaranteed to bore him to sleep. All the Presidents Men is my strongest weapon. If I'm feeling a little more patient, it's Julie and Julia or Field of Dreams.

But this was a night for a political thriller.

Before Woodward met Bernstein, Peter was asleep.

I've developed such a strange skill set in 12 years of motherhood that I started thinking how I could possibly define it if I was ever looking for work in the corporate world again. How could I possibly sum up all the creative problem solving I've done as a mom? Is there a position where I could use all these skills?

As I was considering my options, I thought about CEO of a Fortune 500 company or perhaps Secretary of State.

Yes, Secretary Clinton's impressive resume includes turns as senator, first lady, lawyer, and congressional aide on her way to becoming the nation's chief diplomat. Admittedly, I've been none of these.

But, how much do you want to bet that when it comes down to the nitty-gritty negotiations she has to do with world leaders, she relies on her time as a mom as much as any other position she's held?

Who does more day-to-day negotiations than a mother? Every day we have to get our little darlings to do things that they just don't want to do. Eat with a fork, use the potty, not put their fingers in their noses, and that's just for starters.

When my oldest, Tom, was four, he refused to go into a Friendly's restaurant because he feared they might play music that he found painful to his ears. I spent almost an hour, slowly and carefully getting him from the car to the restaurant, determined that he not let fear rule his life. Now it may not be the same as getting Middle Eastern heads of state to the negotiating table, but, it's pretty close.

Thankfully I had my own dad to encourage me and stay with a then one-year-old Lizzy while she slept in the car. But, every good executive has assistants to help her out with difficult assignments.

I have made burping noises while cutting fingernails so little people don't get freaked out but don't have cat claws either. I have sung, ate and swallowed every animal in "I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly" to entertain children while we wait for what seemed like hours in doctors' offices. I even came up with a story of a princess who learned to get out of the pool without screaming, so I could avoid a meltdown and get everybody out of said pool in one piece.

I am no pushover either. I have slashed TV, iPod, and movie privileges when the situation called for it, and I did not back down. If I could withstand the furor of a teenager, I'm pretty sure I could handle a board room of executives.

We haven't even spoken about the multi-tasking required to diaper a baby, contain a toddler, and make an appointment with the pediatrician all at the same time as you look over a picture book with your eldest child lest they feel left out. It's perfect preparation for a board meeting.

Motherhood may be the best training ground we have to develop strong leaders and heads of industries.

If there are any future leaders who don't have time right now to start their own families, yet would like a crash course in a) negotiating, b) improving productivity, and c) operating on time and within budget, I will gladly let them spend time with my family. Come spend a few days being in the trenches of motherhood with me. It's a sacrifice I would make for the good of my country.

As always I thank you for stopping by the dishwasher. You will never know how much it means to me. And don't forget the 10th issue of Bonbon Break will be out tomorrow, September 24. We have some wonderful recipes, articles, ideas for kids and two great crafts written just for us to help get you ready for the fall decorating season. Let me know what you think!

The Little Girl Who Roared

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 00:22:00 +0000

Today my family and I went to buy some apples at the local apple orchard. On first glance I'm sure we looked like just any other suburban family out on a beautiful fall Sunday.

Unless you were to hear our daughter roaring.

Yes, today Lizzy has decided that she is a tiger. She was also cracking herself up. We are not quite sure what was making her laugh but when she is giggling non stop it's pretty hard not to laugh along with her.

Life with our Lizzy is a trip alright. Some days we can go with it and laugh at her unique way of dealing with the world. Today was one of those days.

Other times I get frustrated that I can't reach her. I get angry that her brain is damaged enough for five MRI's to pick it easily up yet not one specialist has ever been able to tell us what it actually is. There is no blueprint to treat it. No ribbon for us to wear. We just treat it symptom by symptom.

Today was one of those days too.

As we were walking with our Tiger Girl I noticed that our two sons were smiling at her. My husband was enjoying his time with his family not minding that his daughter was roaring. I was more concerned with picking out the right apples to make a pie with than with my daughters unconventional behavior.

We have all developed a quiet acceptance of the situation we are in. Lizzy is Lizzy. Impossible to define. Impossible not to love.

I started to think about this essay that I wrote back in January and it seemed so fitting to re-visit it today.

This piece was originally titled " Life Lessons," and was published on the dishwasher January 1, 2012:

When I was a young girl, one of my favorite places was the woods in my back yard. Although, the word "woods" might have been a bit of a stretch.

We lived in a small Cape Cod in Levittown, New York. The woods probably weren't much more than four or five trees in a row behind the fence that backed Hempstead Turnpike. It wasn't exactly Little House on the Prairie, but for a little girl of six or seven, it may as well have been.

In my woods, I was free to go off into the wonderful and exciting adventures I would imagine without anyone to interrupt or make fun of my daydreaming.

I could pretend to be married with my own family. And for the record, I was the kind of mom who let her child do whatever she wanted to do and did not make her share with her sisters or clean her room. I would let her have 1million Barbies, too. Maybe even a dream house.

Or I could be a famous singer living in Manhattan, wearing beautiful clothes just like Barbie did, going to exciting parties, and travelling to far-off exotic places.

Sometimes I would just talk to the trees and grass and flowers and wonder what it was like to grow in the ground or be a leaf on the tallest tree.

I lived in my head a lot. I would go off whenever I wanted to escape, whether or not I could physically leave.

I was the kind of child that preferred to be alone. I was happier in a world I could create and control.

As I got older and realized that being in my own world made me different and sometimes the target of ridicule, I realized I had to choose. I left the world of make-believe. My goal in life became to fit in and look "normal."

It was not easy. I really liked my own world, but I knew I could not live in my head and fit in with the cool people, if I continued to live there. I made a conscious effort to stay in the here and now and live in the real world.

Blending into the crowd was my main objective. Creativity and individuality became something I actively shunned. I wanted to be like everyone else.

My "odd" mind that saw things differently and went in directions that others didn't was a source of embarrassment and shame.

I desperately wanted to be like the girls who didn't have dyslexia and could go to class without getting lost, or read without flipping letters and words. I wanted to comb my straight hair in the mirror and put on my lip gloss as I chatted easily about boys with my friends.

And, I succeeded. By the time I got to high school I reserved my creativity for acting class and even then was careful how much of that side of me I revealed.

I may not have been exactly the most popular girl, but I was happy to hang out with my choir friends and managed to look pretty much like any other girl in my high school.

As I got older and left acting for the joys of eating and paying my own bills, I started to blend in more and more with the other young women who lived in the City. I was content to sit in an audience and let others perform.

I was thinking of this the other day as I was walking out of a mall with my daughter. Lizzy was wearing her new flower-adorned fairy crown and flower headband. She held her Disney Princess flower wand and happily walked a few paces ahead of me, clearly in her own world.

She would have put on her new fairy wings and the three princess dresses she just bought, too, if I wasn't such a mean mother and made her wait until we got home.

If Lizzy was just a small girl of five or six, this may just go unnoticed or looked upon as something cute. But Lizzy is days away from her 10th birthday and could easily pass for 13. She is tall and stunning and would draw looks just because of this, but her need to be anywhere but the real world paired with her developmental delays and speech difficulties draws people's attention whenever we're in public.

As I was walking out of the mall with my beautiful enigma and my own mother I couldn't help but see the irony.

The girl who so desperately wanted to live in a world of her own but chose the real world because of her equally desperate need to fit in gave birth to a daughter who because of her yet-to-be diagnosed neurological disorder was so clearly entrenched in her own space and didn't care who knew it.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

At that moment I imagined Lizzy as a yet-to-be born angel looking over the world with God to pick her mother.

There are millions of women who are comfortable nonconformists and embrace their originality. Instead she chose me--a woman who for years tried and succeeded to hide her creative soul.

I always thought God had a sense of humor. I know Lizzy does.

Lizzy's challenges are many and any parent would feel overwhelmed at times and wonder why their child had to endure all that my daughter does.

I hate to admit it, but for the past few weeks as she has gone through an exceptionally manic period, I have felt sorry for myself. Why me? Why her?

It is not uncommon for people to tell a parent of a special needs child that God picks special people for special children. I have even gotten the "You must be a saint" comment more than once.

Somehow when we look at children with special needs, we cast the parent as a hero or someone who is saving their poor disabled child. In reality, Lizzy is saving me.

Lizzy shows me everyday that it's OK to be who you are. If you want to wear three crowns and six dresses, so be it. I talk in funny voices and use the creativity I was born with in order to communicate with her. I laugh a lot.

I sing her songs and she begs for more. I drape a piece of fabric on her head and declare her a bride, and she runs to the mirror to admire herself. I play with dolls or listen to her play with spoons or pencils and see myself as I once did.

I'm beginning to see the wisdom of why I was chosen to guide Lizzy in this lifetime. Who better to help and understand a child who's mind can't help but live elsewhere than a person who has intimate knowledge of that world?

And who better to help a mother who was never comfortable with her own creativity find it again than a little girl who can't help but live in a fantasy world?

Thank you so much for your constant support of me and my dishwasher! Don't forget to stop by Bonbon Break this week. Our 9th issue will be out tomorrow, September 17, and it's a great one! Have a wonderful week.

Much love,
Kathy Radigan

Daddy's Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 00:25:00 +0000

Growing up this backyard was my playground. It was also the site of many arguments over the weekly torture exercise my dad would put my sisters and I through, otherwise knows as mowing the lawn.

Being a girl was no excuse. And my mother was of no help since she frequently told us how she mowed the lawn even when she was nine months pregnant with each one of us.

My sisters and I grew up with gardening being a natural part of our life. I don't remember a time my parents weren't planting, weeding, tilling, soil testing, preparing a bed or cleaning up a bed. It was a normal part of our lives. Some parents played tennis, some golfed, ours gardened.

Compost piles and organic gardening were terms I knew way before it was all the fashion. I really wish I could fully explain what it was like driving the 5 hours home from my uncles dairy farm in the family Volvo with a few bags of cow manure in the trunk. Oh, those were good times.

This is all that is left of the vegetable beds now. My dad only plants some tomatoes, onions and garlic now, as well as his herbs. When I was growing up this was filled with vegetables that my sisters and I would have to bring to all the neighbors. My parents came up with more ways to eat eggplants and zucchini then anyone else I knew. We were eating fried green tomatoes long before the Movie.

My parents canned, preserved and pickled everything they could. I'm pretty sure we were the only family in the neighborhood with our own crock for making sauerkraut, of course from the cabbages we grew.

Nowadays the garden is home to flowers, bushes and trees. When my sisters and I gather here with our own families the yard is filled with children running and playing. My parents are in their glory!

As a young girl I couldn't wait to grow up and leave my childhood home. Today I live six blocks from my parents. My kids go to the same schools that I did and there is a feeling of continuity and community that I never thought I would crave so much.

I love that my children love to play here and visit with my parents. I love remembering the parties that have been thrown and the conversations that have been had over ice tea and plantings.

But most of all I love that my dad took the time to take pictures of his garden just because I asked him too.

If you are dropping by from Bonbon Break welcome! So glad to have you here.

Oh Happy Day

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 23:50:00 +0000

Earlier this week I was going through Facebook when I saw a post that made me smile and laugh. It was a picture of a mom jumping for joy. In front of her were three little boys sporting the most pitiful looks on their faces. They were all dressed for the first day of school, with their freshly laundered shirts and new backpacks in tow. The caption on the bottom read: First Day Of School!

I was about to press "like" when I noticed that the actual status was from a mom who could not understand why so many moms feel this way. It was not written with any judgment against those of us who have been counting down the days till school will start. It was just an honest admission that she enjoyed her children being around and wasn't happy that they would be at school.

I dare say I did have a stab of guilt that I had already purchased my party hat and confetti for the First Day of School. I even have been gearing up to perform my stirring rendition of "Oh Happy Day."

Does this mean I don't love and cherish my children? No, of course not. Nor did I think the Facebook Status was trying to tell me that was the case. It was just one mom's honest, and brave confession that she was going to miss her kids.

As I was thinking of what to post this week, I started going through some of my older posts. I realize I've been doing that a lot this summer, but this posting from the dishwasher on September 4, 2011, seemed appropriate.

This year our summer was a bit different. Bonbon Break was launched in July, I went to BlogHer in the beginning of August, and I answered many a pleas of "Mom come here" with "One minute. Mommy's working on her media empire."

But we also had fun times in the pool, laughter over ice cream, and days where no one got out of their pajamas until noon.

I also have so many of the same feelings today that I expressed a year ago. Thanks for letting me revisit one of my favorite posts.

The mood in our house right now reminds me of my all-time favorite Staples TV commercial. The spot goes back about 20 years and features the festive Christmas song,"It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year."

The commercial features an ecstatic father shopping for school supplies with his children. The children are slowly following behind, looking as if they are headed for death row.

The voice-over in the commercial says, "They're going back!"

Tuesday is the first day of school in our little corner of the world. The first bus will arrive around 7:15, and off Lizzy will go to third grade. The second bus shows up at 7:35 to take my baby Peter away to first grade.

Less than an hour later, I'll take my oldest, Tom, to middle school for seventh grade.

Oh Happy Day!

Or is it?

Now I realize that if you happen to be reading this while nursing one baby and holding another little one out of harm's way with your leg the idea of six hours without children sounds heavenly.

I'm not going to lie. It ain't bad.

But it wasn't what I thought it would be either.

I would talk to my friends whose children were at school full time and be envious. They would talk about being busier than they ever thought they would be, and I would smile and nod. Deep down I would think they really had the life. No children home, the ability to shop and do errands without anybody crying, melting down, or asking for Oreos.

I would usually have to cut short the phone call or visit. I either had to pick someone up from preschool or rescue someone from the top bunk bed because it seemed like a good idea to climb up but not so much fun climbing down.

Last year Peter started full-time kindergarten. I had visions of long lunches, long workouts at the gym, cleaning rooms that haven't been cleaned since I had him in 2005.

Turns out, my friends were right. Those six hours go fast!

With the start of school comes all that homework. I'm not talking about the children's homework. I fully accept my role as homework cop. I'm grateful that I'm the one who gets to torture them and go over their weekly spelling lists.

I'm talking about the mommy homework.

There's an endless series of forms to fill out and notices to keep track of for three kids, in three different schools. Then I have to get prescriptions for all three kids for occupational and physical therapy. After that I have to trek back to the doctors office because the original dates on the prescriptions were wrong.

Perhaps the biggest assignment is delivering the EpiPen, Benadryl, and inhaler to the nurse at Tom's school to treat emergency flare-ups of Tom's allergies and asthma.

Did I mention the notes from therapists and teachers? What about the endless teacher conferences? Or the stream of checks for PTA dues, class dues, gifts for teachers, class trips, subscriptions for various class magazines, and a million other things.

I'm tired just thinking of what's in store.

Next come the phone calls I dread.

I have to say I really enjoy the summer break from the panic I feel each time the phone rings. Once school starts all that changes. Now when the phone rings, I have a pretty decent chance of finding out that someone bumped their head, fell asleep in the middle of class, or is having an allergic reaction.

The one I dread most is the yo-yo syndrome. This is when you send your little darling to school and the nurse calls to tell you that the child who looked perfectly healthy two hours earlier while he was torturing his brother is now sick as a dog.

Sometimes I get to enjoy a little pocket of time. I was able to start my blog once all three kids were in school, and I love being a full-fledged mommy blogger. I even have had the occasional long lunch or coffee date with a friend. It's times like this that I feel extremely blessed and grateful for the life I have.

I like the crazy runaround pace of being an at home mom. Part of me is just wired for chaos. My house is cleaner when I have 10 minutes to clean it rather than when I have three hours.

The one real downside is that I'm going to miss my kids.

Please don't tell them that. It will spoil my image. But I had a wonderful summer with them, especially my oldest, Tom.

For the first time in six years, Tom didn't go to the full-day summer camp the school district has for children who need year-round academic support. His dyslexia always made him eligible to attend, and he always enjoyed it. He would spend the morning in the typical day camp and the afternoon working on his academic issues.

Tom did so well in sixth grade he was no longer eligible. While Lizzy and Peter were off to camp having a ball, I had Tom all to myself. For the first time since he was a baby I had some real one-on-one time with him. I loved it.

We would spend the morning walking with my dad, and then he would swim with friends or just hang out with them. Some days we would go for sushi or to the movies. I saw The Planet of Apes, Captain America, and The Zookeeper. All were movies I would never have attended had I not had a 12-year-old boy. I had a blast.

Now it's all over. There are school supplies to separate and put in backpacks, pencils to sharpen, notes to write to teachers, and chaos to deal with.

As much as I love to complain, I am eternally grateful for my beautiful family.

But as Peter is now asking for popcorn for the 20th time in five minutes, the thought that I may be able to finish a thought come Tuesday has me agreeing with the Staples commercial: It is the most wonderful time of the year!

As always I thank you for stopping by and supporting the dishwasher. It means more to me than you will ever know. And, for a shameless plug, check out the new edition of Bonbon Break
Thanks again!

Another Day In Paradise

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 00:42:00 +0000

The stomach bug that has gone around our house for the last week is just about over and we are all starting to feel like ourselves again.

Our youngest did just throw up five minutes ago but I'm really hoping that has more to do with all the cake he ate while we were celebrating my husbands birthday today and not a repeat of last week.

As I have been experiencing the craziness that is our life this week I was reminded of this post. It perfectly sums up so many of my days that even though I wrote it in March of 2011 it still is as relevant today as it was then. It was originally published on this site under the name, More Coffee. Amen.

Tuesday was like most days: I woke up around 4:30, had a cup of coffee, and glanced at the paper my husband left on the kitchen table.

I did my mom check of the backpacks, wrote the notes for the kids' teachers, and put snacks into the bags of my second grader and kindergartner.

Usually, I shower and get dressed. But, I was so sleepy that I went back to bed.

I never worry about going back to bed. I have an internal clock that wakes me when I need to get up. If that fails, my husband is usually up around 5:30-6:00 so he can catch his train. It's a no-fail system.

Except for Tuesday.

I awoke with a pleasant feeling from a dream with my husband. (I think George Clooney was in the dream too, but, don't tell my husband.)

Then I see the clock on the TV--6:55.

My sleepy brain quickly wakes up. The internal mom list goes off in my head. Lizzy's bus will be here at 7:25... Peter's at 7:35... What day is it? Tuesday. Early chorus rehearsal for Tom. He has to be in by 7:45.

No one is up.

This is not good.

"Joe. You picked a Tuesday to forget to set your alarm" was the loving way I woke my husband.

"OK. Everybody wake up," I yell as I throw on my clothes and splash water on my face. No time for even the smallest amount of makeup. I don't even have time to comb my hair.

I wake my special-needs daughter, which can be tricky.

"Lizzy, we have to get up, now. We're late. Come on honey." I put a warm cloth on her face, direct her to the bathroom, get her clothes, get her dressed.

No time for her to do it herself today. Quickly, quickly. I help her put the leggings on her long legs that I am very envious of.

"Lizzy, we'll wear the pink dress today," I say in my cheery, try-not-to-panic, mommy voice.

"Pink dress," she replies.

Now her hair.

"That hurts," she says in a pretty loud voice. I know what's coming next.

"I live in fairy land" in an even louder voice.

"Lizzy, no fairy land, the bus is going to be here."

I rush to the kitchen and quickly give her some juice and her medications. I say to myself, 1 pink pill, 1/2 a green pill.

"Do you want some cereal?"

"Yes."

I get two bowls and fill with Cheerios. Milk for her, no milk for Peter.

I now get Peter, my youngest up.

"Wakey, wakey, we are in a rush. We have to move now. The bus will be here soon."

"I don't want to go to school. I want to stay with you." His new morning saying.

"Peter, we are going to school." This is said in my I've-had-enough mommy voice.

"I want something to eat," another new phrase we say a lot.

"I have cereal at the table. Sit next to Lizzy."

"I don't want cereal. I want something to eat."

"Peter, this is not a diner. We have cereal today or nothing."

"OK mommy." I love that kid.

Now I am running around and yelling at my oldest to get ready.

"I can't wake up mom. I am sooo sorry."

"No sorry, no sorry, just wake up." This is said in my I-wonder-how-much-I-could-sell-you-for mommy voice.

The clock says 7:20.

Wait outside with Lizzy for her bus.

"Princess Lizzy, your chariot awaits," is the greeting she gets from the aide on her bus. I smile and say a quick hello to both him and the bus driver. Lizzy smiles, kisses me from the window with the help of the bus aide. And she is off.

One down.

Now I check Peter. His coat is on. Great. Yell at oldest again.

"Thomas, you are going to chorus rehearsal whether you are dressed or not. For all that is holy, please move your tail." (I didn't really say tail. I'm a mom, not a saint.)

Now I wait outside with Peter. He is pretty happy, even though he was carrying on 10 minutes ago that he was going back to bed. I like that about him. His bus comes. Get him on the bus.

"Bye mommy. I love you."

My day is made! We blow a kiss to each other.

Two down.

"Joe since your car is blocking mine, can you take Tom to chorus?"

"I'm leaving now." Mind you he is in his underwear.

"That's fine honey." 18 years of marriage, I know when to say something and when not to.

Five more minutes they are off.

I herd them off to the door as if they are cattle.

"Remember, I have my club today, I need to be picked up at 5:00."

"Yes, I know, have a good day."

"You too, mom. I love you."

I adore that kid.

My husband and I share a very quick kiss.

"I drop him off at the front for Chorus, right" my husband says getting into the car.

"Yes. Goodbye, I love you" I yell from my front door.

"I love you too."

I love that man.

Everybody's out. I pour more coffee in my Mom cup.

Amen.

Thank you so much for you support of me and my dishwasher! Don't forget to check out the new issue of Bonbon Break which comes out tomorrow. We have some wonderful articles this week exploring the theme of Changing Gears. You don't want to miss it!

Rest...Ha!

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 00:54:00 +0000

I had very grand plans of writing a new essay this week. After all, I have been neglecting the dishwasher for my new baby, Bonbon Break and the guilt is kicking in.

Plus I fear the wrath of the crazed appliance.

My plans began to derail yesterday when our youngest child threw up all over the floor moments before we were going to go out.

No big deal, I'm a veteran of more illness than I care to remember. I got out my Lysol, cleaned up a crying Peter and canceled our plans.

I didn't think too much more of it till a few hours later I came down with the dreaded bug.

Well, lets just say I got out my Lysol, cleaned my crying self up and went to bed.

Sort of.

Very quickly I realized the same thing I did back in January when this post was first published; Mommies Don't Get Sick Days!

I'm in bed with an extremely sore throat. I can barely talk. I keep trying to reach the office to let them know I won't be in today. But I can't seem to get through.

I'm in a full-blown panic because I want to go back to bed, but I have to reach my office to let them know I need a sick day.

Then I wake up.

This is the recurring dream I've had since I left my office job 13 years ago for life as a stay-at-home-mom.

As I was waking up from my familiar dream last night I started to feel relieved that, yes, it was only a dream.

But that feeling was short lived because as I opened my eyes, I saw my darling six-year-old Peter standing over me.

It was 6:30 in the morning.

"Mommy, I want sushi."

"Peter," I croak in a voice that is better-suited for a 1-900 number and not a mom of three. "Mommy is sick, go downstairs and watch Nick Jr."

"Mommy, I want breakfast."

"Mommy, I need food."

"Go into the cabinet... and get some cereal. Daddy will... get some muffins in a minute."

I turn to my husband who I know is awake even though he is pretending to be asleep.

"Joe... Please... muffins... for... kids. I'm sick." Each word is excruciating to get out.

I was glad it was Saturday so I could finally get some rest. I have had the same cold that has kept my house a revolving door of germs.

Since the kids went back to school after the holiday break almost two weeks ago, at least one has been home every day. I thought it was all over Wednesday when all three finally got on a bus. They looked healthy, and I was glad to say goodbye and blow kisses at the bus window.

The fact that it was Lizzy's birthday and I would have to go to school to bring a snack and read a book for her special day was fine. I could rest afterwards. Joe even took the day off. I had help. Life is good.

Although, I did pounce on Joe with a Ha! When he suggested that maybe he shouldn't go to Lizzy's class because he thought he was coming down with a sinus infection.

"You have got to be kidding. I have been sick for two weeks. I'm going. You can go."

The poor guy didn't stand a chance.

With our birthday duties all done, I finally got to slip under the covers. I was good to go until 2:30 when the little people started coming home. Plus Joe was home. He even brought me a cold tablet and tucked me into our bed.

Life is good, all is right with the world.

That was until the phone rang.

Lizzy, the same child we left only two hours ago smiling and happy to be celebrating her birthday with the great kids and teachers in her small special needs class was throwing up.

Joe and I fly out the door.

Poor Lizzy can't catch a break.

There she is in her adorable pink sweater that she wore for her birthday, her 'Everyday Tiara' lopsided on her head as she looks up to see us.

Then the vomiting starts again.

We call the doctor because I'm worried that this new symptom may mean something more sinister is going on.

She looked pitiful. She just laid her head on my lap and slept as we drove from her school to the doctor's office.

Once the doctor's visit is over, but not until she threw up three more times in their office, we get yet another diagnosis of a sinus infection. We walk out with yet another prescription.

We get Lizzy settled in at home and already she looks better.

Now I'm sick, and stressed out over the day's excitement.

Lizzy is a trooper. She started to perk up once she got home and could put on her fairy wings. She even had some pizza and cake later with her brothers and my parents.

But now it was finally Saturday. I was free.

I survived the two weeks. I could now have my reward. Being sick in bed without my ever-present responsibilities looming over my head. My partner, best friend, and husband was home. Saturday. Mom heaven.

But there he was. My adorable Peter relentlessly trying to get me out of bed.

"Mommy, I don't want daddy's breakfast. I want yours."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I could hear Joe laughing next to me. I knew he was listening to the hounding I was getting.

"Peter... please honey... I really need to rest."

"Peter, daddy will get some muffins from Dunkin' Donuts. Let mommy sleep," comes the authoritative voice of Joe that the kids call the mean-daddy voice.

I slip into the abyss once again.

Sweet slumber.

But not for long.

"Mommy."

"Mommy."

"Mommy."

"What... is... it... Peter."

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"I love you mommy."

"I love you too."

Now I'm feeling guilty. The poor thing just wants his mother. I remember that feeling too. I also make a mental note to call and thank my mother for not eating her young. I know my sisters and I tortured her when she was sick, just as my son was torturing me now.

"Mommy."

"Yes baby." I now use the sweetest mommy voice I can croak out for my sweet child who just wants to cuddle with his mommy.

"Come walk with me to the kitchen and get me something to eat"

"Joe. Get... up... and take him with you before... I sell him." I croak out before I just pass out and go back to sleep.

It is a hard pill to swallow but I realize why I keep having my recurring dream. There is nobody to call to let them know I won't be in work today.

Mommies don't get sick days.

As always, thank you for your constant support of me and my dishwasher! I also want to thank you for visiting and supporting my new baby, Bonbon Break. Our new issue comes out tomorrow and has such great pieces all centering on the theme of New Beginnings! Check it out!!

A Trip to NoKidland

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 00:07:00 +0000

Well the dishwasher and my family survived my absence while I was at BlogHer last week!

Val and I had so much fun meeting everyone and showing off our "baby," BonbonBreak.com. But, boy it's been over a week and I'm still tired. My feet have yet to recover. I forgot what it was like to wear heels all day.

This mom/work thing is not for the faint of heart. I haven't had to straddle two different worlds before. When my husband and I had our children I had the opportunity to leave my job and completely immerse myself in the mom role.

Now, not unlike an actor who joins a new cast after spending years on one loved and familiar show, I have to learn a whole new role.

Will I be able to cut it? Can I recreate myself at the age of 46?

Funny enough, these were the same fears that I had when I started on my motherhood journey 13 years ago.

With this new chapter of my life opened and waiting to be discovered, it seemed like the perfect time to re-visit a piece I did last year after Joe and I had the chance to get a way for a few days last March.

This piece was originally published on the dishwasher March 13, 2011 under the title, "No Place Like Home." It is by far my most visited post. Thanks for letting me go back in time.

For a few days this week, I visited a place I haven't been in years... NoKidLand.

For four nights I slept in a bed with my husband with no children trying to sneak in between us. We even had a chance to share a kiss without anyone claiming we had emotionally scarred them for life.

No one woke me at 4:30 with a box of cereal or requests for toast, with butter. At no time did anyone spit their food in my hand or give me a half eaten apple to throw out for them.

It was heaven. It was blissful. It was the life my husband and I shared for almost six years.

We lived in my favorite place in the world, New York City. Although our one bedroom apartment wasn't large, it was on the 26th floor. I could look out my window and see the lights of the city, and it always thrilled me.

My husband and I had only ourselves to worry about. We took long walks on Madison Avenue or through Central Park on weekends. If we wanted to go to a movie or out to dinner we did. We had no responsibilities beyond our jobs and our cat.

Funny thing though, as much as I enjoyed our life, I wanted more. I desperately wanted to go to KidLand. I would look enviously at women who pushed baby carriages or were obviously pregnant.

Manhattan is famous for beautiful shops filled with designer clothing, jewelry and shoes, but I would walk past the trendy stores and instead drool over the baby shops, the maternity stores, the toy stores.

When three years into our marriage I found out I was pregnant I was overjoyed. I felt as if I was given the keys to a world I always wanted to enter. Our apartment barely had enough room for our cat, my husband, and myself, but I started planning for where our new baby would sleep.

I even took a certain amount of pleasure from having to throw-up while walking down a city street with my husband. We were going to have a baby.

When at 10 weeks we found ourselves at our obstetrician's office looking at a sonogram with no heartbeat, I was devastated. I still remember the day I had my D&C. My husband and I praying together in a small room that tried to be homey with dried flowers which only seemed to remind me that nothing was alive anymore.

Lying on the operating table, the anesthesiologist asked me to think of something happy. I started to cry because the only thing I could think of was a beautiful baby and a nursery. My doctor looked at my tears, and sensing what I was thinking, quietly said, "Kathy, think of a beautiful beach on Hawaii."

Three more times I would have the joy of seeing a positive pregnancy test only to be devastated two or three weeks later when those pregnancies ended as well. Why me? Why us?

After a little more than a year, four miscarriages, and infertility treatments, my husband and I deiced to end the baby dance. We started to research adoption. We had recently moved to a house in Queens, and the room we had painted blue for a nursery started to seem like a good place for a guest room.

Imagine our surprise when only about a month after ending our fertility treatments we were back in the office looking at a strong heartbeat. We were pregnant!

Each week, I held my breath as the doctor would do an ultrasound and each week I would leave the office feeling exhilarated. I promised myself I would enjoy every minute of my pregnancy and every minute of motherhood. Morning sickness, heartburn, and dirty diapers were the things that dreams were made of.

Three kids and twelve years later we are as far into KidLand as we can be. The chaos of the morning routine, the seemingly endless trips to the pediatrician with a sick child, and the bouts of tween attitude seem like a small price to pay for the other wonderful things KidLand offers.

The wet kisses my five year-old gives me. The look of pure pride on my special-needs daughter's face when she shows me the outfit she dressed herself in. Or the quiet conservations my oldest son and I have over hot chocolate and coffee before school. I love the whole messy package and am grateful for each day.

I would be lying, though, if I didn't admit that sometimes the memories of my old life call to me. Especially when I remember eating a meal in peace or taking a shower without someone asking me if I've seen their shoes.

And, it was lovely to be in a hotel room with my husband and know that nobody was going to knock on the door and ask what we were doing in there. To feel free to read, go for a walk, or deep condition my hair.

NoKidLand was a wonderful place to re-visit, but, I am so glad Kathy doesn't live there anymore.

As always I thank you for your constant support of me and my dishwasher!

A Day in the Life

noreply@blogger.com (Kathy Radigan) — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 00:36:00 +0000

I'm the mother of three amazing children. I married my best friend, and we live in the suburban neighborhood I grew up in. I even drive a minivan.

On paper, we sound like a very ordinary family. Even if you set the paper aside, I still think we're pretty average.

But every now and then I get smacked in the face with the reality that we're a little different.

My oldest son Tom and I were sitting on my bed, chatting and spending some time together. The TV was playing Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, a movie I remember seeing with my mom and sisters when I was a girl.

Our youngest son, Peter, was happily watching the movie when he started to laugh over the fact that Charlie in the movie has a Grandpa Joe just like my kids.

I was staring at Tom marveling at how fast he is growing up and enjoying the close feeling I had with my boys when Tom started to talk about what he might name his own children one day.

“I think I might name a boy Joe after Daddy and Grandpa.”

That would be nice, was my happy reply.

“Hey, your kids will have a Grandpa Joe just like you do,” I said, smiling with the thought.

Peter and Tom started to laugh.

“Mom, you'll be Grandma Kathy.”

Yeah, I guess I would be, I replied.

This was said with the joy that one day I would have grandchildren, the amazement that I was in fact old enough to technically be a grandmother now, and the hope and prayer that my son would not become a parent until he was truly ready.

I was enjoying this sweet time with my boys when Tom said something that took my breath away.

“I guess I would leave my children to Peter if something happened to me. Or, my wife's brothers or sister.”

Tom said this matter of factly, as if he was thinking out loud.

He looked over at his beautiful sister who was smiling and playing.

“Lizzy will get to see my kids all the time, won’t she mom?”

I could see he was upset at all his mind was playing through.
“It’s hard to think about the fact that Lizzy wouldn’t be able to care for your own children, isn’t it Tom?”

He looked at me with tears in his eyes and my heart went out to him.

I said these words calmly and naturally as Tom’s mother. I was careful to respect his emotions and fears as the devoted and loving brother of his sister, a child with significant special needs.

But then something happened.

The tears just started to fall.

Tears that don’t come naturally or easy for me.

Tears that reminded me that not only am I the caring, concerned mother of a child who is worried about his sister and what that means for his own life.

I am the mother of Lizzy, a child whose special needs are so profound that these questions are a normal part of our life, even if we don’t always give them sound.

All of sudden my family didn’t feel so average.

Tom looked at me, and I could tell that he felt badly that he gave voice to these fears.

He started to have tears in his eyes too.

I wanted to be there for him, to comfort him and allow him to have his feelings.

But, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

I love my daughter. She is beautiful inside and out. Her humor and love of life are infectious. She makes our life as amazing and complete as her two brothers.

Yet, she is different.

Different from what I expected.

But then I remind myself that she was always going to be different than I expected. She is a person in her own right. She walks her own path, to her own music, just as she always would have regardless of her needs.

Oddly through my tears, and even my anger, I realize that I’m very blessed.

And, that I do have a pretty average, typical family after all.