He’d texted me early in the morning. The kids and I are going to (insert name of our favorite brunch restaurant here) and wondered if you’d like to join us. I considered ignoring the text. I considered replying no thank you, see you at 4pm when you bring the kids home. Instead, I said yes. In that moment, my reasoning on saying yes, was mostly my wanting to see my kids….and wanting french toast. They do make some amazing french toast.

After brunch I took myself to a movie, then went to the grocery store and went home to do laundry. (I lead a very exciting life, yo.)

It wasn’t until I got home and said on Facebook that I’d gone to brunch with my ex and saw some of the responses, that I started thinking about what I’d really done. Not that I was insane, although I still fully support this theory. No, it was the, I just did something for my kids, that I’ve wanted for 25 years and will never get. I acted like an adult. Logan acted like an adult. We put aside our issues and hurt feeling, for our kids. For an hour and a half, we sat in a restaurant. Together. With our kids.

I have two pictures of my parents together. One from their wedding (people, always hire a wedding photographer, serious) and the other is a real shitty picture of me with them, when I was about two years old. That’s it. They were married eleven years (yes, I see the similarities, trust me) and those are the only two pictures. To be fair, there are tons of pictures of my first few years of life. Tons with my mom, some with my dad, boxes of me doing exciting things like spitting up. No others of them together. If I close my eyes and think really hard, I remember them together. Only in a few memories though. Honestly? I’m not sure those are real, they may be memories I made up. Most of my memories of childhood, even from the time they were together, is with one of them. I’ve separated them in my mind. Life with mom, life with dad. No crossovers.

At my wedding they sat at separate tables. At my graduation they sat rows apart. Nothing they’ve ever said about each other, in my life time, has been nice. Nothing.

I think that if it weren’t for my step-mom this would be different. She’s an evil-hose-beast. However, I have no way of knowing for sure.

I’ll be 30 years old in April and I’ve long since given up hope of my parents every acting like they once loved each other. My only proof is a picture of them cutting their wedding cake. Her in a violet colored dress, him with long hippie hair. It’s the way they are touching each others hands; the way he is smiling at her; the way her eyes are sparkling. My proof, that once, thirty-seven years ago, they did love each other.

I don’t want that for my kids. As much as it pains me to be around Logan right now, especially after last week being what it was, I will continue to on occasion, still do things with him. Small doses, yes. Because I’m hurt and I’ve not figured out how not to love him. But I’ll do things  anyway. Because my kids are worth it.

I don’t want Bailey to have to close her eyes and think hard to find a memory with us both in it. She, at five years old, is the exact age I was when my parents divorced. I don’t want Morgan to wonder which of us to invite to dinner with her first love or in her first home one day. Or to wonder where to have to seat us at her wedding, because she knows we won’t speak at all, if placed at the same table. I don’t want Harrison to ever have to wonder if we loved each other when he was born, to wonder if we ever were happy together.

Maybe I’m insane, maybe I’m deluding myself. However, I have this hope that I can save my kids a tiny bit of the drama I’ve lived through. We’ll see.

Yesterday though? I choose to put aside my feelings for an hour and a half. For them.

We all share things every day.  Different people share different things. For instance: Tanis, will tell the world anything. One of the many reasons I adore her. Stacey, talks about her crazy day, but does it in such a way, that you feel like you are having coffee with her. A coffee date that you don’t ever want to end. Jenna is sweet and honest and tells it exactly like it is. It’s one of the things that makes her such an amazing friend. That ability to cut out the bullshit and get to the dam point, to be real. She will be sweet and caring when I need it and will kick my dam ass from here to next week when I need it. (In fact, I have two people who do that for me. Aren’t I lucky? Don’t answer that. Ha.) Marinka is possibly one of the funniest writers on the Internet. I keep waiting for someone to offer her a huge movie or book deal. (At which point, I will remind the world that I met her once.) Each of these women are so different, yet so awesome. Each writes in a completely different way, about completely different things, but they’re some of my favorite people to read.

Me? I write from my heart. Not everyone can. Not everyone should. Heck, some would say, I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway. It’s the only way, I know to write. It helps me. It’s why I keep doing it, even when I want to curl up an disappear. Because I know it helps me.  Because I love it.

Where was I going with this? No clue. Oh wait, Tanis’s post from the other day. Yes, I remember now. She wrote a post for her kids. Her teens. To show them, to tell them that it’s okay to be who you are. Then she listed some of her very awesome quirks. Things that make her, her. To show them that it’s okay to celebrate your differences. Our differences are make us who we are, after all.

I’m nothing if not a great idea thief, so I thought I’d try to do the same thing. You all know a lot about me. You know the big things that make me hurt, the big things I love, the people I love. But the smaller things? The things that make me, me? Some of those you may not know. I am in a sharing mood. Hey, it’s kind of like a sleepover. You get to see the weirdness that is me. But? I get to sleep in my own bed and my bra won’t end up in the freezer. Score!

I have the weirdest collection of music. For instance, the last ten songs that played on shuffle on my iTunes? Put your record on, Corrine Bailey Ray; Sitting on the dock of the bay, Otis Redding; Kiss me, Shelly Fairchild; I got love if you want it, Slim Harpo; Home, Blake Shelton; Once in a lifetime, Billy Vera and the Beaters; Sober, Pink; Have a little faith, Michael Franti; Your song, Elton John, Rocksteady, Marc Broussard. I adore music. I have music on all day long. I can’t stand screaming music and I can’t handle much rap. Anything else? I’m game. I’m also completely obsessive about songs.  I can listen to the same song over and over for days if I’m in that mood. I make a new play-list a month with my current favorite songs; some new, some old, whatever is floating my boat at the time. I am the girl who Googles lyrics to a song I hear in a movie theater and then downloads it the second I find it.

I adore country music. There, I said it. LOVE. The end.

The only TV show that I’ve ever loved enough to stay home to watch is, Charmed. I own all eight seasons on DVD. Cheesy? Completely. But I adore it. I follow almost no celebrities on Twitter, because I truly could care less, but I follow both Alyssa Milano and Rose McGowan. I probably would have stayed home to watch Alias each week, but I didn’t start watching it until season 4. I own all five seasons of that as well. I also love crime dramas, medical dramas and cooking challenge shows.

I hate peas, eggplant and mushrooms. But I adore the taste of mushrooms in things. Just not the pieces of it. I hated tomatoes until I was 26 years old and then suddenly realized I adored them.

I buy expensive silk flowers and put them in vases around my house. I am allergic to most real flowers.

I am a Mac girl all the way. I have a Mac desktop and laptop and I’ve had iPods for years and years. Come July, I will have an iPhone as well.

I love chick flicks. The sillier, the better. I also love action flicks. And super hero movies. And kid movies. I won’t watch drama movies hardly ever, because hi, I need no more drama in my life. I won’t watch horror flicks, because even the commercials give me nightmares.

I am blind as a bat. I’ll never wear contacts. I actually love wearing glasses. I think it adds character.

I’m a big girl. It’s genetic. I was an average kid. But once I hit puberty, I put on weight. I cared a lot as a teen, but no amount of diet or exercise did a thing for me. The person  who cared most was my step-mother. She was horrible about it. Still is. God forbid, everyone shouldn’t be skinny. I? Am happy with the way I look. I don’t diet. I am very healthy. I just wish doctors would act so shocked about that every time they see me.

I really truly don’t think celebrities are fascinating at all. Maybe because I grew up around a ton of them. However? I do care what they name their babies.

Naming is a sickness for me. I have a ton of name lists. I rename people’s kids in my head, when I don’t think the name fits them. If I could figure out how to market this skill, how to help people make a good decision, I’d do it.

I love Christmas movies.

I hate musicals. Except Mary Poppins and Fame for some strange reason.

I adore watching gymnastics. I wanted to be a gymnast when I was a kid.

I have absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever. In fact, I am completely clumsy.

I won’t discuss politics or religion.

I once told my daughters that I’d support them in almost anything, except cheerleading. If they choose to be cheerleaders, they could possibly end up disowned.

I hate shoes. I hate having my feet confined. I hate socks. I’d wear flip-flops year round if I could.  This is what happens when you grow up in southern California.

I played the piano from five until thirteen years old. I quit because I couldn’t get out of a big performance in front of a large group of people. One of the biggest regrets in my life is quitting. Because I adored it.

I tried to fail 7th grade on purpose. I wanted my parents to notice I was having a hard time. It was my way of rebelling. Dang teachers wouldn’t fail me though. Gave me D’s, all of them.

I’m scared of heights. I am the woman who held her kids back by their shirts, 35 feet away from the railing at the Grand Canyon. It’s the only time ever, that I wished for kid leashes. I don’t like mountain driving. Weirdly, I adore roller coasters and don’t really mind flying. Unless its bumpy then I’m convinced I’m gonna die.

I don’t know to this day how I got on that stage at BlogHer last year and read my post. Part of me still believes it was a dream.

I am a professional worrier and apologizer.

I am completely neurotic about my kitchen being clean. But the rest of the house can be trashed and I can easily ignore it.

I haven’t had a drink since Christmas, when I realized I was drinking way too much and thinking about drinking all the time and yep, I may not drink for a long time.

There you have it. Me. The real me.

Those are lyrics from a Lady Antebellum song. It’s a better verse than I could ever come up with.

In some ways it says everything I’ve been trying to write for hours. Days maybe.

Here’s the thing, if I knew then, what I know now? I’d still fall in love.

Today is my 11th anniversary. No matter what else is happening. Even though, I won’t make it to the 12th. We made it 11 years. We made it longer than most people who get married at 19 years old. We made a great little family, that doesn’t cease to exist, just because we aren’t together any more. Does that make me feel better today? Not really. But it doesn’t negate the fact that for the past 16 years, we’ve been mostly happy together. How many people can say that?

Today should be a celebration, but it’s not. I don’t want spend all day feeling the way I’ve felt for the past few days, but I find myself pretty much unable to stop it. I keep thinking about the last ten years of this day. I want to try and remember the good, try to remember the life that was great, instead of the end. Instead of what this day should be.

I’m going to at least try to not curl up in a ball and hide all day. I’ve already gotten up and showered, I’ve gotten coffee and a donut. I plan on buying some cake later, because cake makes everything better. Tonight? I’ll take my kids out for dinner and then come home and watch American Idol with my girls. It might not seem like much, but it’s enough. Today, it’s enough. Fake it, till you make it. Or something like that.

I’d still fall in love. If I was somehow able to go back in time, to see fourteen old me? I’d still ask him out. If I could go back and see eighteen year old me? I’d still ask him to marry me. I don’t regret my life, I don’t regret our life, but I can’t change what it is now either.

Happy 11th anniversary to me.

Cause love only comes once in awhile, Knocks on your door and throws you a smile, And takes every breath, Leaves every scar, Speaks to your soul, And sings through your heart, And if I knew then, what I know now, Whoaa if i knew then, what I know now, I’d fall in love.

A few years after that, you have your first baby; a ridiculously adorable little girl. You work your ass off. Nine, ten, sometimes twelve or fourteen hour days. To make a better life for your family. You finish college, go on vacations. You celebrate holidays, watch your baby girl grow. You do this together.

Everything is better because you have that person. The person you joke with in tense times. The person who makes you happy. The person who lets you cry and stress out. You have inside jokes, you play air hockey, you stay up after your daughter goes to bed, just laughing and watching TV. You start to plan farther ahead in life. You dream out your life together.

One day, a couple years later, you have another, ridiculously adorable little girl. You’re happy; happy with your life, happy with your spouse, happy with your crazy baby girls. You upgrade your life a bit: sell your condo and buy a house, buy new cars. Nothing you can’t handle. None of that really matters though. What matters are that man and little girls you come home too every night. Everything you do, is to make a better life for them.

You start to get burned out on the hours of work. You see your husband and girls very little and you literally can watch them age before your eyes. You miss out on the small things. Things like your baby’s first steps. The first time your oldest rides a tricycle without training wheels. The first time your four year old uses crap correctly in a sentence. The time your baby “warshes” your camera in the toilet. (What? It’s not all good stuff.) You start to live for your vacation time.

One day, your husband comes to you and says that he has a dream of something better. A better life. A great career for him, less of one for you. A move halfway across the country. You look at this man, this man you adore, your best friend and you say hell no. You see the hurt in his eyes. You look around and you think about the life you are living. The crazy schedules, the hours spent in an office of a high rise, the outrageous amount of money you are about to plop down for private kindergarten, what you are missing out on and you say yes. Let’s do it. You move.

Then life gets a little tricky. Bad things happen. Loss, depression, crappy times. You tell yourself it will get better. You will get better. Things will be okay, because you have him, your love, your best friend, your constant. You get a unexpected surprise in the form an amazing baby boy. Unexpected, but none the less, adored. You start to think, hey maybe somehow this will work; this move, this dream, this new life.

One day you wake up to find that you lost everything while you weren’t looking. That you are loosing your husband and it’s too late to change it. That you maybe lost him years ago, even though he’s been next to you that whole time. Somehow you blinked and missed it. The sad part is, you are not just loosing a spouse. You are loosing your very best friend in this world. You have lost that life you thought you had. The happy home, the happy family, the dream. In one fell swoop, your life, the one you helped build? Is gone. Pieces of it are still there, but it’s different. Broken. Shattered even. You then start to pick up the pieces, because in reality, life moves on. It’s the only thing that can be done.

But inside? You are still shattered. You’ve lost. The promise of forever is gone. The dreams of one more baby, watching your kids grow together, vacations around the world, renewing vows at twenty years, buying an RV and traveling the US after the kids go to college? Dreams that no longer exist.

That life is gone. What’s left now is heartache. Pain. Shattered dreams. Unknowing. And three little kids who still have to be raised.

On March 3rd, 11 years ago, we said forever. We stood together in front of our friends and family and together, we promised forever. 11 years. That was our forever.

Forever? I suppose it’s just something that people say. Just a word we throw out there. Something we think we mean, until we don’t.

Forever.

That’s the thing with being emotionally fragile, one tends to do this often. The, let me try and protect myself, because I don’t think I can handle anything else, protection thing.

Or maybe it’s just me who does this.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter now, because I AM GOING TO BLOGHER THIS SUMMER!!!!! I am coming to NYC in August.  I get to go. YAY ME!!!

Because of the absolute amazing-ness of one of my best friends, I’m going to be going to BlogHer 10 this year. I am touched more than I can explain in this moment. (Trust me, more on this later.) I am still in shock and totally overwhelmed by it. But it’s true, I’ll be there this year.

So, who’s with me?

I solemnly swear that I am up to no good…oh wait, I mean I won’t bring up okay, I will try not to bring up BlogHer until July June. Dude, I’ll do the best I can.

Real heroes though are different. They are not super powered individuals. They aren’t just the mutli-millionaire celebrity who gives away a certain amount of money every year. They are normal, every day people, who happen to do something that helps someone in that moment. Or at least that’s what a hero is to me.

Yesterday, there was a shooting outside of a middle school in the greater Denver area. A crazed man showed up outside of the school as kids were leaving, with a high powered rifle and shot two innocent kids. (One is in critical condition, the other was treated and released.) A math teacher attacked him. Wrestled the gun away from him and held him down until the police arrived. He saved who knows how many kids lives yesterday, just by reacting in the moment. His name is David Benke. He is a middle school math teacher. He is a hero.

Last year, Chesley Sullenberger, landed a freaking plane in the Hudson. A plane full of people. On the Hudson. Everyone remembers his name. Or at least they remember the name, Hudson Hero. Here is the thing that I remember from all of the press he got last year. In every interview, he said, I was just going on instinct. I was doing what I needed to do, without giving it any though. He saved, what a hundred people that day? He was just a pilot doing what he needed to do in the moment. But he’s a hero. Every time I get on a plane, possibly for the rest of my life, I will tell myself that he is the pilot. Even though I know it isn’t true, just thinking it gives me hope, makes me feel safer. That’s what a hero does.

My grandfather built a woman and children’s shelter for battered women back in the early 90’s. He saw a need, he had the resources, so he had it built. It’s an amazing, beautiful building. He never talked about it after it was done. He wouldn’t let anyone put it on a list of his accomplishments. He had a long list, trust me on this. But he’d never add that one. A few years ago, I asked him why he didn’t want anyone to know about that. He told me that it wasn’t that he didn’t want anyone to know, it was that he just hadn’t done it for that. He did it for the women and children that weren’t protected. He said it was one of the few completely selfless things he’d ever done in his life and he wanted it to stay pure and innocent. He wanted to be able to think about that as one of his greatest accomplishments in life, as he died. His thing, the thing he did right in this world. My grandfather? Was a hero.

He was my hero for the majority of my life. For a million reasons that don’t matter. For small things, for big things, for being the man that he was. He’s been dead for almost a year and a half and I’ve yet to find a new hero. Maybe he was enough. Maybe he can still be my hero in death. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that one.

Real heroes aren’t created. They aren’t made. They become that way in the eyes of someone, generally by accident. For doing something out of the ordinary, for doing something ordinary. It doesn’t really matter which.

So…who is your hero? Who was your hero as a kid?

2. I pretty much said on Twitter the other night, that I’m not going to be able to attend BlogHer this summer. Figure I should say it here too. There is just no way I can go. I had a blast last year, but thinking I can maybe possibly go, just isn’t realistic. It’s better to just say, I’m not going. It’s too expensive and my year is a bit too uncertain. Between paying for therapy, knowing my laptop is on it’s last leg, fixing my car three times in the last two months and oh yes…paying for my divorce, I’m a bit tapped out. Divorce is expensive, yo. Also, I already have a few small trips planned and I’d like to take my kids somewhere this summer. Won’t be someplace pricey, but it will be family time. Family time, trumps NYC in August.

3. In two months, I’m going to be 30 years old. I think I want to come up with 30 things I want to do before I turn 40. The problem is that I have trouble thinking about the future right now. I can’t seem to come up with anything. I don’t know what I want to do, where I’d want to go, or what I’d like to see. So I’m taking suggestions. If you could do one thing, see one thing or go one place right now, what would it be? I’m not going to steal your ideas and make my list, I’m more just curious what you all will say. I’ll wait until my birthday to make my list. By then, I’m hoping I’ll have an easier time seeing beyond today. So, what say you?

Here’s where it got a little mean though. There is this idea that therapy is a magic fix. I was told that I’m depressed, bitter, angry and need therapy. Therapy would make me better. Therapy would magically cure all of my ills. If I was in therapy, I’d find happiness and not have any more problems. Then, I’d stop writing depressing posts and everyone would like me. Yes, that last part was actually said to me.

I know this is my blog. I know I can do, or not do whatever I want and say whatever I want. I just want this out there, so everyone knows. Maybe then, the people who like to tell me how depressing I am, will at least get a clue and hit the little red X at the top of the screen.

I am in therapy. I have been since September. I am paying out of pocket, 100% for a very good therapist. I could have paid for a new Macbook, paid for BlogHer 2010 and taken my kids to DisneyLand this summer on what I’ve paid for therapy so far. I won’t be doing any of those things, because my mental health is more important.

I am medicated. I know there can be a stigma behind it. I don’t really care. In this moment, I need it. We tried lowering it for a few months and I’ve had to up it again in the last few weeks. Will I need it forever? Maybe. Do I know I need it to function right now? To keep my depression managable? Yes. I do.

Every day, I get out of bed and do what I need to do to take care of me and my kids. And the dog, the house and the car.

My dad and step-mom are morons who have no idea what they are missing out on. My dad choose his wife and her evil spawn over me and my brothers, years and years ago. I can’t change that. Nothing I do, or say will change that. No matter what I said yesterday, I know this to be true. I stopped mattering to him, when he moved in with her. My brother fared only a bit better. I am used to and pretty much ignore his lack of interest in me. However, when it comes to my brother, I get angry.

In September, I started dealing with abuse issues from my childhood. I’d never, ever dealt with any of it before. I’d stuffed it all. Un-stuffing it, almost broke me. It still owns me. Maybe it won’t one day, but it does in this moment.

In January, my husband left me. My husband of almost 11 years. The only man I’ve ever been with. After 16 years together, he no longer loves me.This? Is not something I can get over in seven weeks. It’s gonna take awhile.

Friends who I’ve known my entire life are not really my friends anymore. A lot of reasons have contributed to this. Mostly though, we’ve all changed. None of us are the people we once were. Especially me. I’ve made amazing new friends, none of whom live here. Sometimes that really sucks, because I feel very alone here. However, they are all worth it.

All of this is harsh. It’s hard to deal with.  This place, my blog, is a form of therapy for me. One that’s way cheaper than the amazing woman I see every week. I write what I’m feeling. I write my inner thoughts. I am doing the best I can. It may not be enough for some people. If you find me to be too much to deal with, please, feel free to stop reading. I understand. But I’m not going to stop writing what I want too on my blog.

Mostly, she just doesn’t want him living there anymore. Six months or so ago, when his company started doing poorly, they cut his pay and hours in half. They fired 60% of their staff, so my brother was just happy to still have a job. He had to give up his apartment though and move in with my dad and step-mother. First time he’s lived with them in twelve years, since he was sixteen years old. It wasn’t like he was living their for free, he was paying rent. More than I knew even. Anyway, now he has found some buddies to live with and he’ll be moving out this weekend. The house he’ll be moving into is a mile from his job instead of a 40 minute drive. His company has picked up, he is working tons of hours again. This will be better for him.

I’m livid. Not because of just this. Because of everything. Because it’s just another thing added to the long list of things that suck about them. I’m livid, because they did this to him. I am used to being a low class citizen in their world. I learned at a very, very young age, that my place in the family, came after the fish. I could give you a million examples, but it pains me to write any of them down. They have moments of treating him like that too, but mostly he ranks right above the dog. This is just too much. My dad probably knew this was coming and didn’t even bother to warn him. To give him a heads up. To say, hey son, you may want to start looking for a new place to live. Nope, he wasn’t even home with this conversation happened. She cornered my brother a few days ago. My dad is the biggest freaking wussy in the world. I doubt the man takes a crap without her approving it.

I’m used to being called a bitch, she said to him. He didn’t even call her one. You know what? The word fits. It is her. She’s used to being called one, because she is one. He didn’t even say the Valium and wine line, although it cracked me up when he told me about it. It’s true. She’s an alcoholic. She drinks a bottle of wine a night. At least. She’s a verbally abusive drunk. Then she passes out. It’s what she does.

I’m angry. I’m so freaking angry. Nothing I could do or say would change anything. They’ve already written me off. I am too much like my mother according to my step-mom. Truly, that’s BS. I am much more like my dad, than my mom. Really she doesn’t like me, because I’m a girl. Because I was the oldest and I’m a girl, so I’m a threat. Doesn’t matter that I was a week over six years old when we met. She’s never liked me. Treated me like crap ever since then, while acting all fake and caring in front of other people.

They don’t care what happens in my life. I only talk to my dad once every say six weeks. He only calls me from work. He NEVER calls me from home. The only exception to that is Christmas. I am normally worth one call a year from home. They don’t know my kids. They’ve only met Harrison once. Hell last year, I took my kids to see them, the day after I’d had a miscarriage. They were fine when I was there. When I got home, neither of them called me for three months. Didn’t call to see that we’d made it home okay. Not to say, hey we had fun with the kids. Not even to check on me. I normally call my dad after 6 weeks or so if he hasn’t called me. That time I didn’t. I was depressed and I truly just wanted to see how long it would take him to call me. It took three months.

Even though I technically have a father, he doen’t really exist for me. He is alive and lives in Northern California. But I don’t really have a dad. I have grown used to this. I hate it, but I am used to it. This was just another blow for my brother though, one more thing to show him, that he sadly doesn’t either.

This is rough and I’m sure it makes no sense. I’m not even going to edit it. Today, I am make no sense and I’m a bit rough around the edges. I’m angry. Mostly though, I’m sad for my little brother. He’s only getting shit right now and he deserves better. He deserves the world. I’d give it to him if I could, but I can’t. And that makes me angry.

Then I asked her if Bunny was going to be an only child or if they’d have another one day. Renee then said, well we adopted Bunny from China and we’d like to say we’ll one day give her a sibling, but it seems unlikely right now. She told me that they were in the process of adopting a son from Ethiopia, but it seemed like it just might not happen. That the process didn’t seem to progressing at all. That she was unsure if they would continue to move forward or give up. She was sad about that and trying not to be. Trying not to show it. We barely knew each other and I wanted to hug her. I know that feeling, the wanting to expand your family and thinking it will never happen. But all I could say was, oh I really hope it all works out for you. I’d only known the girl for an hour.

That was eight months ago. Eight months is a long time, but also not such a long time. Long enough to make a great friend. Although truthfully, I felt like Renee was a great friend after four days.

Today though, eight months later, my amazing friend is very, very close to bringing her son Lion home. What I mean is, they could literally be going to get him in a few weeks. He is for sure their son. They got that news about ten days ago. Now they just wait for all the paperwork to come in. Then? They go bring their boy home, where he belongs. With Renee and her husband; with his big sister Bunny.

I wanted to do something for my friend. Something big, something amazing. Something to show her how much I love her and how thrilled I am for her. I wanted to throw her a baby shower. Maybe an adoption shower? However, this is the Internet. And? Renee and I live three states away from each other. We have amazing friends, but they are scattered all over the country. It doesn’t make for easy parties. I did the next best thing, I put together an Internet baby shower. There are no brownies, or little cakes, but it has something better than that, tons of friends and love. Which really is more important than little cakes. (Oh how I’d take a little cake right now.)

Anyway…Renee, welcome to your baby shower. **hands over silly hat and little cake** Make yourself comfy, you have a bunch of reading to do today.

I thought about what I could share with you, Renee. What could I possibly tell you that is helpful. I figure I can give you a few pointers on parenting boys. You know from my vast knowledge of the past nearly 17 months. Snort.

1. Boys pee. They pee upwards. This was new for me. Here is my helpful hint. Something I still do to this day. Take a wipe and throw it on the dang thing, the second you open the diaper. Just trust me on this one. Harrison hasn’t peed on me in months, but he still could. It’s something I fully believe to be true.

2. Boys are loud. Not screechy loud like little girls, but volume loud. Very, very loud. Invest in ear plugs.

3. Boys like things that move. Cars, balls, trains, toys that move. They don’t generally care much for toys that don’t do something. Unless it’s tupperware, 100 DVD boxes that can be thrown on the floor or you, when you are sitting. You are a jungle gym. I hope you knew that.

4. Boys are dirty. I have a daughter who is dirty too. Truly, we call her pig pen sometimes. But Harrison is very little and he’s always dirty. Always. I always wonder how he can get dirty playing with his train set in my basement. But he can.

5. Silver wear is a joke. Only give it to him, if you like things chucked at your head. Harrison will eat anything and everything. I do mean everything. But he’s not so big on forks and spoons. He prefers the whole hand as a shovel method.

6. Boys are sweet and cuddly and absolute joys. Parenting a boy, after girls gives me more joy than I could even put into words. I melt each time he gives me that little impish grin. He knows it too, little brat. Ha.

You are a great mom my friend. I have no doubt that Lion is one lucky, amazing little boy. I can’t wait to meet him.

Below is a Mr. Linky. Our friends who had the chance, will be linking posts for you throughout the day. We just wanted you too know that you are loved and that we all love your tiny boy, even though we haven’t met him yet.

ps. I sent you a box. A bit late, but yeah…I’m me. Stuff I said I’d send. Some gifts I bought and a little something for Bunny. Love you sweetie. I could not be more thrilled about you bringing Lion home.