School Daze

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So for all of us moms, it’s been the back to school jazz lately, and that seems to fall into one of two categories.  Category one –  moms and their kids who had lovely summer vacations, and now the little tykes are kind of bored and missing their friends, and ready to go back to school.  The moms really enjoyed their great summers, but are looking forward to having a little “me” time and getting back to the gym every day – plus, why not get started on some Halloween crafting and baking ideas?  Then there’s category two – the mom that tells her child that the it’s back to school time in a few days to which there is immediate crying, fussing, why-oh-why’s, anxiety, stress and all the other.  And that’s from the mom.  Which puts me solidly in category TWO.

So here we are on Day 6 of what feels like 1,783,295 days in this school year and already it’s a complete s***show.  I’m getting up a bit earlier that normal, because now my caboose is in middle school, which starts at some nutball hour that literally begins with the number “7” – we are already realizing this means that we have to get up, get going, get our things together and jump in the car a solid FIFTEEN MINUTES earlier and you might as well gear up to watch pigs fly, because both have about an equal betting ratio.  (Minutes in the morning are like dog years – each one is worth infinitely more than it’s actual value.)   As I drag myself out of bed and start cooking his breakfast (yes, I make him a hot breakfast every day – just because I’m a hot mess doesn’t mean I don’t have some shining glorious moments) my caboose wakes up bellowing that he can’t see and can’t find his glasses and that he needs some help NOW.  His theory is that he can’t see to find his glasses, but the part that I personally find the most perplexing is how he lays there melting down without even attempting to LOOK for his glasses – feel around for them, squint his way downstairs, something.  And in his mind, it’s probably easier somehow to just yell for someone to tidily deliver them to his little hand, instead of actually making any type of an effort.   (At our home, I call this the Prince George syndrome – little guy thinks he’s Prince George and that everyone exists to run around and make his life easier, anticipate his every need, and my favorite, deliver everything that he needs, be a it a meal, a pencil, a Kindle, whatever, directly to him.  And don’t worry, I say this to his face, so I don’t feel like I’m technically disparaging him behind his back – hey, we’ve all got weaknesses.)   My hubs runs along to his rescue before jumping in the shower, and I’m dragging around the kitchen like a homeless person.  (Oh, AND we’re out of coffee and down to the camping pack of Starbucks instant Viva stuff – which, honestly, is surprisingly good.)  So I produce breakfast and little guy is finally downstairs with his glasses, dressed (yes!!) and I feel like maybe there’s some salvation afoot and I might be witness to a part of it.  But no . . . . . . . . . nothing falls apart spectacularly here, except that I feel like Supernanny talking to a 3 year old – “We need to leave in 10 minutes!” – “We need to leave in 5 minutes!” – “We need to leave in 2 minutes!”  Which honestly, just seems to stress him out more, me out more, and my husband out more, who is fussing about me fussing.  I finally give up and 5 minutes before our target pull-out-of-the-driveway time, I go sit in the car and look up Bachelor in Paradise stuff just to stop myself from potential hyperventilation.  (I really feel that someone in the pharmaceutical world needs to invent some kind of xanax-infused coffee drink – think about it, this could be HUGE!!!)  As the minutes tick by, and I don’t see the door from the house to the garage opening, and lamaze breathing is having only a minimal effect, I see the door open and Boom!!  Out he comes dressed and grabbing his binder – Hallelujah!!!  I think – we might just nail this yet!   I hand him the toothbrush in the car and he throws his things together while I peel out of the driveway.  We make it to the main, crowded road before he bothers to tell me that he isn’t even buckled up.  We fix that, I grab the toothpaste out of the glove box and hand it to him – (yes, I keep a toothbrush and toothpaste in the car, because guess what?  We are NOT morning people, people!!!!  Plus, I’d rather have him brush in the car than have horrid breathe, which trust me, if you’ve ever volunteered in a classroom in the morning, you encounter a LOT of).  I find an empty water for him to spit in and throw back the dishtowel I keep in the car that I usually have on my lap to avoid spills whilst drinking my coffee.  We hit enough green lights to keep me from panicking (again) and pull up in time for me to calmly say “Ok honey, here we are, have a good day, I love you!,” as he grabs his luggage sized backpack and heads up in search of higher learning.  It’s only when I drive back home, realizing that I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet (a new low), walk in the door, and see his homework sitting there smack against the toaster that I realize we are not cut out for this regulated, time sensitive world – which includes school!!!

As Homer Simpson would say “Doh!”

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Forgotten Homework

 

 

On The Dole

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So, I recently found out that around here, we are considered a “needy” family.  How did I find this out?  Well, to make a long story long, it started out at a Women’s Fashion Show and Luncheon at a Resort Retirement Community I attended last week (and no, I’m not a senior, nor retired, but accompanied my boss to it).  Several community ladies modeled fashions from a local upscale resale store, and attendees were encouraged to shop there, as it is a non-profit store that is staffed by volunteers, with all proceeds benefiting women’s shelters and children’s charities.

 

It was indeed a fun luncheon – the ladies had quite the personalities as they strutted across the stage, modeling their finds and showcasing a variety of “looks” that encompassed daily attire to holiday fashions.  Racks of clothing and tables of accessories were set up in the lobby of the ballroom for patrons to shop at during/after the event.  When I got up to use the restroom, I paused to look at the items and started chatting with one of the volunteers from the store.  She let me know about the great charities the funds were used to benefit and mentioned that she was heavily involved with an organization called “Operation School Bell.”

 

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” I said “My 10 year old son came home last week with a paper about it.  It wasn’t on a day we could attend, but he was supposed to go pick out some things at Target to donate to other children.”

 

“Well, if your son received it, then it was meant for him, not for him to donate,” she informed me.

 

Say what????

 

Now I was really confused, and also a bit embarrassed.  Had I been sending him to school in ragtag clothes?  True, he favored wearing jogger type sweatpants for their comfort factor, and an occasional hole in the knee never seem to bother neither him, nor I.  He was growing tall pretty quickly, but no, he wasn’t sporting floods either.  I always made sure his teeth were brushed, his shoes were brand new, and although his hair was a little on the long-ish side, that’s the way he likes it.

 

“There must have been some mistake,” she told me, seeing the perplexed look on my face.  “The kids are identified through the school, but I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

 

Well, there must be, I thought.  Did Dev let it slip that we didn’t make it to Hawaii this summer?  Did he accidentally mention that he doesn’t have his own TV and Xbox set-up in his bedroom?  Did we buy some generic brand of snacks some well-meaning aide noticed in his lunch bag?  Or maybe I should have embraced the whole thing and sent little Dev to Target with a list of sundries we were short on – he could grab some toilet paper and dog treats, hey that stuff goes fast around here.

 

Despite my confusion, I had to laugh.  Living in a So-Cal beach town that Wikipedia describes as “an affluent seaside resort city” and boasts a median family income of $102,000 is honestly fabulous.  I love my gated neighborhood, the excellent schools and literal proximity to the beach.  But maybe now I have to step up my game.  So, I’m looking into booking a Disney cruise.  And making sure Dev mentions it in his next oral report.

 Dev sleeping

A Born Again What?????

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For those of you who enjoy indulging in a little guilty pleasure like I do called “The Bachelor,” the most recent bachelor to become engaged after 8 weeks on the reality tv circuit is the strapping Sean Lowe.  (As I side note, although I can understand his appeal, this guy does absolutely zero for me.  His recent pelvic thrusting appearance on “Dancing with the Stars” made me spit out my drink, as I was half laughing/half grossed out – okay, more than half grossed out.)  As media outlets around the nation are reporting, Sean and his lovely new fiancee Catherine have decided to wait until marriage before they indulge in a good old-fashioned roll in the hay.  Sean has decided, since college apparently, to wait until wedlock to have relations, and declared himself to be a “born again virgin.”

A born again WHAT????   Come again?

May I just say “Wow.”  A born again virgin.  Where do I possibly begin?

First of all, this title alone is offensive.  A person is either a virgin, or they’re not.  It’s that simple.  It’s not something you can un-do.  That’s like someone is “partially” gay – guess what, you either ARE or you AREN’T.  Or “partially” diabetic.  Do you own insulin shots or don’t you?   It’s one way or the other, buddy, let’s face facts here.   And the fact that you’re calling yourself a “born again virgin” means that decidedly, you are NOT one.

If you want to wait until marriage, good for you.  Although in a small minority, it’s definitely a noble thing, although if that is indeed your decision, do you really have to inform the masses about it?  Because unless you do say something, everyone else on the planet assumes that you’re having the crazy rabbit-imitating monster loving that everyone else goes through when you’re in the exciting, romantic beginning of the relationship period and you simply just. cannot. get. enough. of. each. other.  Hey, we’ve all been there.  And honestly, just because you are “waiting for marriage” certainly does NOT mean that you aren’t doing “other things.”  Use your imagination here people.  I always loved that kind of person in high school.  The guy or gal who made sure everyone knew they were a virgin and would not go “all the way.”   Sadly, these were the same people that had a steady boyfriend/girlfriend and indulged in making out, tons of groping and every other sexual activity known to man, but would not place “A” in “B.”  They were placing lots of everything everywhere else however, but had the gall to tightly grip onto their status as a “V.”   (In fact, I may have even seen that symbol on a varsity jacket or two).  Hypocrite much?

And while sex is certainly not the most important thing in a relationship, it definitely is a vital aspect to most couples.  How many of us have ever heard a friend complain about their spouse/significant other with regard to the bedroom?  Or rather, how many of us have heard a friend complain about an ex-spouse/ex-significant other in the bedroom?  It’s not the key to everything, but is absolutely important enough to cause serious problems and disconnects in a relationship.  Some people simply aren’t physically compatible.  And while I’m sure there’s a certain amount of “coaching” that those who are not up to par can benefit from, this may be one time when you want to go ahead and taste the milk before the cow moves in and starts redecorating.

I also pesonally love that Sean became a “born again virgin” AFTER college.  Well my my Sean, that’s convenient.   God forbid that you had to forego waking up next to all those still-drunk, random sorority girls.  I’m guessing your bedpost had it’s fair share tally marks on it, and that you may or may not have had a lost and found drawer for unclaimed panties.

So here’s my advice to the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Sean Lowe – cancel the activities on the honeymoon, pals.  With all that waiting, I’m recommending that Johnson & Johnson go ahead and send you a gigantic KY gift basket.  You’re gonna need it.

Happy Birthday Sweet Baby Boy

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Today is my youngest son’s fifth birthday.  It’s definitely an emotional day.  A birthday, especially one of a child, is ususally a happy time, an exciting day filled with gifts, toys, smiles and laughter.  There will be some of that today.  But it’s all a little bittersweet.  Because my baby isn’t here.  He’s in heaven.

It’s hard for me to believe that it’s really been five years since we had Christian.  Like all the births of my children, I remember it like it was yesterday.  He was born on a brilliant February day.  February in Southern California is hit or miss – it can be rainy and overcast or surprisingly gorgeous.  The latter is what we had.  I remember, after a sleepless and emotional night, how thankful I was for such a gorgeous day.  He was born at 7:03, but life had already left his tiny body.  It was odd to not hear the cry of a newborn baby.  Just the stillness.  My mother had flown in late the night before, and was in the delivery room with me along with my husband and the hospital staff.  Three of my closest girlfriends had spent hours sitting and talking with me the night before, bringing me magazines and candy and providing me both companionship and comfort.  I remember in the early dawn of February 27th, how I was finally dilated and the doctor said I could start pushing that I finally broke down sobbing.  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I told her.  “I’m not ready.”  I wasn’t ready – how do you get ready to meet your child and bid him farewell?  I’ll never forget her kind response.  “Just take your time,” she told me.  “Relax and it’s not an issue.  We don’t have to do this until you’re ready.”  I took half an hour and then it began.  I knew he needed to be born.  I knew that his heartbeat had already faded.  It was one of those things that you will never be ready for, not really.  I closed my eyes and began the process.

Once Christian David was born it was calming and peaceful to hold him.  He had gorgeous blue eyes and dark hair that was swept up under the little beanie the nurse put on him.  His little face was blue since he wasn’t breathing.  I didn’t care.  He was still my son.  We kept him for several hours, holding him and keeping him close.  We had him blessed by a priest.  We let all his brothers hold him, with his face covered.  I didn’t want them to remember him that way.  The nurses took pictures of him and did little footprints of his feet for me.  We kept him until I knew I needed to give him back.  I recall them taking me to a hospital room on a different floor, away from all of the babies.  For that I was grateful.  I remember it was almost noon and I kept thinking “I really want to watch What Not to Wear.”  In the middle of all the emotions and heartache, for just a bit, I needed something that was normal.  I watched my show and slept.

Five years later, the healing continues.  Years one and two were extremely difficult.  Years three and four were markedly better.  But there is something about turning 5 that is such a milestone.  He would have been starting kindergarten this Fall.  I have an entire set of false memories in my head.  Mental pictures of him running around in footed pajamas, playing with the dog, and opening gifts on Christmas Day along with his brothers.  All these memories that I don’t really possess, as they never happened, but pictures in my mind of what might have been had he lived.  I think these thoughts and pictures will always run through my head.  Sometimes I turn around and feel like someone is missing.  But then, he is missing.  At least from my life.

I think that’s the hardest part – missing him.  As I walked through the cemetery this morning, after bringing him a ballon and flowers, I just prayed to Heavenly Father that he would relay to my child how much he is loved.  By his extended family here, his immediate family, and especially his mother.  A mother’s love is forever – it is strong and true and perfect.  This, I know.   And until the time when I can embrace him myself, my sweet little Christian, we will continue to be, two worlds, one family.  Love is forever.

Mom

 

The Day Has Come!!!

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After writing the Christmas letters every year (that for years before I had children I used to make fun of) and being told repeatedly what how I should be sharing that talent, I finally decided what the HELL, and decided to do it.  I mean, why not right?  There’s only about 3 bazillion other bloggers out there.  Why not join the fray?  After an extremely brief examination of just a few other blogs, it seemed to me that everyone seems to have some type of fabulous theme and links to all sorts of lovely stuff.  What’s my hook?   Hmmmmmm.  Well at this point it’s just journaling for me and sharing my life.  With my friends, relatives and nameless, faceless strangers who just might get a smile out of my day.  And my viewpoint.  Which is interesting in that I usually tell it like it is, from my own personal opinion of course.  After all, this is a blog that’s all about ME.  🙂

And exactly, you might ask, who am I?  I’m a harried, nutty mom of 3 sons.  I’m the second of eight children (no steps or half siblings here), a daughter, a volunteer, a fantastic loyal friend and a woman through and through.  A gal with, at times a very ordinary, at times a very strange and at times a very blessed life.  So come with me through this journey.  Let’s see where it can take us.  I’m more than willing to share.