What's In A Name?

Every so often I think about the name of my blog--Suck At Home Mom.  I chose it purposely, because three years ago I was terrible at this stay at home thing.  I was incredibly hard on myself, and I was definitely lost without the constant interaction of the people I used to work with.

But over the last few months I've come to realize how much I'm thriving.  I'm able to write more than I had in years.  I'm working on a novel.  I've been published on The Good Men Project, The Huffington Post, and BlogHer.  I've been involved in writing communities, and I've gotten the hang of being at home with the kids and not needing to do something every minute.  Punkgirl remarked the other day--"You slay at this.  At being a mom at home."  I've shown my kids the workaholic mom--how could they not see it?  They were in the same school where I worked, and felt it keenly every time I chose to finish my work instead of seeing what they were doing.  

This isn't a working mom criticism--it's a working me criticism.  I give my all to any job--and that includes the one at home.  So in doing so, for me, it later came to hurt me.  Because just one comment from Punkgirl--"remember when you went out of the house to work, and you never had time to read our stuff or give us challenges or play games with us?"

That cut me to the quick.  She has begged me not to go back to work, and despite a desire to see other adults and have conversations that don't revolve around diapers or drama, I haven't.  And I failed at that at first...but now, I feel like I'm finally coming into my own.  Like I'm owning the s-a-h-m role.  Like I'm slaying it.  

So without further ado...over the next few months I will be changing my site from Suck At Home Mom's Cranky Blog...To Slay At Home Mom's Nerdy Blog.  I'm going to try to take the two things I love to do--activities with the kids, and all things  nerdy--into one blog.  Wish me luck, and I hope you'll love the new blog as much as the old!  (Feedback is always appreciated!)

Dear Family: I'm Not Letting You Go, It's Just Grief & Anxiety

 

     It's easy to think I'm fine.  After all, I've gone out with my friends here and there, I've gone on vacation with my family, I've even taken my mother to Paint Night.  I post pretty pictures up on my Facebook page of all the wonderful things going on and the accomplishments of my three children.  To the casual observer, I'm happy.  I'm moving on.

      The trouble is I'm crumbling inside.  Leaving the house is preceded by thirty minutes of heart palpitations and tension, as I try to keep it together despite the fact that a panic attack is clawing at my throat.  A text that goes too long without a response from my husband and I start worrying something's wrong.

     Something is wrong.  I got the call on January 6th, some time in the afternoon.  "Listen," my brother Bill said on the other end of the line.  "You have to go over to South Shore Hospital.  Michelle called.  Charlie sat down on the couch, then Ari came out and said Papa's not waking up."

     Everything else he said was lost as I fumbled out of the blanket wrapped around my legs and stuttered, "I'm on my way!"  My hands were shaking as I tried to put on my shoes, and my throat was stuck as my husband asked me what was going on.

     I don't remember what I told him.  In my head, I was busy re-playing the deaths of my youngest brother and father, fourteen and fifteen years ago respectively.  Re-playing the last month, when my oldest brother, Charlie, had been diagnosed with colon cancer.  Re-playing the night before, when I'd dropped him off so he could see his girls.

     I declined my husband, Chris's, offer to come with me, thinking the kids would need him more than I would, because I was just being silly. Charlie would be fine.  I would be fine.  I was wrong on all counts.

     I've been late for all three of my loved ones' deaths.  When my father died of lung cancer in 2000, I had been scheduled to take the following week off, but he died overnight and by the time we drove up to Middleton to say goodbye, he was cold, and gone.  I felt completely crushed for getting there too late--too late to see Da one more time.

              My Dad And Me

     

     When my brother Jay went into the hospital after a night of seizures and not being able to wake, I was too late then too.  I had stayed home to watch my brother Bill's daughter, Ashley, but as the night wore on into morning I knew I had to leave her with Chris so that I could go to the hospital.  As I walked through the halls, trying to find my mother, I saw them wheel a completely limp body past me for a CT Scan.  It was Jay, no longer thrashing but lying docilely asleep.  It didn't look like him.  His fever reached 104.5, and they transferred him by ambulance to another hospital.  He went into cardiac arrest on the way.  I'd never see Jay awake again.

     As I drove to South Shore Hospital, I knew it couldn't happen again.  How could it?  I couldn't be late again.  When I got put in the small room, I knew it was bad news--but as the doctor spoke to me and told me they were working on him still, I somehow, foolishly, had hope that I wouldn't be too late again.  She asked if I wanted to be there while they worked on him, and because I couldn't bear to be too late, I said yes.  When I got into the room, they had just called time.  I was too late to say goodbye to my brother, and my last remaining brother and my mother weren't there yet to keep me focused on someone else's grief, so I collapsed to the floor.

     When I finally managed to send a message to my husband, it wasn't elegant.  It wasn't careful.  It wasn't gentle.  It said "my brother is dead", because that was all my shaking hands could type.  

     I could tell you all about the services, or the severe flu that everyone came down with except me, or even the ride to pick up his ashes.  But the point is that the world goes on.  Those things are big moments to me, but not necessarily to the world.  To the world, it seems like six months or longer has gone by.  To me it's a day.  Maybe a week.  I put on my happy face, because neither his nor my children need sorrow, and my mother is grieving two sons the only way she can--by pretending it hasn't happened.  But for me, I want to sit down and burst into the uncontrollable sobs that just won't stop.  There's never time for that, so I let a little burst happen here or there, and then I force myself to go outside the house, no matter how much I hate it.  I would much rather spend my time inside, safe in a bubble of music and writing.

          This is my safe space 

     

      Invitations have been coming to family events.  I have a lot of family, and I used to go to all kinds of big events with them until my brother died.  Now the idea of stepping into a room with all of the people who I last saw at my brother's wake terrifies me.  It terrifies me to the point that I shake, and I gasp for air, and I ultimately just say no.  It doesn't make sense, but then anxiety and grief have never had to make sense for me.  

     Because I'm not ok.  All is not well.  My brother is dead, and I'm not ready to move on. It feels like if I go to a big family party, I'm admitting that he's gone, and I'm saying it's ok to move on.  It's not ok, yet.  Not for me.  So please, when I answer no to an invitation, know that I'm doing it out of love, a love for my brother that says I'm still here, I still remember, and I'm not ready to let you go.  Someday, in the way of grief, I will be.  When my tears are dry, when my sobs have finally been purged, I'll be able to think of a family gathering as just that.

     But until then, please understand, I'm not letting go of you.  I'm just holding on to my brother.

The Good Men Project Why We Run Series

I have a post up on the Good Men Project Sports Page.  Stop laughing...I'm sportsy.  Ok, maybe not sportsy.  But I exercise.  This is a series called "Why We Run", and for the first time in a long while the words just flowed out like poetry.  Hope you enjoy, and feel free to like & share!

https://www.facebook.com/goodmenprojectsports/posts/642242769252620

Sorting Hat Cake Wreck...a.k.a. Harry Pooper Cake

I've had so many cake wrecks it’s running joke in my family.  Take, for instance, my "Curious George" cake several years ago:

George looked more like an alien or a teddy bear, but he tasted pretty good, whereas Rose's dairy-free gluten-free Very...Fuzzy...Caterpillar cake was bearable but tasted like styrofoam covered in sugar:

Now, my cakes may look or taste awful...but they take hours to make and they clearly come from a place of love.  But none have even come close to the mess--I mean, labor of love--that I made for Punkgirl's 14th birthday.

Punkgirl, although she is proudly a nerd, has been anti-fantasy for years, telling me it's "just not my thing."  I've been ok with that, but a little sad that we couldn't share a love for all things mystical and magical.  Until now I thought, c'est la vie. I've lost her to Coffeeguy's love of history.  That is, until she decided to pick up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone one day for silent reading at school.  

She couldn't put it down.  When she read through all of the first four books in three weeks I knew she was really hooked!  So when she asked for the fifth book and we didn't have it (I know, it's weird, why don't we have the fifth book?!) I drove her immediately to the bookstore to pick up a trade paperback copy.  

We talked about Harry, and Ron, Hermione, George, Neville, Ginny...we posited theories about Dumbledore and Snape...we were connecting on a level we never had before.  So when my beautiful young lady turned fourteen, I knew I must attempt to make a gluten-free Harry Potter cake.  

I scoured the internets...looking for the perfect cake...I came across this gem:

(www.sloppyjoebaking.blogspot.com)

But let's face it...we both know that's way beyond my talents.  As is this one:

(www.layersoflove.blogspot.com)

I began to despair.  How could I make a Harry Potter cake that is within my capabilities?  

Then I had an idea.  A sorting hat cake.  I had confectioners'sugar.  I had cocoa.  How hard could it be?  I set about making the fondant (sorry, I didn't take pictures because I was too busy crying through my sensory issues) with 3 cups of confectioners' sugar, 1 cup of cocoa, 1 tbsp of corn syrup, and 5 ounces of water.  I mixed it all together, and although it began as a sticky, gooey mess, eventually it made a nice smooth ball.  I was feeling pretty confident that I could come up with this:

  www.cakecentral.com

I mean, how hard could it be? 

I lovingly rolled out my fondant.  It seemed pretty smoothe.  I cut one of these: 

into several circles, each smaller than the next, and placed them sloppily on top of each other.  I then cut a triangle for the top of the hat.  I used chocolate frosting to hold it all together and hold the fondant on.  And then this happened:

(I'd say I nailed it...)

Now, it was midnight.  And in my defense, I've never ever used fondant before.  But when I tell you that all I could think was that I made my kid a sh*t monster on her cake, and couldn't stop giggling hysterically to the point that I was falling down, please don't judge me. I couldn't even consider trashing it, because I was out of supplies, money, and time.  At least it tasted pretty good...

(Also please note the "magic wand" on the bottom right corner of the cake...which looks like a log of poo...). I fancied it up with some house flags that I printed off and attached to straws.  And all in all, Punkgirl is a huge fan of my "cake wrecks"...she finds them incredibly amusing, and was still laughing when we gave her this great Hot Topic Marauder's Map Harry Potter dress.

All in all, I take pride in my disasters.  Someday my kids will tell stories..."remember when mom made that giant poop cake?"

Slay-At-Home-Moms:  Feel free to share your "labors of love" below!

Blizzard Número Dos

It was easy to believe that the news stations were over-exaggerating when they said another "potential blizzard" was headed our way.  For once they weren't.

Coffeeguy's standing on about 4 feet of packed snow here. (See the window? The windowsill is about 9 1/2 feet off the ground.)

So what do we do when the wind is blowing too hard to actually play outside?  We bring it inside, of course:

Or we do this:

Or we watch endless hours of tv:

In extreme cases, we go online and plan Disney vacations that we (probably) won't go on, in the hopes that someday, someday, there will be a lack of snow and a splash of sunlight.

Stay warm, mamas.  Stay sane.

The "Me Do It" Stage

The "Me Do It" years of a toddler's life can be your salvation or the bane of your existence.  Nine times out of ten, it'll be both.

Rose has hit the "Rose do it" and there are days where it's adorable:

Rose put her rainbow hat and green Froggie boots on all by herself.

And then there are times where it's not so cute.  For instance, today Rose wanted to change her diaper.  "Rose need do it a' by ha-sef!!"  Unfortunately, there was poop in her diaper.  And on her hands.  And on the potty.  Sigh.

I've decided to come up with a plan for Rose so that she can do as much "ha-self" as she possibly can--without getting crap all over my bathroom.

I put out some big shoes:

And lots of hats:

...in the hopes that the more she can do herself the less she will be...toddlerific when I have to help her.  I even bought some pull-ups, in the hopes that letting her pull up her diaper like underwear will give her the feeling that she is doing everything herself.

On the (very) bright side of the "me do it", she loves to help put silverware in the dishwasher, or clean up her toys.

Now if I could just convince her that a cup is much more exciting than breastmilk, I'd be in business!

What's In A Mom?

There are just those days...

There are days where I rail at being home.  The days where I am worried that this is what my kids will see, the laundry lady, the cleaner, and the cook.  Where I fear they won't see me, but rather this temporary version of myself I have become.  The one who can't always get in to take a shower until night-time, because Rose refuses to take a nap that day.  Who doesn't have the energy to bother with makeup and contacts. They won't realize that there's a writer in there, an educated woman, someone who loves deeply and takes chances by trusting people that don't always deserve it, by believing in people who are destined to fail, by giving my heart not in hopes that it won't be crushed but in the certainty that it will be fulfilled.

They won't see the optimist, only the suck-at-home mom.  They won't remember the woman who got up every day and worked hard at her job as a childcare administrator, but only the one who they come home to, who worked equally hard but doesn't have the pen and fingerpaint stains and folded up latex gloves with tissues from the playground in it (because I don't use gloves to wipe Rose's nose, and most times we don't even get to the playground) to prove it.

Then there are days like today, when I think about my childhood.  Before my parents divorced, my mother didn't work--my father never wanted her to.  (No it wasn't Macchiavellian...it was that old fashioned mentality that a man is a man because he provides.) So my mom stayed home.  Some of my greatest memories are going to Woolworth's with Ma.  Visiting Grandma and Grampa with her.  Sitting under the table at her feet while she played cards on Sundays.  The pretty dresses she loved to put me in (though they were damned itchy, back then, with those puffy, scratchy petticoats.)  My mother was the cook, the cleaner, the laundry-woman.  She was the nurse and the teacher.  I never thought of her as any of those things, but only as my mom.  When my parents divorced, she worked long hard hours, and I missed her, but I was still closer to no one.  

I think about those days, and I think I have it pretty great--I have the chance to make my kids look at me the way I always looked at my mom.  And I can live with that.

Bada** Forces For Good

I don't think it's any secret that we are a family of nerds (well, except Rose.  One year old Rose finds our embrace of nerd culture amusing.)

Boston Comic Con is nearly here, and we just spent an inordinate amount of time on finding things we need to make costumes.  Punkgirl, 13, is going as Cassandra Cain's Batgirl, Happyboy, 11, is going as Moon Knight, I'm going as Poison Ivy, Coffeeguy is going as the 9th Dr Who, and Rose is going as a Dalek.  

I'm sharing this because I want to point out the magic of nerdism when you have kids.  Two weeks of bickering has morphed into conversations about the costumes and the difference between concept Cosplay and authenticism.  Coffeeguy and HB are both sticklers for authenticity.  If it's a leather pea coat, a leather motorcycle jacket simply will not do.  PG and I like to be accurate, but also like to put our own spin on a character.  For instance:

The beginning of my Poison Ivy concept.

Once again, Rose is not impressed. 

She wore these for a millisecond before her nerd contempt got the better of her.

Little dalek for my little darling.

Today we lie in wait for all the lovely boxes containing morphsuits, gloves, etc. and instead of bickering there is speculation on what might get here today .  Now, you could argue that any interest can do that, and to you I say good for you.  But in my house, nothing gets the gang cooperating like the prospect of doing something outside the realm of "normal."  Maybe that's just my own nerd tendencies rubbing off on them, but I don't think so.  They love comic books, especially stories of outcasts becoming something more.  Cassandra Cain is a mute Batgirl, with a dark past, and yet is the most bada** good gal you could ask for.  Moon Knight has multiple personalities, but is still a force for good.  

We were supposed to go for two days, and the kids were psyched.  In looking at the prices, I realized that if we bought tickets for two days we couldn't get any photos with the celebrity guests.  I talked to the kids about it.  I wanted to be there for two days, too, but I knew that Coffeeguy would really love a photo.  The kids made a decision together--they could dress up on the day of the costume contest, and maybe use the costumes for Halloween, too.  We're going to geek out on August 10th, and we're even getting a picture with Doctor Who/Torchwood/Arrow guy Jon Barrowman, a fave of both Coffeeguy and myself.  It occurred to me, in putting his desire for a picture ahead of their own desire to go for two days, my kids are also bada** forces for good.

Farmer's Market Madness

There's something about fresh air and crazy, crazy sweet strawberries that makes me insane.  By insane I mean that my normal cheapne--uh, thriftiness disappears and I suddenly need to purchase every fresh veggie and fruit that crosses my path.  

Now, there are two reasons I visit the Farmer's Market.  The first is that I like the idea of supporting farmers.  After all, they did all the work, and I get to eat all the yummy food.  The second is that I have discovered in myself a love of fresh fruits and veggies.  Am I paying extra?  Sort of.  But I'm coming home with things I can't get anywhere else--because if you think there is no difference between farm fresh and grocery store veggies, you haven't gotten quality pieces from your local Farmer's Market.  Here is what I came home with today:

Notice that one of those is a plant.  Yes, even though I have a brown thumb, I bought a cherry tomato plant.  It was the fresh air.  And the strawberries.  But it was also the instant gratification of this:

...and knowing that if I don't kill it in the first three weeks, I'll have even More. Yummy. Tomatoes!

It's also a great place to take the kids:

...not to mention the colors!

And when you get home, the kids love to wash the veggies...BONUS!!

And last but not least:

It's great family bonding time!  There were no tantrums, no rolling eyes, no bored looks...it's the fresh air.  And the strawberries.  (Ok, maybe it was also the gluten free cinnamon rolls, the freshly made ice cream, and the muffins...)

Happy 4th of July!

We're a little bummed out--one of my favorite cousins had to move her annual 4th of July party to Saturday because of Hurricane Arthur, and we already have plans on Saturday.  Today has been spent playing video games and avoiding going out in the rain.  Still, it's never the wrong kind of day for a tutu photo.

It's quick, it's easy, and with the Pic Collage app, it's a simple jump from a cute pic to a fantastic greeting card photo.  Go download the app--it's free! And enjoy!

Camp Awesome Begins!

Its officially the first day of summer for us, and we have gotten off to an auspicious start.  We made Summer Bucket Lists last night, which included (on Happyboy's list) "hug Punkgirl every day" and (on Punkgirl's list) "avoid Happyboy's hugs daily"...

Being a former educator, I like to put my ideas into lesson plans.  I can't help myself.  It makes it so much easier to plug fun things into a day.  It's not like we have to follow it to a t, but it's nice to look and see that recipe for clay and making ornaments that I really wanted them to try.  My book looks like this: 

My favorite are the writing prompts.  In the book it says "writing prompts 1-5"...on a separate sheet, I have about 50 writing prompts, some I came up with, some I looked up online, some I asked them for.  I then torture Happyboy (who loves to create a story but hates to actually write) by adding an option to give me a 10 page typewritten (double-spaced, I'm not THAT mean) report, with evidence, that will convince me that he shouldn't have to write at all this summer.  I figure if he puts in that much effort he deserves to skip it.

Now, that might sound like I force the kids to do everything in my little book.  Au contraire.  This is the book I pull out when they say "I'm bored." Ok. You're bored.  Great!!! I have writing prompts today!  They'll either do it because they really are bored, or they'll go find something to do on their own!  Either I get something fun to read, and "free" (this word has such a different meaning for parents) time, or they go find something to do and I don't have to hear "I'm bored!"

This week's writing prompts look like this:

I can't wait to see what they come up with!

The Wrong Stuff

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

I am a huge advocate of seeing a good therapist.  You know why? Because LIFE IS HARD, and sometimes you just need someone to tell you it's ok to be overwhelmed, and occasionally to maybe slap you back into the realm of reality in a comforting and safe environment.

I have had great therapists--my marriage counselor was a wonderful woman (well, maybe she still is, since she's still alive), and she was able to steer our marriage from the rocks into smooth waters with a few suggested exercises and by facilitating better communication.  I firmly believe she saved my marriage.

That said, there's nothing worse than a bad therapist, and there are just as many bad ones out there as good ones.  I've had some craptastic therapists, so  I'm going to give you the benefit of my experience, to save you time and money.

With the disclaimer that I am not a professional, and my only experience with therapy is actually attending it, and you should discuss any mental health concerns with your primary care doctor, this is my list of therapists to avoid:

The "Mountain Out Of A Molehill" Jerky Jones: I once had a therapist belittle my feelings to the point that I would have anxiety attacks about going to therapy.  Your feelings are not stupid.  They are feelings, and you dread your therapy appointment so much that you find yourself choosing to schedule that long-awaited dental surgery just to avoid it, you need a different therapist!

The "All About Me" Chatty-Cathy:  If more of your appointment is spent hearing about your counselor's life than talking about your own, you've got the wrong person.  If you know your therapist's family structure down to how many kids or grandkid's she or he has, something's not right.  There's a difference between empathizing and using a patient as a sounding board.  And don't feel bad about changing therapists--it's only business, and your business is what you're paying to get off your chest!

The "Tell Me Again" Annie:

If your therapist forgets your name and/or your issues from one session to the next, run away, and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.  If your problems aren't important enough for your therapist to remember, you'll never get the help you need.  Remember, you are the client, and that means your anxiety attacks or feelings of anxiousness, anger, or depression are real to you, and important to you, and they should be equally important and real to a good therapist.

The "Belligerent Bob":

Your therapist may tell you things you don't necessarily want to hear.  But a good therapist is going to let you get there on your own time, and help you see it for yourself.  If your therapist seems angry with you, puts you down, or otherwise antagonizes you, say "no thank you" and find a new one.  You're paying someone to help you get through a tough time, not to add on to the stress you already have or to make you feel anxious or worse, afraid.

And finally, the "High Horse Hannah":

If your counselor looks down on you or treats you like a child, show her/him you're an adult by being firm but polite when you show them the door (figuratively speaking.)  You are a human, and they are a human, and while they may be trained in communication and issue resolution, that doesn't make them better than you.  A good therapist's job is to teach you conflict resolution and to listen to your concerns and feelings.  They are there to guide you, not to rule you.  

If you're in the market for a good therapist,I suggest that you check with a healthcare provider that you trust, or a trusted friend or family member.  If you have no luck there, check out this website:

http://www.goodtherapy.org/?utm_source=bing&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=ag-therapist&utm_content=a-good-local-therapist&utm_campaign=PPCBing-General-Three

Confessions of a Control Freak:Birthday Jitters

Confession of a Control Freak:

Sunday is my 42nd birthday, and to celebrate, we're having a night out with some friends tomorrow night.  Coffeeguy has elaborately planned a surprise night, and I know nothing of the details of where we are going or what we are doing.  To give myself a little credit, I was totally ok with that, excited even, until last night. I started thinking about my outfit (he only gives me hints, and this one was that the girls are dressing up Up UP.) So I picked my outfit out, but am now thinking (as I do), "What if it's not right for where we are going?? What if we're doing a lot of walking??  What if there is air conditioning and I'm freezing???"

 I'm also thinking, "Will there be gluten free food? Of course he must have checked, right? Will it be good, or look like this:"

Last night he was making little gift bags (I love adult party gift bags!!) and mentioned that he originally didn't think he'd had enough for 8 bags, but luckily he did.  I mentioned that he must have meant 7, the usual number of friends, and he said, no, there are 8 people coming.  Now of course I am thinking, "WHO IS THE EIGHTH PERSON??? Is it a friend from out of town? A fun friend of a friend? A guide in the city of Boston???? Who is the mysterious 8th person???" 

And where are we going? Dinner, that much I know, but then what?? It is killing me! Is it dancing, bowling, or maybe:

 

I can't ask.  Then I would spoil the surprise, and he has kept all of this secret for a month and a half.  

Then there's the babysitting.  My mother had heart surgery, so she's out of the running.  Coffeeguy says my 13 year old can handle it, but what if I come home to this:

It's a lot of stress for a plan-ahead kind of woman....

Pride Parade Boston

I took my kids to the annual Pride parade yesterday in Boston.  If you've never been to Pride, I have never had a more wonderful, celebratory experience than the Gay Pride Parade.  It's tame, compared to some other states' parades, but that also makes it very family friendly.  And what families there are!! There is no difference in a Pride parade between same-sex, hetero-, black, white, green, whatever, couples or families.  There is just love and acceptance (well, not counting that one guy holding the Jesus destroyed sodomy sign), and it's a beautiful thing to see.  

Rose is too young to know what everyone is marching for.  She's too young to know that many of the people marching fight a battle every day just to love who they love, or just to be who they are.  She doesn't look at a transgender girl and wonder why a "boy" is dressed in "girl clothes."  She doesn't look at two moms and see something unusual.  That's one of the reasons we go to Pride, because someday the two moms she sees could be her older sister and her sister-in-law.  She will see the love that flows between them and know that it's the same love that Momma & Daddy share, it's the same love that her brother and his spouse share, it's the same love that she will find one day.  

   Equality is serious business.

For now, she sees a big party.  She claps, she smiles, she cheers.  My hope is that as she grows older, she will clap and cheer for the freedom to love who you want and be who you want, instead of just the music, balloons, and bright costumes.

   Rose is an equal opportunity clapper

The Scent of Success

So this month I decided to participate in a diaper study.  It's a study where you get 16 days worth of diapers, you try them out, record data each day, and hand the diapers (which you put inside heavy ziplock bags and then inside a construction-weight trash bag) back in with your paperwork a couple of times per week.  At the end you get $190 for your time, effort, and baby poop.  Sweet deal, right?  I have to change Rose's diapers anyway, so now I'll just get PAID to do it.  Plus, 16 days' worth of free diapers, yo.

       Rose thinks that's pretty cool.

I'm going to digress here and tell you that if you are a SAHM or hold a part-time job, go find the nearest focus group company around you.  I get emails from a group called Focus on Boston, and while I don't qualify for many of their studies (food allergies, or I'm not diabetic or the right age, etc), the ones I have done pay really well.  Like this one, they take up a small amount of your time, and you get paid the day it's complete.  

Back to my original story.  The first week I turned in my bag of diapers & paperwork and thought, "PIECE OF CAKE!!" This is going to be soooo easy!  Everything was organized by the company, plus they sent email reminders on which diaper to use on which week.  It was making me feel pretty successful, and like I was making a contribution to the household bank account (and also a little bit to my own personal wallet, since I feel like, in doing this work, I've earned it.)  

Then came this week.  Now, I worked in early education for 17 years.  I changed diarrhea poops and cleaned up vomit, even got pooped on once and had to go home and (shower and) change.  I'm no stranger to the yuck that comes with children.  That is until I realized that, even though the instructions told me this already, I was going to actually have to "shake the BM into the toilet."  Now, if Rose had perfect little formed BMs this wouldn't be a problem, but for whatever reason that kid has the mushiest poop in the universe.  It's impossible to get it all off.  Couple that with the fact that I have to keep the diaper, and this week is the longest one during the trial (you go from Tuesday to Tuesday before turning it in) and you have a recipe for stench.  I've bagged the plastic Baggie inside the construction bag INSIDE A SCENTED TRASH BAG and the smell is still over-powering.  I'm convinced if I left it on the porch it would scare away neighboring coyote, but I can't take the chance that a skunk might think he's found a new lover in that bag.  No, who am I kidding, even a skunk would be afraid.  

I've got two more days before I can turn this bag in, and I now have a "stick-up/glade" on my grocery list for today,  but you can bet that since they open at 7:30 a.m. I'll be out the door in record time on Tuesday.  I can't wait to get rid of the smell of success.

Losing My Fears For My Gay Middle School Daughter

On Huffington Post today:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandy-roffey/losing-my-fears-for-my-ga_b_5424152.html

A Hero's Doodie

The Gift I Never Thought I'd Love

For my wedding shower 16 years ago my Dad bought me a set of steak knives.  At the time, I thought it was kind of a weird, impersonal gift.  I didn't cook--so certainly I didn't know that they were very expensive J.A. Henckels steak knives, not that that would have made a difference to me.  I simply thought, while any gift is nice, it was a weird one to get from my Dad.  He told my husband they were the "never-dull" kind, as if this explained his choice.  I thought of it as this little inside joke...my Dad, rather than giving me something that was sentimental and would make me cry, gave me boring old steak knives.  

We danced at my wedding, and had these great moments that I will never forget.  But he got sick in 1999, and didn't find out it was lung cancer until it was too late.  He passed away in February of 2000.

You might wonder what this has to do with the knives.  But I'm not digressing, I'm just letting you know that I loved him, and I lost him.  The knives come in now.  I started doing all of the cooking when I became a suck at home mom.  At first, I really did suck at it, and we ate a LOT of hotdogs and plain baked chicken or pork.  But as the months went by, our wallets got thinner and I got so sick of having chicken the same way all the time.  I began to buy fresh foods, because believe it or not, they were cheaper.  I could make a dish that would last for days by cutting up all the veggies and making a big pot full of chicken stir-fry, homemade chili, beef with broccoli, etc.  I could spice up meat or pork with my trusty sea-salt and garlic grinder (that thing is magical), so that it would be tender and delicious. I cut the vegetables with--you guessed it--my Henckels knives.  I cut my steak & pork with--right again--my Henckels knives.

  And every single time I use them, I think about how I once thought they were a boring gift, not sentimental at all.  Not sentimental, except for those tears that sneak up to my eyes, because my Dad gave me those knives.  

(And FYI...they're still sharp:)

A Teacher's Legacy

As a teacher, I always hoped that I would make a difference in the lives of children, and I always felt that that would be my legacy to the world.  I made meaningful memories, I gave time and attention, and I put in 100 per cent effort.  A huge part of that came from my parents, but a portion of it came from a very special teacher who passed away recently.

In the ninth grade, I was mousy, quiet, and incredibly shy.  I was a good student, but socially I was awkward, despite a small group of close friends.  After about a month of school, my best friend begged me to join the Air Force Junior ROTC program at the school.  The program was at an all-time low for recruitment, and without enough students they would have to close.  

After a frustrated artist ripped my attempt at gradation into two pieces, I went to guidance, who told me there were no available classes during that time slot.  When I told her there was a spot in ROTC, she tried everything to convince me not to join--and I'm certain she was part of the problem in regards to the numbers.  Ignoring her advice was possibly the best decision I made in my entire high school career.

I excelled in ROTC--where there was order, and a chain of command, and specific jobs to perform.  It was a place where I could finally figure out how to be myself, in that sea of uniformity, but it wasn't until adulthood that I realized that the instructors, Major and Sarge, were the reason.  Major was a short, round-bellied little man with a combover and a mini-mustache.  He passed away this Easter Sunday, causing a flood of memories to come rushing back, along with an adult's appreciation of his dedication.  It was easy to think of him at the time as goofy and funny; but looking back now, he drove from New Hampshire to South of Boston every single day to make a place where a bunch of misfits could fit in, and thrive, and he did it for 16 years.  

There were life lessons.  I remember one day Major asked me what I did that weekend, and I said my Dad had come to take me to McDonald's, and "not anywhere special."  Major read me the riot act.  My Dad had driven down from Middleton, an hour and a half drive without traffic,just to see me, and a lot of divorced Dads didn't bother to see their kids, period.  I never forgot that conversation, and never thought about my Dad's visits the same way again.

There were conversations with my Mom, who knew I had an anxiety disorder, so I couldn't eat in public.  Whenever we went away on encampments I was subtly checked on, and it was impressed upon me that I needed to eat to make it through the obstacle course or orienteering or whatever activity that was planned that day.  

He pushed me to apply for higher and higher positions, until I was commanding his squadron in my senior year.  He made sure I applied for a scholarship, and that year four of us received ROTC scholarships.  I ultimately turned mine down, for many different reasons, but Major did more to encourage me to pursue life after high school than my guidance counselor ever did.  

I volunteered after high school, for a few years, and in 1998, 8 years after I graduated, I invited him and his wife to my wedding (to another alumnus.)  Sadly, a few years later, I lost track of him--after I had kids.  I have to hope that he knew the great impact he had upon his students.  My Facebook news feed is full of sad comments, but good ones too--about how much he meant to them, and how much he changed the course of their lives.  

Here's to you, Major.  Thank you for your dedication, for your effort, and your attention.  I can only hope that one day my legacy will be as great as yours.

Photo credit: www.eagletribune.com

Rose Goes To The River (Or, How A Toddler Travels)

Rose loves to go for walks.

First she puts on her shoes.

Then she puts on her sweater.

Mom wants to take Rose to see the water.

Rose wants to see this rock.  

Rose plays on the rock for a bit, then Mom says, "Come on, Rose, let's go see the water."

Rose wants to play on this tree stump.

Mom lets her play for a few minutes, then says, "Come on, Rose, let's go see the water."

Rose wants to practice stepping on and off the curb.  

Mom lets her practice for a while, then says, "Come on, Rose, let's go see the water."

They finally see the water, the river rushing by beneath them. Rose likes the river, but now she wants to check out this rock again.