WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST WITH A IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT...

...at 4:21 in the morning.  Because when you go to bed at 7:20 on Friday night with the beginnings of a stab-yourself-in-the-temple-with-a-spoon style migraine, that's the time your body decides you've had enough sleep. FOUR a frickin' clock in the morning.

*sigh*




For those of you who may read this at a more Godly hour, you may notice my new little Zebra friend at the top of my page.  His name is Harold.  He likes to Zumba.  Actually, he's showing off his new Mambo No. Five dance moves, but he's new to the game so don't be expecting him to get all hippy and Shakeria like, since he's not actually Latino.  Between you and me, I think he's from Jersey.

Any hoo... yes.  Harold is helping me tell you all that I will be participating in the A-Z challenge this month as well.  And I know what you're thinking....

WAIT!  You did that last month!  And you didn't finish yet!

Agreed.  But in discussing my quandary, Joshua suggested that I run them both simultaneously. Which would go horribly wrong because it is entirely too confusing for me and then you'd all hate him for leaving me curled up in a ball on the couch, rocking back and forth not knowing what the letter of the day really is.  Then Tina from the A-Z challenge said I could re-post the previous posts I had written.  Which could work, but then you'd all get bored really quick.  Plus you have my own personal dilemma of posting every day.  Seriously people, my life is not really that interesting.

So.  here's what I'm gonna do.  I'm going to start over tomorrow with A.  But I'm going to attempt to keep my posts to quick little snippets of my life.  On days when I simply can not think of anything to write, I will re-post one of March's letters, with the disclaimer that it is a re-post, so those of you with a reader of 500+ blogs can know to skip right over it.  (Except for the letter "L"... that will re-run, since now that I've recovered, it cracks me up.)  When I get to the letter "S" I will go back to posting the way I have in March.  You know, writing the way I talk, taking forever to get to my point and leaving you rolling your eyes wondering when I'll ever shut up.

Mkay?

OH.  And my theme will be my adult on-set of ADD.  Since I am easily distracted and kind of all over the place.  So when you read them and say, "Where is she going with these?", you'll know.

I'm going no where.

Fast.

So stay off the road....

R Is For "Resolution"

In a few short days it will be April 1st.  The day of fools.  And I can't help but think of the other day of fools, January first, when we all resolve to do things better in the year to come.  Yet here we are four months in, most of us forgetting all our good intentions.

My resolutions this year were simple.

First, to check the oil in my car once a month.  A resolution which, thus far, has been quite successful.  My car is still running, the oil is getting changed and checked, and my mechanic is thrilled.  Tony is ready to trade it in for a new car, but that's an entirely different conversation.

The second was to buy at least two products made in the USA a month.  This has proven to be an interesting challenge.  At first glance, a lot of products seem to be made here.  They say packaged in MI or company headquarters in OK.  But upon further investigation, I am finding that many of the products are actually made in Mexico or Indonesia and processed here.  Does that count?  I have no idea...  So I'd say that while I have been mildly successful at this resolution, there's some work to be done.  I have been buying more resale and refinishing a lot of furniture pieces that have been made right here in New England.  In short, I guess this one's a work in progress.

The last resolution I made was to take better care of my T2 Diabetes.  I am insulin resistant due to another health condition, and with the onset  of my T2, it has become apparent that I need to monitor my refined sugar intake as well as remember my medicines.  This is no small feet my friends, as it is Peep season, and I can remember everyone's pills but my own.  None the less, I am doing much better.

I am happy to report that I am now consistently taking my medicines, I stop eating when I am full, and discovered a wonderful surprise when I hopped on the scale the other day.

I am down ten pounds since January.

Actually, this is the least I've weighed in two years.

And that my friends is a VERY good thing.

It seems I am successfully kicking the Diabetes dwarfs to the curb....



Except for thirsty... he's quite the party animal, so I'm keeping him around for giggles.

Q Is For "Quandary"...

A Quandary...
Mom once said she loved me just the way I am,
So I wonder what would happen,
If I became a clam.
If her son was gray and grimy,
slippery and slimy,
An oversized Hors d'oeuvre,
Would Mom still have the nerve?

Well my Pen Pals, it has been nine years.  Nine very long, often physically painful, years waiting for a regular position within the post office.  For the first 4 years I worked part time, 6 days, 50+ hours per week with no benefits.  No health insurance, no vacation, no sick time, no retirement incentives.  (In a state that mandates health insurance.  How's that for a federal government job?) The last five, I was lucky enough to be in an office big enough to have career part time employees, and when one of the positions was vacated, I was converted into the residual position.

I still worked on an as needed schedule.  Mainly that meant 6 days a week, and whatever hours they needed.  If someone called in sick, I was picking up extra deliveries in addition to my regular shift.  If someone didn't feel like doing their entire job the day before, I was cleaning up the mess.  If someone walked out on Christmas Eve?.... yeah, me as well. And while the people I work with, for the most part, share in the misery and ensure that the day sucks equally for all of us, there are the select few that still do not understand that this is the job.  Suck it up, buttercup.

Three years ago, there was an agreement made to not convert any more part timers to regular full time positions until they could see the impact of the new machines they had acquired to sort the mail.  I understood this, as it was to protect the full time employees we already had on payroll.  However, I was next in line for regular.

The plus side to this three year wait is that it provided a really nice paycheck.  There has been much flexibility with my hours, and when ever I needed a little extra in my paycheck, I could pick up an extra shift.  However, this meant almost never getting a Saturday off, and often having the kids in after school programs much later than I wanted.  I am often left exhausted and cranky by the end of the week, rendering me useless on Sunday.

A few days ago the National agreement ended.  My boss announced that they would be releasing the routes that had previously been held vacant.  There are five routes, and I am next in line, which means that no matter what happens, I will be fifth up the totem pole in seniority.  This is important considering the insecurity of the job lately.  It is my understanding that while I can not bid for a certain position (the downside of being a career part timer) I can state my preferences.  And since I am first in seniority, I more or less can take my pick of what route I'd like, barring of course, that no regulars chose to move.

Becoming regular means that I will no longer be allowed to carry extra routes when someone is out.  It means doing the same thing every day. An automatic four weeks vacation, rather than on an earning basis. It means having a permanent place to keep my pictures of the boys.  It means only being responsible for ONE thing, one route.  It also can mean a substantial pay cut.

Given that there are five routes up for bid, chances are good I won't have to take any pay cut.  In fact, on some routes I would be paid the same amount I currently make for less work and far less stress.  But there is one route, a smaller one, that it seems no one wants in the office.

It is by far, my favorite route in the entire office.  It is scheduled with a 5/6 day work week, having every other SATURDAY off.  It also comes with a 10K a year pay cut.

Now, I have known that eventually this day would come, so I have been slowly getting myself financially set up to take a pay cut, just not a 10K cut.  But the allure of having two Saturdays a month with my boys and Tony is really enticing. Add to that the ability to make it home before the bus everyday, therefore no longer needing after school care for either child, is thrilling as well. Especially since there is no after school care for Oldest come September when he starts middle school.

In the end, I may not get a choice.  Someone senior to me could jump, and I may not have it as an option.

But for the next month, it seems I have Quite the Quandary.

P Is For "Postal Predicaments"....

(Image from here)

I must admit that I while have done this route many times, I've never had the pleasure of having to drive down this drive way.  Upon reaching the end, I find that it splits to two different houses.  I'd like to say that I use some kind of magical postal logic when determining which home is which, but in reality, I guess.  The absence of house numbers makes this even more fun as you can imagine, confused even more so by the use of the "r" after the address number and that this is primarily an old cottage area with multiple homes on each lot.  Seriously people, those numbers are not just for Domino's....

None the less, I attempt to deliver it to the front porch,  When in fact I come face to face with old, dusty painted house numbers on the back side of the porch screen door. Clearly, I am at the wrong house.  Realizing my mistake, I cross the lawn, hop the fence, dodge the piles of dog poo and deliver it to a brightly painted yellow side door of what I can only deduce is indeed your home. Checking my feet and applauding my ninja like skills of navigating Doggie landmines, I hop back into the truck and begin rolling back up the driveway. Midway, I am approached by a good looking man in his forties walking back to the house, and confirm the address.  I am shocked to find out that this is in fact his home.

I had always assumed that this home was owned by a widowed snowbird, since individual mail forwards out several times a year for months at a time.  Conversation strikes up, and I am surprised by how friendly and inquisitive he is.  I've learned  he's 49,  where he grew up, what he does for work, and all about that woman who ruined him from California.

Wait.

Whoa....  Dude?  Are you hitting on me?  Seriously?  I'm in my sweats.


Feeling rather stunning in my ponytail tossed hair, lightly scented with the sweet stench of mail truck,  and newsprint covered hands, I quickly comment about something my husband and I had been discussing that morning.  To which he laughs and replies "How long have you been married?"


"Seven months."


"Damn.  I am too late again..... You got any single friends?"

He continued to keep me engaged in conversation, even after I closed the door and put the truck in gear, for a full 15 minutes more.  Funniest part though was that although this entire exchange was odd, he seemed like a really nice guy.  Normal.  Local.  Educated. He even has a dog that is not named after an alcoholic beverage.


Perhaps I should find him one of my single friends.... after of course, he gets back from his new job on that tiny island in the Caribbean he told me all about...

O is For "Oldest"...

(Rorschach Ink Blot No. 22)

 



I am riding on a small bus, sitting in the third row from the front on the right side.  I am unable to see who is driving this bus, but I am overwhelmed by the belief that it is Youngest.  The bus is filled with people that love me.  Families, friends, and their families.  They are laughing, talking among themselves.  Tony is in the seat directly behind the driver, his niece is in the passenger side.  A conversation sparks between the first three rows of seats, and as the words escape my mouth, Tony's niece looks over the seat to me and shoots me the look.  The look that says loud and clear, it was the dumbest I've thing ever said, and I'd do well to keep my mouth shut for the remainder of the ride.  I sink back in my seat, and look over at Tony.  He is casually laughing with my brother even though he has seen the whole exchange.  I wonder if he'll let me sit with him on the way home, then quickly realize that he won't.  I sink even further down.

I am not sure where we are all going, but shortly we pull up to an apartment building.  I am told that it is the home of my neighbor, who I turn to see in the back row of the bus.  Upon pulling into the parking lot, we exit the bus, and my neighbor and her family are escorted into their home.  We wait outside distracted, waiting.  Waiting for what, exactly?  I turn to see that the entire car port area that the bus had pulled into was now set with tables, chairs and linens.  Waitstaff are setting up places, decking the tables with party type favors and centerpieces, and in the center of it all, there is a cake.  It is a four tier cake, white fondant with circle of multicolored pastels.  On the top, there is an ornament, and while I can't make out it's entirety, I can see it's the number 6.  


There is talk between the guests, a co-worker of mine is discussing her excitement over the upcoming birthday party.  It is for my neighbor, waiting unsuspecting in her apartment.  My co-worker speculates that my neighbor is turning 50.  I point to the topper and say, "I think it's her 60th".  Again, the look falls upon me.  "She can't possibly be 60.  She doesn't look a day over 45."  Her grandmotherly charm instantly fades.  Her tone is mean, condescending, and sharp.  I rescind, feeling ashamed of my assumption. I swipe a stray hair around my ear and gently scratch my chin, a nervous habit I have had since I was little. From the corner of my eye, I spy an old friend.  He approaches me and wipes my chin with his finger.  I am bleeding from scratching my face.  He looks away in disgust.


Suddenly, I am distracted by my Mother.  She hands me 45 cents. "I'm paying you what I owe you."  I look down at it, not wanting to take it.  I think about how it is the exact cost of milk at school she must have owed this to me from years ago.  Flipping the coins, I realize that while the nickel and dime are perfect, the quarter has been flattened and stretched, as if it has been wrung through a souvenir penny machine.  She had in fact paid me back from a time I can't remember, but in a way that rendered it almost useless to me.  As if she never really wanted to make her debt good rendering the debt and me, useless.


The food it all set out now.  Serving dishes of ziti and spaghetti, with meatballs as big as your fist.  The smell is fabulous.  The bread is fresh baked. Mouth watering, I am suddenly aware that I can not eat any of this.  None.  Everyone grabs a plate and begins to fill up.  Mounds of pasta with sauce ladled on top, there is laughter and much conversation as my neighbor has arrived. I can feel the sinking, painful feeling in my stomach.  I am so hungry.  Looking around I see salad on the back buffet.  I grab a plate and while it is getting harder and harder for me to see, I can make out that my plate already has a few chopped onions on it and some pepperoni slices, quartered.  Odd, but none the less, I find my way to the salad buffet.  My vision is fading now, and I have to hold onto the tables and chairs to find my way safely to the greens.  My brother and Tony are there, sitting in my path.  I am allowed between them, but I can not manipulate the tongs.  My brother, annoyed, grabs them from me, cuts off a piece and puts it on my plate.  Barely able to see, I realize it is not lettuce, but broccoli.  "No. That's enough.  You already have too much on your plate." he says, and Tony agrees.


I look down.  I can make out a  few shavings of onion, two inches of broccoli stalk, and 3 pepperoni slices, quartered. But I can't argue with him, and I can't eat the other food.  I am stuck.  I try to take a seat next to my husband, but he sharply puts his foot up on the chair and points further down.  I find a seat away from them, alone.  I am so hungry and unable to see, I feel around in front of me on the table but find nothing.  Laughter erupts, and I am lost.  They had taken my food as a joke, the plate returned I turn from them.  Devastated, defeated, and now completely unable to see, I have no where to go.


I begin to cry.


It's like middle school all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I awaken sweating, hair stuck to me face, tears drenching my pillow.  Sitting up in bed, the flood gates open  and I can't control the tears from running down my cheeks.  I try unsuccessfully to not to wake Tony beside me, but he rolls over and begins rubbing my back.

"You Okay?"


"Yeah.  Just a bad dream."

I lay back in bed and am overwhelmed by the realization that I am far more worried about Oldest starting middle school that care to let on.  Worried about the pressures of the teenage years, and the people that will pretend to be his friends for their own manipulative reasons. Tony comments often on his eating habits which could lead to uncontrolled eating habits later, but I am too afraid to do anything.  I am afraid that I will damage his esteem, or worse, deprive him of food when he is indeed, actually hungry. At the same time, I am worried that if I do nothing about these habits,  he will end up being the heavy kid in a new school and  teenage boys can be really mean.

Oldest is sensitive like his Mamma. He will need to grow some thick skin and make hard choices about friends.  Choices I'm not sure he can make at this point in his life.  Choices that I can't make for him or he will never learn.

It's a helpless feeling.

This letting go and watching.

Overwhelming even.

N Is For....

N could be for New England.  I have lived here my whole life, with exception of 7 years in my twenties that I spent living in Florida.  I think the best thing about living here (aside from family) is the season change.  Here, we complain about the seasons, but by the time we just can't stand it any more, it's over and we have a new season to complain about.  The worst thing is the politics and the cost.  It is very expensive to live here and the taxes are insane.  Which is ironic, since the biggest tea party EVER was held in Boston Harbor over taxes.

N could be for Nonsense which happens a lot here. So much so, that Normal feels weird.

N could be for Nieces and Nephews.  I have two of each (on my side) with one more surprise on the way. While sitting at dinner the other night with my parents and my brother's family, Youngest shared with Tony his thoughts on his youngest boy cousin. (he's 4)

Youngest: "He's pretty cool.  But I'm holding out on my final decision until he's like 6 or 7."
Tony: "I think you'll always like him, because he's family."
Youngest: "Yeah.  He is pretty cool.  But I think I'll decide when he's 6."

N could be for Neglected, as in this secretary desk that has been in my family for the last 3 generations.

It's my latest project and it's coming out quite nice. It comes with a funny story and every time I touch it I find out something new. Like the "pillars" next to the door?  They are secret hiding places... But there will be more of that later....

N could be for None of that, which is what Tony will be getting if he doesn't shave and shower soon NOW. He's so handsome when he doesn't smell and/or look like the uni-bomber.

N could be for Naughty, which thankfully the kids have not been doing much of lately.  It could also be for Negotiate, which seems to be Youngest's newest acquired skill. Seriously, if the kid put a quarter of the effort into actually doing things instead of trying to get out of them....


N could also be for NO!  Since I say it so. frickin'. often.

But tonight, I think N should be for Nothing.

Because judging by this excuse I call a post, clearly that's what I've got...

Nothing.

Here's hoping "O" will make for better conversation.


***If one of you could help me out in the comments if you found this through your reader.... I can't figure out if it's redirecting properly yet.  Thanks***

M Is For "Monkey Heads"...

M is for Monkey heads.  Which is what I call my kids at least four times a day.  I remember once casually calling them that at their after school program and one of the other boys laughed.  To which, Oldest (maybe 7 at the time) promptly stood up and said "What?  She calls us that because she loves us."  and that was the end of that.  M is also for Mom.

And Mental.

And Minions.

And Mental Minions.

And Mental Midgets which is of course, where my URL came from.  I have also called my boys my mental midgets since, well, forever.  I have never meant any disrespect to the little people of the world, it just always fit my kids.  The Urban Dictionary defines a mental midget as being: a person who is narrow-minded or has limited knowledge or insight to anything outside his or her immediate life. 


 Hello?  Does this sound like anyone else's kids? Even at 10 and 11 they still think that there is one point in the universe in which everything revolves around, and that point is them.  So, when I was toying with creating a blog, I decided on the URL of mom 2 mental midgets because that's who I was, and for a very short time the blog also had that title.


And then the blog sat.  For a while.  I wrote a little here and there, mainly using it as a platform for venting my craptastic days of being a single Mom of two crazies.  I remember sitting there one night saying, "Lord help me.  I will never survive them." and Surviving Boys was born.

Suddenly, it was complete surprise when, in true Field Of  Dreams fashion, "I wrote it, and they came." At last count I currently have around 136 Pen Pals, which humbles me like you can not imagine.  But, it has happened, on occasion, that my URL has offended.  Which is fine.  They can be offended, just as I can not care.  Regardless, for some time now I have been wanting to explore custom domain names, and as luck would have it, the previous owner of Surviving Boys.com forgot to pay their bill.

So I bought it.

And if all goes well, everything should redirect no one will even notice the change. If it doesn't, well, I'll be back here begging for technical help.  Mkay? 

In the end, I think our new URL fits us all here at Casa d' Crazy much better.

Besides while we all may still be mental, at 5 feet tall already, Oldest is definitely not little anymore.

~~~~~~~~~

UPDATE!

Evidently, those of you following on Google reader may have to add the www.survivingboys.com to your blog roll.  It's easy, just hit the ADD (as in additional, not Attention Deficit) button at the bottom of the reader and enter in the address and the posts will show up in your reader.  Okay....  Carry on.

**This is one of my favorite pictures of the boys. Several years old now, I can feel open to share it since the boys barely resemble this anymore.  Now a days, they are looking more and more like their mother.

L Is For "Losing It"...

My Dearest Husband,

I don't know what has happened to me in the past few months, but it has become apparent that my memory is slipping.  I must say that when I say things to you like, "I told you we were going out to dinner last week", I really and truly believe that I did indeed have that conversation with you, out loud, and not just in my head.  And you were right, the actual conversation we had was, "I think we will go to dinner, but I'll have to check."  Sadly, this is just one example of many.  And for this reason, it has become clear that I am losing it.

Really losing it.

Once able to pin point any object lost within a five mile radius, I am now at a loss for where we put the masking tape and my car keys. The tweezers? Gone.  I can't remember what day it is, let alone what we have to do three weeks from Saturday, or worse, remember to write it on the calendar.

Perhaps it is my getting older  more mature brain that is now so full of knowledge that it can no longer hold onto trivial things.  Perhaps it is my lack of sleep, or my living in a house knee deep in testosterone.  Perhaps, it is my caring for  the new 45 year old toddler. I have around the house these days.

None the less, I am indeed losing it.

But this morning, as you woke your "Sweet Kaleshi" for the second time before 630 am to tend to tying your shoes and drawstring waist, and let loose the most foulest of vapors that if concentrated and bottled could get any enemy to divulge their entire country's secrets in an instant, at bed level no less, you completely ceased being my "Sun and Stars".

And if you ever do it again, I promise you, you will know the real meaning of losing it.

XOXO

~me

K Is For "Kryptonite"...

Everyone has something that they can't resist, that renders them powerless against all reason. Their Kryptonite.  For my ex, and many like him, it was the sweet siren call of ale and pills proclaiming they could make it all better.  For others, it's the allure of affections promising a brief moment of satisfaction, but more often leaving them empty and lonely.

For some, it is far less damaging.  The allure of a home cooked meal, albeit commonplace and welcoming, can kill you when not consumed wisely. Sugar and sweets of the confectionery kind render otherwise strong people helpless.  And lest not forget, since we are fully emerged in the Easter season, the Cadbury egg.  (Stephanie, I'm talking to you...pace yourself, we still have three more weeks to go.)  For some, it is that look on their child's face.  The look that says "Mommy will give me anything I want if I whip out the look".  For Tony it was Bonus Brother himself, never wanting to disappoint him or have him feel like he was not available for whatever he needed.  I think most non-custodial parents go through this at some point.  We've all seen it, the parent that goes overboard on gifts or clothing to make sure they are a visible, active presence in their child's life. Although I must say, I think Tony's building up a resistance to Bonus Brother's charms.  Perhaps it's the fact that he's getting older, and the things he wants aren't as easy to fix or obtain.  Perhaps it's that Tony feels he must learn these lessons on his own now that he's almost a legal adult.

And I too, have my own Kryptonite.  No, it is not the irresistible scrunching of my children's freckled faces when they ask "Paleeeeeze?????" over, and over, and over.  Nope.  And if they ask again, it's Hell no.  It's something far less simple than that.  It's disappointing someone that's important to me.  More specifically, saying NO when asked for a favor.  

It's a simple word, yet when it comes to my circle, I can't say it.

I need a costume for Anime.  In 4 weeks.

You are going to make your niece's first communion gown out of my wedding dress, right?  It's in 6 weeks.

Can I have an angry birds cake for my birthday party?

Can you get me an iTunes gift card/ stop at the post office/ fill out this form/ go to the bank/ take me to the toy store  while you're out?

Thankfully, I have over the years, narrowed my circle of important people to about twenty or so folks.  People who, if I need something, will do the same for me.  But alas, it still leaves me overwhelmed and cranky.

Really cranky.

Don't get me wrong, I am not over scheduled.  In fact, there is plenty time for everything that I have agreed to do.  But, I find that it leaves me so edgy, that I just want to get through the day without stabbing someone and on to the next, so that I can get it all done.  Which leaves me not enjoying anything, even if it's something I want to enjoy.

Today is Youngest's tenth birthday party.  His birthday was actually on the 15th, but Thursday is not such a great day to have a house full of people, ya know?  So today, there will be no talk of costumes.  No kitchen renovations.  No (more) loads of laundry that need to be done. My sister's wedding dress will be safely stowed away for April. I will not fuss about the Christmas lights being up on the house (still) or, that I am not a professional cake decorator.

Today will just be about a house full of kids, and an Angry Bird cake.

A cake, that since I made myself, I can guarantee contains no Gluten, traces of peanuts, or Kryptonite.

J Is For "Justified"

In December of 2002 I went to the grocery store, two kids in tow, to get whatever I could possible for $92 at the grocery store.  Both children were under 3, we lived 9 minutes from the nearest shop, and it was cold.  Really cold.  So there were multiple layers of clothing on each of us, the car needed to warm up both to go to the store, and to return home.  I left for the store, and in as much as a hurried pace one could with a 9 and 25 month old in tow, shopped and returned home.

Upon arrival, I shuffled the kids inside, undressed their layers of coats and mittens, and settled them in before heading back out to unload the groceries I had purchased.  I had been gone for 1 hour 7 minutes.  I know this because for the next two months I would have to justify to my soon to be ex-husband, attorneys, and a judge WHY I had been gone so long. The register receipt was used as "evidence" of my would be affair.  The "affair" that I had with TWO children in tow, with a 18 minute commute complete with shopping and groceries.  It's a wonder I didn't enjoy it more.

This was my marriage.  Or rather, the last 3 years of it.  Always under suspicion, always controlled, and completely undeniably miserable.  When I left, I never wanted to feel that way again.  I never wanted to have to justify myself.  I wanted to come and go as I pleased.  Visit grocery shops 9 minutes from the house,  two hours away, or not at all.  Hell, I wanted to buy food from the farmer's market and not even get a receipt!   I wanted to run naked through the streets, catching beads at Mardi Gras, and sampling a smorgasbord of men. Not that I'd ever actually do that, or anything.... My point? Um, yeah, lost in the imagery here... is that only person I wanted to have to justify myself to was me.

But it didn't stop after the divorce was final.  In fact, it continued for years after, a constant stream of being dragged into court under the guise of "not doing right by the children."  

She's not dating appropriate men.  

She's on-line dating.

She got a tattoo!

She's taking them to Disney!

OH! The horror.  Yet, once a month I was seated quietly in the church pews of the probate courthouse, ready to justify my horrible sins in from of a judge who deemed himself a God, and the rest of us derelict parents that attempted to pursue a life after we were divorced.  It was because of this, when I started my blog I did not use my real name. Instead, I used a combination of my first and middle names. It was a way to avoid him from doing a random internet search and stumbling upon it, thereby allowing him an ample amount of ammunition for the next court proceeding.

The other day I was searching the web and realized I no longer needed to hide.  I did another Google search and found that in fact, the world wide web only reached the limits of this world and not in fact Heaven, Hell, or purgatory.  Which I figure covers all the places he may be residing now.

So, now when I comment, I will be just Juli.

Because I no longer need to justify myself to anyone.

I Is For "Inconceivable!"

People do many things for love, tru wuv. 

As I have said in many ways before, Tony is an amazing man.  There is nothing he wouldn't do for me.  And for that, I am eternally grateful.  I know most of you out there are saying to yourselves, "But they've only been married 6 short months!  Who doesn't say this in the throws of passion that accompanies being newlyweds?"

Pla-eeze.

We've been together nearly eight years.  Eight very long blissful  years.  We've had many ups and downs, moments of complete insanity, and have been two blocks south of Hell together.   While that journey has brought us closer together, it has also sailed us clear into out late thirties and mid forties, cursed with loss of stamina and sarcasm that is only understood by those who have earned the right to understand.  And by earned, I mean still finding each other attractive when the other lets one go, without warning, on the couch beside them.

Miracle Max: Get back, witch. 

Valerie: I'm not a witch, I'm your wife. But after what you just said, I'm not even sure I want to be that any more

Yes.  Sarcasm is a thing of beauty at our house.  Sometimes it's comical.  Sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes it lands Tony on the couch for the night.  So, when he began complaining of how swollen his hand was getting from nicking it with the hand saw, I was completely supportive and loving  unaffected. 

Buttercup: You mock my pain. 
Man in Black: Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.   

There may have even been some I told you so's and You really should have's and the dreaded "I can't leave you alone for even one day?"  The last one, which may or may not have made it's way to the workplace and is most likely going to torture him for the rest of his days. So,  when Tony arrived home with a cast on his arm on Tuesday, it became apparent to several people that I was indeed trying to kill him.

Slowly. One body part at a time.


IN-CON-CEIVEABLE!

I mean come on.  I went out of town, spent nearly all of our tax return, and supported his leisurely Game Of Thrones Marathon on Friday night.  I only merely suggested that it would be fabulous if he started on the remainder of the kitchen.  And, I only casually mentioned that if he wanted to start the floor that it wouldn't bother me.  I mean, how was I supposed to know it would involve him running his 6'2" body up and down the stairs into the 6 foot basement for every single cut?  Or, that it would mean lugging the fridge and oven into the other room by himself?  OR that he would nick his hand, in the same place, doing the same thing as with the sun room floor, with a rusty handsaw?  And, I definitely didn't tell him to secure the gauze with duct tape. Nope.  Those words never crossed my lips.


But none the less... the nick penetrated a bit deeper than before.  Seems he nicked a tendon. And then it popped while he was staining the corner bench, (again), for me.  He gives and he gives my Pen Pals, and what do I do when he arrives home in an immobilization cast for three weeks?

Laugh.  

And.... ask if I can paint it.


Which I was denied. *huge eye roll* I suspect it was the laughing that sealed my fate on that.  Now, never fear there are some plus sides to his new appendage.

Inigo Montoya: That's a miracle pill? 

Valerie: The chocolate coating makes it go down easier. But you have to wait fifteen minutes for full potency. And you shouldn't go in swimming after, for at least, what?  

1. Kick a$$ pain pills. Yes.  He has an entire bottle of them.  Which of course is in a child proof container that he can not open with only one hand. 


2. A handy note that restricts him from doing 90% of his job requirements. Would have been more handy if the note had entirely excused him from the next 3 weeks of work, but whatever. 


3. Sympathy from everyone who barely knows him, and a new source of blog fodder for me.

Because you see, as sad as I am to see him toil away trying to do menial tasks he once did with ease, I am now up with him at 6am wrapping his arm with bags so he can take a shower.  

And buttoning his pants.  

And tying his shoes.

The above aforementioned pain pills that he can't open?  Yeah.  Me.  Random bottles of Gatorade?  Me.   Moving boxes in Jeff's Bedroom the office, buttering his pancakes, connecting the printer to his computer, fixing his seat belt in the car?  Me, Me, and again, me.

It's like having a toddler again.  And I am way too old, way too tired, and way  too good looking to have a toddler again.

But alas, I love him.  Which is why I will do it with only the minimum recommended eye rolling for the next three weeks.

And pray to God that he doesn't need surgery.

Because if he does, "As You Wish" may take on a whole new meaning....

Pictures compliments of Google, Quotes compliments of here....

H is For "Husband"....

My Dearest Husband,

When we met, I was a young and sexy 29 and you a mere 37.  I mention this because in all those 37 years you had a life.  A full life.  You worked, had friends, married, had a child, and divorced.  You took care of yourself and your son, and not only were you good at it, you excelled.  You were the Dad who left work to get him when he was sick at school.  You cared for his every need, took him every weekend, saw him mid week for dinner, and even took him away for dream vacations.  You juggled single fatherhood and being single better than any man I had ever met.

In fact, you cared for every one in your life that way, and I was no exception.  I remember one day, I was so sick, you came by after work and made me chicken soup.  You stayed until I was done, then tucked me in for the night.  You even called the next morning to see how I was feeling.  Knowing that times were difficult, you always made sure we had the groceries we needed, often dropping them on the doorstep at 6am before the kids were awake.  Not a Christmas went by that my boys didn't have  an excess of gifts from "Santa".

Perhaps most impressive though was how financially responsible you were.  The checkbook was always perfectly balanced, the bills were paid every month on time, and yet there was still always enough money to do a little something extra.  Money was never a bargaining chip for you.  It was never something to use for control. And it never defined who you were. Seeing this side of you was amazing to me, as it was something I had never known in a man.

While we were dating, you brought me flowers often.  Never because we were fighting, but simply because you thought of me.  You would make the bed, clean the house, and do the laundry so that when I returned home from work on Saturday I could relax having had everything done for me. Then later that night, crawl into a freshly made bed, snuggle deep within the sheets, dreaming sweet, sweet dreams with high hopes of sleeping in on Sunday morning. Later, when the boys were ready, and you finally started staying over night, there was nothing better than waking up to your breakfasts of  bacon, eggs, and a side of cocoa.

Now that we are married, you still amaze me.  You support my crazy ideas, pick your battles, and help me with whatever I need done.  You encourage me to do new things, and find time for myself.  You will willingly watch the kids for hours on end so that I can have some me time, or catch up with old friends.  You understand my need to get all dressed up and be taken out, just as you understand my need to sleep the day away in my pajamas.

You are my rock.

And this weekend, at your urging, knowing that I needed some time away with an old friend, I left you.  I absconded with the children, allowing you to enjoy your Game Of Thrones marathon, and only asked in return that you keep your house party small and the scantily clad women to a minimum.   I was thrilled  to find that you were continuing the kitchen renovations on your own.  You do try so hard for me.  You ripped up the old floor in the remaining kitchen, and began laying the new one just as we had in the sun room.  You were just trying to get things done for me, to help out in any way you could, even though I had left you for the day.

One stinking day.

And you managed to cut your hand with the saw, in the same place as last time, and in the same way. And when I arrived home, you seemed almost proud at the fact that you had valiantly injured yourself doing "Man's" work for me.  There may have even been some puffing of the chest and "tool time" grunting of manliness.  The first time, I was there to help you clean it, slather it appropriately with Neosporin, wrap your wounds, then pick up the project where you had left off, so as to not irritate your injury any further.  This time, I was not.

This time it got infected.

You needed a Tetnis shot.

And antibiotics.

And a consult with the hand specialist to see if the tendon is ripped.

I left you alone for one day.

And it's moments like these when I wonder how you ever survived all these years without me.

G Is For "Good Analogies"...

Eleven years ago, I packed up the few pieces of furniture I owned that were worth moving, packed it all into a Budget rental van,  and armed with a diaper bag and my 5 month old son, moved 1200 miles away from the life that I had spent the last seven years building.  I had run to Florida to escape the poor choices of my teens, and  unknowingly ran straight into the arms of what would be the poor choices of my twenties.  Regardless, I had made a life for myself in Florida over those seven years, and while I was ready and willing to leave most of it behind, there were a few things that I would look back, even today, and truly miss.

Heat lighting storms over the 595 highway off ramp overpass.

The sweet salt water smell just after a hurricane.

Chick-Fila.

And mostly, the handful of freinds I was leaving behind.

Because when you move 1200 miles away from everything and everyone you know at the childish age of 20, the friendships you form become your family.  Knowing the situation I was in, unemployed with a 5 month old baby and a marriage on some really rocky territory, I knew when I returned home that returning to visit would be unlikely.  And I was right.  In those eleven years, I have been back only once, in 2007, and only one of those friends were able to visit us during that trip.  With the advent of Facebook, I have been able to connect and catch up with a few old friends, but honestly, it is just not the same.

So, when my friend emailed me and told me she was coming to Boston, I was beyond excited.  Not only was she coming, but her 9 year old son was as well, and she was hoping that we could get together.  She arrived in town on Friday for her five day stay.  To simplify things for everyone, I booked a room for the night in her hotel and once I got out of work, I packed a bag, grabbed the boys, and we were on our way.

Our sons got along famously, as if they had known each other for years. Running through the hotel hallways, goofing around in the car, singing songs, and cracking jokes.  How do kids do that anyway? There's no apprehension, no hesitation, no awkward pauses?  Seems as adults we could learn a lot from them.    We headed out to Patriot Place for a night of Espionage, hamburgers and fries.  Being at the home of the Patriots, seeing Gillette stadium, and climbing the ungodly number of stairs to the shopping plaza, there was much rehashing of this year's Superbowl. *sigh* The only respite came in the form of infiltrating Cabal's headquarters on our spy mission.

While driving home, we stopped at CVS so my friend could pick up cold medicine for her son's congestion.  I waited in the car with the kids so that she could just run in and out without issue.  After ten o'clock, it had been a long night. Yet the kids just kept chattering away in the back, random conversations seemingly having no point, that rambled off the beaten path, and landed most often into a fit of giggles.  Most of them were of no consequence, but still I kept my ears perked (given that his parents were newly divorced and that my boys have had a lot going on) because sometimes little nuggets come out when you least expect them to.  So when this conversation started, I was intrigued...

Him: "So you have a cat?"
Oldest: "Yeah."
Him: "At your apartment?"
Oldest: "No, at our house."
Him: "Oh.  You have a house?"
Oldest: "Yeah.  Do you have an apartment?"
Him: "I half do.  My Dad does.  My Mom and Dad are divorced. Does your Dad have an apartment?"
Oldest: "We don't have a dad."
Him: "Yes you do."
Me: "No.  Their father died.  Tony's their stepfather."
Him: "Oh.  My Mom better never get remarried."
Me: "Why?"
Him: "She just better not."
Me: "But then there'd be one more person to love you. Because that's what a  step dad is, just one more person to love you, not someone to replace your Dad."
Him: "Nope.  I'm good. I already get like four Christmases."
Youngest: "But, having a step dad is really good."
Him: "No I don't want one".
Oldest: "No really.  It's like having a pinch hitter.  Your Dad is at home plate, right?  But then you have your step dad on third, just waiting to score a run if you need him to."


And in that moment I was humbled.

All the moments I had laid awake wondering if we were doing the right thing, wondering if they would be okay with the transitions, wondering if they'd ever really feel like we were a family were suddenly gone.

Completely erased by a seemingly innocent conversation about a cat and a house.

Of course, I would have put myself at home plate, Tony at third base, and their father out in left field.

But really,  who am I to knock my eleven year old's really good analogy?

F Is For "Fragmented, Friday & Frustrated"...

Come on, you didn't think I would not throw a random post in here somewhere did you?

And so, as today is Friday, I thought I'd share my Fragmented week with you.

On Monday, I worked all day. It sucked pickles. And not even the good pickles that I like. But, I did finish the final book of the Fifty Shades trilogy.   Seriously, an excellent read.  It's a classic girl meets boy, boy is bad for girl, blah blah, kind of like Twilight but without all the supernatural stuff.  There were parts that made me cheer, parts that made me say "WTF no way!", and parts that made me blush.  There's action, love and a whole lotta gettin' bis-zay.  Thanks so much Diane for suggesting it.

Tuesday was Super Tuesday and therfore, no school. I did not vote. because Mitt Romney is an idiot and the rest of the candidates are pansies, Please do not judge me, I gave up politics for lent. I spent the day cleaning and catching up on laundry, honnoring the domestic goddess that I am. Later that night I picked up the rest of the flooring for the kitchen so there's 3 boxes of flooring just hanging out on the sun room floor. And yet another obstacle for me to break my ankle on. Sunday, I had finally gone to Bj's (It's like Sam's Club or Super Walmart) and stocked up on several items that we use all the time. Toilet Paper, Fruit snacks, hamburger, cheese, an industrial sized box of Oreos, and the like. You get the idea.  So Tuesday I decided to make Beef Stoganoff in the crock pot whilst I was getting my domestic on.  The house smelled fantastic! Tony and I sat and ate, it was yummy, tucked the kids in, and then... it started.

Seems I unknowingly attempted to poison us.

Tip Of The Week: Don't buy your meat where you also buy your tires. Just not a good idea for quality control.

This post has also been inspired by the word FRUSTRATING as well, since Youngest has decided to test all my patience this week.  By Wednesday I had just about had it with him.  Remember, he was off all day on Tuesday, and Wednesday was a half day so I was home all day as well.  And of course, he had saved all the last bits of his project that's he's had a month to do, for Wednesday at 3pm.  And instead of just getting it done, he fought me tooth and nail and nearly collapsed from exhaustion after coming up with ways to avoid the tasks at hand.  Seriously?  Who's kid is this anyway?  Eventually I collapsed from exhaustion on the new couches that had been delivered that morning (at 8:15).  I love them, I really do, but they are HUGE.  And honestly, I have no idea how to make them work in the room.  Plus they are a deep chocolate brown, which now doesn't go with the wall color. *sigh* Because we needed another painting project, right?

Thursday I worked as well, and I'm happy to say it didn't suck anything.  Then we were off  for Tech night, at which Youngest was asked to present to parents and family the functions and use of the iPad within the classroom.  He was chosen to do this by his teacher AND the principal of the school based on his knowledge of the product.  HELLO?  You know how I found out?  Via answering machine on Wednesday night.  Seems Youngest thought this opportunity to showcase his knowledge was no big deal. *sigh*

So that's what's been going on for the week.  I'm headed into town tomorrow to see my friend who's up from Florida. No worries, I'll figure out a way to turn that adventure into a "G" or "H" post by Monday-ish.

E Is For "Enabler"...

I am an enabler.  Admitting it, so I'm told,  is half the problem.  It only took years of therapy to understand it, and then a few more years of rolling my eyes and getting fed up to do some thing about it.  My whole life has been about taking care of people.  In high school the only boys who turned my head were the broken ones.  The ones who needed me to take care of them.

Completely unhealthy, I know, but that's just the way it was.  Right out of high school I was engaged to a boy that I had met at 16.  Eventually he moved out of his parents place, and with my help, found a fabulous apartment in Boston. It was a beautiful old building with 12 foot ceilings, mosaic tile, and a mirrored elevator.  After living there about a month, he came to me and said he couldn't bear to send me home on the bus again, and since it was so close to my school, he wanted to live together.  So I moved in.  I lived there for two years.  I was really, really good, until it really, really wasn't.

You see, I took care of everything.  I cooked, cleaned, made sure the bills went out on time.  I even laid new tile in the kitchen, stenciled and painted the walls, and fixed the plumbing.  He went out, got drunk, and often times didn't come home.  And when he did, he thought I was being unreasonable when I'd ask where he'd been.  One day, while sitting in the living room working on a final exam project with a fellow classmate, he and one of his friends blasted through the door, and locked themselves in the bedroom.  My friend left and once they decided to leave for the night, I found the charred tin foil remnants of his crack problem staring me in the face.

And yet, it still took a few months for me to leave. Sadly less because of his problem, and more because I could no longer give him what he needed.  He needed money and a lot of it, both of which he found with a brilliant (and I mean brilliant ~ she did brain research) enabler just 5 years older than him. She bought him a motorcycle, and covered his butt when it needed to be covered. One night, at 11pm the phone rang, the voice on the other end deeply regretful and apologetic of all he had done. I think in hindsight he knew it was over, but wanted to confirm it for sure.

Next, enter, my ex-husband. At 20 no one ever thinks that they are marring an alcoholic, they just think that their 23 year old husband just hasn't out grown his wild days.  After all, he was working two jobs, not drunk driving, and things were more or less under control.  I had them under control.  Again, I took care of everything.  When the kids came, it became way too much for me to handle alone.  His spiral became an F5 tornado, threatening to suck us all down within it, and I knew once again, it was time.  He needed more help than I could give him, and in the end he needed more than anyone could give him.

I am still an enabler of sorts.  I need to know that things are taken care of, and have a very difficult time delegating important things.  I struggle everyday to not fall into my old patterns.  Tony is without a doubt, a very patient man.  He's spent years gaining my trust and instilling in me that if I throw him the ball, while he may have no idea what to do with it, he will catch it.  But he too has an addiction.  One that is taking over our lives one small eBay sized packet at a time.

Are you ready?

Welcome, to Gordon Ave my Pen Pals. You'll know when you're here, by the brightly colored sign on the door to the office.  It is filled floor to ceiling in Nascar memorabilia...

Ignore the dust, I can only spend limited amounts of time in this room as I start to have small panic attacks by the sheer amount of it all.  Every single car is different and even more remarkably, he can tell you when randomly shopping if he already has that particular car or not. *sigh*  What is even more over whelming for me is the sports cards collection also housed in this room.  They have taken over every nook and cranny from the top of the shelves...

To the floor...

To multiple shelves within the bookcases...

Each one of those books hold approximately 1,000 cards each.  And that is his own personal collection.  In the basement, as well as several Rubbermaid totes, is the "traveling" collection that he takes to card shows and sells on eBay.  There is also another entire room in his Mother's basement that houses the rest of his collection. *deep cleansing breath*  In fairness, he used to own a sports collectible store, and his collection isn't just limited to Nascar.

There are various hockey cards, baseball, and basketball cards as well....

 

The sheer magnitude of this collection makes me nervous.  I have had nightmares of the Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson dolls action figures coming to life and killing us all.  But you see here's the problem, and once again the root of this post.

 Because who bought him all of the display cases for these cards?  That would be me.

And who built, from scratch, the wall shelves with the peg board inserts and tilted shelf  for the opened models?  Me again.

Who cleans this room, rearranges it, and makes sure he can display the best of his collection?  Um....Me.

Bought him the signed Jeff Gordon card?

And the Larry Bird card?

Me.


(she hangs head in shame)

And while desperate to spend some adult time with him away from the kids, I was sitting in the office the other day looking through his favorites, he pulled out a limited edition series collection of Jimmy Johnson cards, complete with race tire inserts, what did I do?

I snuck them out of the house, and to the custom framing department where I spent an hour choosing just the right mat to match the background on the cards and the diamond plated outside matting.  After spending an obscene amount of money, I had them all triple matted in museum quality framing with 90% UV reflective glass for him for Valentine's Day.

Because you see my friends, I am an enabler. Every crack addict has someone who can get them a new pretty pipe, just like the 600 pound man no longer able to walk or bathe himself,  has the woman who brings him 16 number threes from the local burger joint for breakfast.  And Tony has me.

Because no matter how much stuff he continues to bring home, I will continue to make it pretty for him.

But I'm drawing the line here...

Honey, keep your nasty habit out of the bedroom.

D is For "Didn't"....

During my college years, after reassessing the brilliant plan to live in a dorm room with three other girls I did not know, I commuted in and out of the city.  On nicer days, I would walk from the subway to the bus station, cutting trough small back alleys and side streets. I would spend much of the walk watching people.  Clearly, this had it's safety advantages, but mostly it was because I was curious.  Why were they here?  Was it school like me, or work?  Were they chasing their dream or were they just hopelessly lost in the city?  I would look at the skyscrapers and wonder how these people came to work in these buildings.  Did they aspire to that position all their lives?  Did they work hard, start in the mail room and get promoted accordingly?  Did they just sleep with the boss?

Now a days I spend most of my life in suburbia.  Delivering the mail, riding through the neighborhoods, I look at the houses and wonder about the people who live there.  Some of it I already know, having been a mail person for the last ten years, you begin to recognize the signs. You can tell that Suzy's coming home from college when random boxes of media mail start arriving in mid May.  Mr. Jones is away on business when his mail doesn't get picked up for three days or so. And while it's often easy to judge these people that live in these homes, based off their mail or how their yards are kept up, I don't.

All my life I have been judged by others.  It's human nature, I understand, but when people look at my dark blue ringed baby blue eyes, they think I am naive and innocent.  That I would never, and have never.  And they are so wrong.  My eyes have seen things that can  not be unseen, have gazed in awe the sight of a miracle, and have blazed with bewilderment as my inner goddess squeals and jumps for joy. They would never suspect that under my mom jeans my skin bears a ten inch tattoo in a kaleidoscope of vibrant color, or that my belly once flat and taught housed a diamond studded ring.

People assume that my blond hair and ample top, coupled with a (once) perfectly shaped hourglass figure left me with my choice of men all mine for the picking.  In reality, I had very few and had to pursue all the men I have ever dated with the exception of one.  Now older, my face has many creases, I rarely wear make up and most often my hair sits a top my head in a worn elastic.  I know that many would think that I am tired, worn, and having a bad day. Every day.  No one ever thinks that my wrinkles are skillfully crafted from years of laughter, and my appearance simplified from having far too many more important things to tend to, like my children.

I have often been judged by how I speak to my children, how I joke with them, dry and sarcastically.  It's perceived as mean, callous, and insincere.  When in reality, there's an unspoken inside joke that is our lives, that we all find amusing and not harsh at all.  Underneath it all, there is a mutual respect for each other. A respect that allows me to do less controlling and more teaching. I have been scrutinized over not calling my children when they sleep over someone's house.  Claiming I am a bad parent, who doesn't care enough to hear her child's voice before they go to sleep or want to reassure them that they are safe while they are away.  But in fact, if I thought for a second they were not safe, they wouldn't be there to begin with. I have even been criticized by letting them walk away from me, shoes untied. Really? Yes, they will trip, and in a way I hope they do. They will not leave them untied again, and they will have learned that lesson all on their own.  Not by my nagging.

My house keeping has been judged, that I am lazy or failing as a mother and wife. The foot prints on my floor are from rambunctious healthy boys who are safe to play outside in their neighborhood. The dishes and crumbs on the counter are from real meals cooked that have filled satisfied bellies.  And countless times, I have been judged by the car that I drive. While it is true that it is older and unremarkable, and may not have a built in DVD player or even a radio,  it is paid for, and doesn't come with the strings of a financial institution who can at any time, pull it back. Quite simply, I prefer to own my life rather than rent my lifestyle.

The list of mistaken assumptions is endless. Brought on by false bravado and preconceived notions of how things should be. And yet, most of us still feed into this craziness even though most of us are all in the exact same boat, rowing mundanely, rhythmically down the river, just hoping to get to the bank without capsizing and not get stuck upstream missing a paddle. Think about what would happen if we all stopped to see how much we all have in common rather than assume we don't.

Think about how amazing it could be the next time someone thought of judging someone else...

they just Didn't?

C is for "Stephanie"...

When I started blogging it was more or less to journal my thoughts and record our lives so that if in fact, my life was to end tomorrow, my boys would know exactly who their mother was.  (And then I discovered that I could future date posts, so it could be like I was talking to them from the grave... "Hey! I saw that"... "Call your grandmother".... "Do not spray paint the cat"....)  To be honest, I love to write.  I find it a much better way to express myself.  I can be completely uncensored, or very vague.  I can speak figuratively and literally at the same time. I can record tiny details that would otherwise go unnoticed, recreating an event as mundane as riding a bike and display it as a great adventure.

What I did not expect is to find a Common Connection with people I had never met.  The internet is full of so many other people like me and some not so like me, who could make me rethink my position on things, make me laugh, or make me cry simply by leaving a Comment. The blogging universe, I soon found out, was full of special people who supported each other and also championed the mundane.  They shared all their best how-to advice, and Confessed their vices without ever meeting each other face to face.

One of my most favorite Confessions, was my love of Cadbury eggs.  It was my favorite because it was the first time Stephanie Commented on one of my posts, also Confessing her love of the Chocolate Confection.  Flash forward a few months later, to a moment at a train station where she gave me her very last Cadbury egg of the season.  Yes, my Pen Pals, she flew her very last Cadbury over 1,000 miles to see me.

Me.


(and because she had a work conference in Boston.  But for the purposes of making me feel AWESOME, she flew here to meet me... Mkay?)

And she became my very first Collision of real life and imaginary life. It. Was. Fabulous. Like we were old friends, we caught up for lunch at Cheers, gossiped, and we hugged fearlessly just as Cinderita had Coached us.  And now, every time I see a Cadbury egg, I think of her. And when I saw this on Pinterest....

Image and instructions for this Cadbury in a Cupcake here...

I  thought maybe we should maybe start a nationwide support group.

So my Pen Pals...

That is why C is for Stephanie.

B is for "Box"....

Tony: "I like the third picture..."
Me: "Why?"
Tony: "Because you're out of your box."


And what exactly is my box? Exactly.  There's nothing wrong with my box.  It has four sides that are only a bit smooshed.  There's only a little bit of water damage in the corner from my multitudes of broken hearts, and really, no one even notices the hot fudge and ice cream residue any more.  Hell.  My box even has a lid that fits nice and snug and easily closes out the world when necessary.

And there in lies the issue.

I am really not an extrovert.  I like my box.  It's safe in there.  It's my own little world full of control and over calculated chances.  I have had it for many, many years.  No one picks on me there.  No one mocks, and everything gets done.  And if it doesn't, well I just close the lid so no one can see.

See.  The box is good.

Except when it's not.

Because my pen pals, when you open that box up for the world to see, and then decide to utilize it's paper "wings" to accommodate more people within it, it becomes overly apparent that the box is more of a hindrance.  Because if you stay safely tucked into your box so that nothing can happen to you, that is exactly what happens.  NOTHING.  Nothing good.  Nothing bad.  Nothing exciting, or wild, or boring, or musical.  Nothing that will make you look back and say "Remember when?" or "I can't believe I really did that."


Over the years I have had to open my box up to the world and show it off in all it's glorious technicolor. I have para-sailed, been tattooed and pierced, designed accessories for Bridal Gowns before they hit the run ways of New York, packed up the kids for spontaneous getaways, caught jumping water in my mouth at Disney World, and walked a red carpet in California.  And yet, I am nervous to talk to new neighbors, meet new people,  and have been paralyzed by having to go to the dump an laundromat on my own. Because those are things I am supposed to know, things that are easy to do, the other things, well, honestly aren't.

So, I hide in my box, controlling everything around me, keeping everyone safe and secure.  I forget about the world and all that goes on, until the kids come marching through my box with muddy shoes chanting something about needing this or that and 2,000 cupcakes in twenty minutes.  And that's when the safety and security of my box gets to be exhausting.  And overwhelming.  And... unrealistic.

And so,I once again am forced to step out of my box and ask for help. Luckily, I have a man who likes my box, who welcomes my box and sees it's potential despite it's limitations. For this I am eternally grateful.  Because asking for help, and relinquishing control is very, very, hard for me.  But I am learning that by allowing him in, I have more time for me.  More time to look at my box and see all that is missing, and who is missing.

My inner goddess.

Somewhere among the three inch layer of dust and amazon sized cobwebs, she has fallen asleep behind the tattered sofa.  I am happy to say that while she is still a bit cranky, she's is at the very least awake.  Today she decided we're beginning to look too much like the men we live with.  So she took me to try  threading.  I discovered it was good.  Really good.  Then she decided to update my foundations with some new lace and frills.  Again, good choice. 

Then she stopped at the Zumba place and signed me up for some lessons.

Yip.  She likes when I'm out of my box.  And while I'm still not quite ready to abandon the box all together, I'm thinking it's time for some new curtains, a fresh coat of paint, and maybe a dishwasher sized addition.

You know, like a west wing of the cardboard box....

...for the Zumba lessons.

A Is For "A-guess-ive".....

Picture from here...

Today it hit home that my Youngest, in 15 short days, will be all of two hands old.

Two hands.

Ten.

*sigh*

Where does the time go?

I think back to both of their early days, the days before they walked and talked.  I wanted so much for Oldest to gain his independence and sure enough, by eleven months old, he was barrelling down the hallway of our perfectly sized duplex-style ranch.  The windows in the living room, though perfectly placed looking in from the outside, had sills approximately 18 inches off the floor.  This made for a prime standing area, just high enough to pull himself up and gaze outside at all that went on outside.  He frequently banged the windows and talked loudly to the squirrels, much to the cranky old bitty pansy-ass man neighbor's dismay.  Already five months along with Youngest, I couldn't wait for him to talk, to be able to tell me what he needed.

And oh, man, now that he does talk... jeez, what was I thinking?

Soon enough, he began to talk. His first word was "but-ton", clear as day.  Quickly followed by "bawl" and "truk", of course not having fully mastered the "T" sound, it came out sounding more like his father's favorite adjective.  I stumbled upon a postcard from my sister weeks ago, sent to him while on her honeymoon in the Caymans.  It was simply signed, "XOXOX Ant-tee Bet, and Unca Muck". His special names for them are perhaps my sister's favorite memory of Oldest's toddler days. That, and his favorite phrase of amazement, "Oh. My. Fu*k.".

Youngest was a different animal all together.  Perhaps in an effort to keep up with his older brother and not get left out of anything, he walked at six months. His vocabulary however, was stunted. He was quiet, a thinker, he took it all in and reacted physically instead of verbally.  The kids never saw us fight before the divorce.  After the divorce was a different story, and they were often caught up in their father's tyrannical rants. While I tried as much as I could to remove and protect them from the chaos, often times it was futile.  I blame myself for much of Youngest's internalizing of his feelings.  He saw and processed more at 1 years old than any child should have.

After extensive tests, random hearing screenings, and much bribery, it was determined that he indeed, had nothing wrong with him.  He just didn't have anything to say, evidently.  But when he did, it was never less than entertaining.

He has always been an early riser.  It was common to find our lights on at 4 am, home in full swing.  But as worked picked up, and their day care days got longer, it became apparent that I needed to find creative ways to get more sleep if I had any hope of surviving until he was 6. So, in those early mornings I would turn on the Disney channel and find his favorite, Stanley.


Stanley, for those who may not know, was really big into animals.  He had a "Great Big Book Of Everything" that he could jump into and learn all about every animal on Earth.  And of course, Youngest and I made him his very own "Big Book" and cut out various pictures of animals he was learning about.

One day, I think he was maybe three at the time, while driving in the car, out of the blue he started up a conversation....

"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"R swarks, aguessive or not aguessive?"
"What?"
"R tey agessive?"
"What?"
"R they car-nee-vores or do they eat care-rots?"
"OH! Most sharks are aggressive.  But some eat just snails, and not carrots or people."
"OK, tanks."

This was one of my favorite conversations with Youngest, because it sums up who he is.  He a complex thinker, always curious, and has a comprehensive vocabulary far beyond his years.  Like the time Tony was teaching him random Portuguese words and he came up with cabeca coucinho, loosely translated in English meaning "little butt head". A phrase he riddled his brother with for months.

A few nights ago while they were sitting on the couch, the usual banter went back and forth amongst the boys, Tony included.  There was mocking, there was spattering of sarcasm every where, and I'm thinking there was some faulty claiming of bodily gasses.    Oldest said something, I'm not sure what, Tony responded, and Youngest came back with a real zinger, totally throwing Tony under the bus.

Tony gasped.

*blinks*

Youngest replies... "What??? I'm just drivin' the bus."

To which a roar of laughter ensues.

Very a-guess-ive my young one, a-guess-ive indeed.