Full Circle

Perhaps you have a friend, acquaintance, or female relative who meets the following description:   she pencils in her eyebrows totally off kilter, applies her lipstick mostly OFF of her lips in Pandora Pink, and painstakingly attempts to put on her eye liner with  the precision of a MAC consultant, but ends up looking kind of like a raccoon?

 It leaves the rest of us wondering, does that woman even LOOK in the mirror before she walks out the door?  I have answer for you:  Yes, WE do, but we are too tired, too busy, or a little of both, to care.  I am convinced I am morphing into this friend, acquaintance or female relative of yours.

Here's the sad part:  I know full good and well that my 6 minute quickie make up application will most likely leave me resembling a circus clown in some way, but I just don't care anymore.  I'm 39 years old man.   I got this damn gaggle of girls.  I just can't keep up with all that anymore.

 If I get a work out in, it's a good day.  If I get a work out in, and get some errands done, it's a really good day.  If I get a work out in, get some errands done, AND get a shower to apply my make up in an erratic fashion, now that's a STELLAR day.

If you've participated with me in ANY extra-curricular activities that are not listed above, (day trips of any kind, including but not limited to: the beach, the pool, Raging Waters, the river, some one's backyard BBQ, talking smack while I play cards, or dancing irresponsibly), you have probably noticed that my eyeliner is smeared down my face.  Or maybe you've realized that my eyebrows have been penciled in to a place where no eyebrow grows.

I just want to say thanks for still being friends with me.  Seriously, I appreciate you letting that go. But I do have one request for you:  if I have a big booger dangling from my extremely expansive nostril, and you don't say shit, then the friendship is off, understand?  UNDERSTAND?

It's all too much to keep up with, this being a girl thing.  There are grey roots to be concealed every 4 weeks at home.  The girls always stare with trepidation when they see Mama's home color application in the works...but they are all too scared to ask questions, so they scurry off to play outdoors.

About 3 times a year, I remember that I should probably apply some sort of hydrating mask to my rapidly decaying face.  If I'm donning the glow white "hydrating/erase wrinkles/supple skin" mask WHILE coloring my hair simultaneously, well, that's just all sorts of pretty right there.  I have scared the holy hell out of the twins more than once.  They will come around the corner, and scream.  LOUD.

There are eyebrows to contain into some sort of arched shape, and chin hairs to be plucked.  Lotion to be applied so I don't resemble some sort of aged piece of leather.  Speaking of leather, sunscreen is a must these days.  But you don't want to put the sunscreen designed for your BODY on your FACE...you need special facial sunscreen for that! What?  You didn't know that?  That's okay, neither did I until just recently.

I haven't even mentioned all the body hair that needs to be removed.  UGH.  I have also totally given up wearing any and all accessories, with the exception of my wedding ring.  Why would I put on a necklace?  So that Charlotte could lynch me with her sharpened infantile skills while nursing?  No thank you.

And you know what else?  Perfume is totally over-rated.  How do you even make a God damn decision?  Should I wear J.Lo?  Or Britney?  Maybe Gwen Stefani has created something lovely.  Or perhaps I should  stick with movie star scents like Halle?   Man, these days, my deodorant doubles as my eau de toilet.

Remember Love's Baby Soft??  Starting at about age 12, I would lightly spritz myself with that EVERY DAY.   It was like an un-spoken but religious habit, that meant:  I, Michelle Francois, could once again, face the world and be okay.  Me and Love's Baby Soft, together.  But the spritzing only took place after my hair was feathered just so, and my comb was carefully placed in my back pocket.  With my fruity tube of Lip Smackers in my front pocket, I was convinced that it's sparkly shine, clearly show-cased my braces.  This was also right around the same time that I just stopped wearing my glasses.  Did I trade them in for contact lenses, you ask?  No.  I made this decision with swift accuracy:  being blind was better than having to wear those damn things.

By the time I was 17, I had become a complete and total unmanageable teenager.  Love's Baby Soft had worn out its welcome, and  it was clear what I needed to do at that point:  trade it in for something more edgy.  Like Exc!amation.  And folks, it's been all downhill from there.

It is a trip watching this transformation take place with Abigail and Isabella.  I keep hoping and praying (REALLY HARD), that they will not, under any circumstances:  grow breasts, get their period, or get their hearts broken by some complete idiot boy.

 Stay 11.  Stay innocent and young.  Love origami for far too long.  Dress up like Laura Ingalls with no worry of who might care.  Sing all the wrong lyrics to Lady Gaga's new song, because you can.

I think I need to go buy some Love's Baby Soft.  Maybe that will stop this thing, they call "growing up".

The Big Picture

So I almost killed my 5 year old today.  I had one of those "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!!!" parenting moments in the Costco parking lot.  You know, the moments when you are so filled with frustration, your knuckles are turning white,  your pulse quickens,  and beads of sweat start to gather at your temples?

 Good times.

I think when good parents feel overwhelmed,  they inhale deeply and count to ten.  These good parents can then collect their wits, and parent calmly.  But this is just purely speculation on my part.  I wouldn't know, because I don't fall into that category.

 Bad parents, like me, just yell out loud WHY we are frustrated in the Costco parking lot, as the onlookers seated at the Starbucks patio, sip their lattes and wonder quietly, "What the hell is that psychotic mother yelling at her kid about?"

So let me share what happened today...

But first let me just say that the Walsh fam has been "on the go" for summertime fun for about 4 weeks straight. A camping trip, with several beach days, followed by Raging Waters, and hours spent at  Happy Hollow.  And don't forget swimming at the Elks Club.  Throw in a 5 trip to Chico, followed by a 4 day visit up to Santa Rosa to see the folks, and well...

 I think it's safe to say, that Mama is feeling a bit tired.  Mama is trying to eek out every possible opportunity of good times before school starts.   Mama has lost her mind.  It is in moments like these, that I realize that I often forget the "Big Picture".  Which is exactly what happened today.

As I stepped out of my truck, and unbuckled Charlotte, Cosette bounded happily out of my seat and onto the ground.  As I placed Charlie on my hip, but before I had time to grab my purse, Cozy locked the truck.  So there we were.  Locked out.  Standing on the blacktop of the parking lot.

"SHIT!!!!!   SHIT!!!!!  SHIT!!!!" I belted out.

Seeing my anger, Cosette's crocodile tears came in a free flow, who explained, between sobs, "I was helping Mama."

"I KNOW!! I KNOW! (followed by a long pause)  I know, Cozy. (short pause) SHIT!!!"

As I  marched into Starbucks, to ask to use the phone (because my cell just DIED, but that's a whole nother story), I  promptly told Cosette to sit at a table, saying,   "Mom is just really mad right now.  I need a minute."

After calming down, I began to see the Big Picture. Charlotte was on my hip.  Thankfully, she was not in the car in 100 degree weather, with the windows rolled up.  Tom was home.  He came to us.  Lovingly.  Willingly.  He stopped what he was doing to rescue us.

I explained to Cozy, "We are so lucky that Charlotte is safe, and that Daddy can come and help us, okay?  No more locking the car door without permission."  She nodded her head, as if she understood,  dried tear marks making tracks down her tanned cheeks.

Because the Big Picture was that this was simply an inconvenience. We were going to be late for a play date.  So why is it, that I lose my mind when these types of things happen?

Lately, I've noticed that Charlotte is more than a little distracted while nursing.  If someone speaks, walks into the same room, or so much as breathes in her direction, she flips her head to investigate her surroundings...all while holding onto my breast as if it's in a vice.   She's also taken to pulling my hair, slapping my face, grabbing my lips, and pinching my armpit fat.

These kind of special moments make for interesting bonding time.  Some days I feel like I need to nurse her in a sound proof padded room.  Maybe if I was wearing a special neoprene outfit, leaving only my nipple exposed, while Charlotte's hands were bound, we would be a more efficient pair.

But then I am reminded of her failure to even latch to nurse after she was born.  So many tears...hers and mine both.  Frustration over not expecting there to be ANY problemos whatsoever with the last babe.  The
Big Picture:  sometimes nursing isn't glamorous, but it's also fleeting.  And that's why when I come home from work on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I wake her out of a sound sleep, just to nurse her.  The clock is ticking, and I get sad knowing there's not much time left to nurse with this one.  The abuse also tends to also be less violent at this hour :)

Recently I drove 2 hours home from a visit with my folks.  You know how it is when you get home from a road trip...there's the unloading, and putting away of clothes, toys, and food.  And I tend to become a bit anxious over getting it all done, knowing good and well, that my fridge is empty, and Costco is calling my name.  But not before Charlotte is screaming for booby.

Imagine my surprise, as I walked into my bathroom to hurriedly put away my toilertries, and discovered dirt all over my floor.  And dirt all over my counter.  And dirt coating my bathtub.  Shocked, I couldn't comprehend it...didn't I just clean this bathroom before we left?  Tom was the only one here.  Hmmm...

Then it hit me:  Someone, most likely my darling husband, had used the blower, but had forgotten to shut the window.  Thus, bringing all of Willow Glen into our bathroom.  Immediately, I fumed.  Well, as if it's not enough to do already around here...the hell if I'm gonna clean this bathroom again!  He did it.  He can clean it.

Then the Big Picture slowly began to take place, yet once again.  How lucky am I to have a husband who even blew our backyard?  Who wants to make our yard a sacred place for our family?

Yep, there was a little dirt in my bathroom.  I cleaned it up.  I used about 35 paper towels and a lotta Mr.Clean and Windex, to do it.  But it was fixable.

And  I am lucky.

The Elks Club

I have come to a life changing decision recently:  I want to be an Elk.  I want to embody the entire experience of what it means to be a Grand Pu-Ba.  One day, I will run for office and be the Exalted Ruler.  S/he does have a prominent parking spot in the lot, dontcha know?

Just flash back to scenes from the Flinestones, where Fred and Barney go to hang out with other  "studly" men, (which is open to interpretation), and you've got today's Elks Club.  Although women are allowed on the premises, I have come to believe that it is purely for the gawking satisfaction of the elder male observers.

That being said, allow me to examine all of the things that The Elks Club has to offer:

First, and foremost, a bar.  Does it have dark wooden panels lining the walls?  Does the carpet smell dank and disgusting?  Are the seats made of a fabricated pleather, that your ass sticks to as you get up?  YES.  It's like a flashback to 1970, but it's okay, man.  It's the Elks Club.  And let me tell you, the bar offers people watching at its finest.  You've got the older, hard-core, retired Elks, who just park it at the bar and drink...my guess would be, all day long.  Why not, right?  They have nowhere to be.  Nowhere to go.  Unless you count, stumbling to their RV, which is parked out in the lot.

Which brings me to number two:  a place to park your RV.  Hell, you can even LIVE in your RV at The Elks Club.  I'm not sure what the fee is for that.  But just think about it for a second.  Being old and retired, and taking a cross country road trip, let's say, to see the grand kids.  Load it up, and stay at your friendly, local Elks Lodges along the way.  That also have bars.  And young MILF's, with their kids at the pool.  Now that's what I call one-stop shopping.

And how could I forget the POOL?!!  The pool totally rocks.  There is no life guard on duty, which means you actually need to REALLY watch your kids.  But that's what the twins are for!  The Elks Club also has lounge chairs.  Like 5 of them.  But nonetheless, if you want to fight some elderly smoker lady, who's belting out her rendition of  Frank Sinatra's "My Way" because she's three sheets to the wind, for one of those 5 lounge chairs,  it could be a good time.

There are some things though, they you just have roll with at The Elks Club.  For example, being stalked by older men who have consumed a lot of alcohol.  It's all innocent...but still.

Just yesterday while I was there, I met a nice, older "gentleman", his wife, and  GREAT-grand kids.  He and I conversed about raising children, and where his four daughters are living now, yadda, yadda, yadda.

It was all fine and good, until I got up to walk to the bathroom, and he yelled out across the pool deck, "LOOK AT THE FIGURE ON THAT ONE!  LOOK AT THAT FIGURE!  NICE TAN!!!"  I like how he considers me to first of all, even have a figure.  Considering that after 5 babies, I'm rocking a bit of a mama muffin top and some silvery stretch marks.  But hey man, I'll take the compliment, from the elderly, drunk, stalker Elk.

Mind you, as he was screaming that out, his very sweet wife, of at least 50 years, sat next to him.


And then there was the 4th of July celebration.  Which involved cake walks, and hula hoop contests.  And a sack race on the aggregate concrete.

 As the Grand Pu-Ba lined the dozen or so kids up to start the race, I wondered, when is he going to move those kids to the GRASS?  But ohhh, nooo.  The horn blew, and those kids bounced across the pavement with all their might.  OHMYGOD!  I thought,  the Grand Pu-Ba is loaded, and doesn't realize that a kid could crack their head open, or break an arm.

This left me with only one choice:    scream at the top of my lungs to my 4 girls, "WIN!!!  WIN IT ALL!!"

Like I said, one day I will be The Exalted Ruler.

Overwhelm

So it's the third official day of summer vacation, and I'm ready for my kids to go back to school.  I'm kidding.  Not really.

 When we were IN school, I felt overwhelmed with state reports, book reports,  special singing and drumming presentations, Castle Day, Kindergarten sharing for the letter of the week, and watching my 5th graders being promoted.

In fact, 5th grade Promotion just happened to fall on the last day of school, AND the twins 11th birthday.  Anyone who's ever had a kid in school knows and understands the chaos of the "End of the Year" mayhem.  At precisely 8:40 AM,  I rushed to put Charlotte into the jogging stroller, because I knew full good and well, that if I didn't run to the school, I wasn't gonna get my sweat on that day.

What I totally did not expect, or see coming AT ALL, was the overwhelming emotions that overtook me as a parent.  As I was running across Lincoln Avenue, all of a sudden, instead of worrying if I would get to the school on time, I had this flashback of the twins in Kindergarten.  Little cutie patootie Blondies, full of excitement, anticipation, and joy over what elementary school could and would bring.  I was doing the ugly cry, and the stupid ceremony had even yet to begin!

Because now I get it.  They are my first.  They were in Kindergarten YESTERDAY.  And now they're not.  Next year they will be going to Willow Glen Middle School.  And I can't do a damn thing to stop it.

Gone is the innocence of all of the "fun" extracurricular school activities, like Walk-A-Thon and Family Fun Night. Many of these activities, which I straight up, boycotted.  C'mon, let's me honest for just a minute.  Which would you choose?   Going to a San Jose Giants game at the end of a long week, on a Friday night with 10,000 other Booksin kids, with a baby strapped to your midsection in a Bjorn?  Or sitting on your ass while drinking a glass of wine, de-compressing with spousey, while catching up on Oprah?  NO BRAINER...right?

It will never be the same for Abigail and Isabella.  And as much as I complain and kvetch about "fill in the blank here" part of their childhood, when it ends, it's over.  And when the next chapter comes, I grieve.  Gone are park days, and looking for worms after a  rain storm.  Here come bras and lip gloss...

The overwhelm of the summer scenario is simply this:  these damn kids are still here every morning at 8:01 AM.  WTF?  They like never leave.  It makes me feel as though I must actually schedule activities to keep us all sane.  Every morning, I'm greeted with the same question, from one of my bright eyed, positively radiant children,"Mom, what are we doing today?"  like I'm some sort of travel agent or concierge.

 I mean, just this past Sunday, I went to lunch, got a massage, played cards, and drank beer.  Not with my kids, silly.  With my very good friend.  I'm not really sure what the hell the kids did.  But it was the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday, and so I didn't feel guilty about it.  Well, not too terribly guilty.

And let me tell you, it was a stellar day!  But after hitting the Capitola Brit, The Willow Den, and Aqui's, I  realized, that at some point during the day I needed to return to my homestead.   However, I also recognized it was very close to the girls bedtime.  This left me with only one decision:  go to The Marmist, and wait it out. Kidding, I didn't go to The Marmist.  But I WILL get in that place some day.  I have a dream, dammit.

Truth be told though, I could NOT go home just yet.  If I was able to successfully able to kill about another 30 minutes, I would be Scott free.  Free from bedtime stories.  Dreaded teeth brushing.  Requests of permission to go potty...one last time.   Please tell me I am not the only mother on the planet who does that.  Please validate my selfishness.

Or maybe I am.  I guess that makes me a horrible person.  But I think I'm okay with it.  Because seriously, we have like 500 more days of summer togetherness.

 Days filled with Library origami hours, and Happy Hollow.  Days that leave the floor of my truck resembling a playground sandbox, because we went to the beach.  And well, me washing 3 loads of nappy, gritty, wet, towels and bathing suits because we, well, went to the beach.   Days of my girls playing Hide n Go Seek out front with the neighbor kids after dark.  Evenings spent  raising a glass with my friends, as the kids dance in the lingering rays of sunlight as they don glow necklaces that somebody dug out from their Halloween left-overs.

I do love me some summer.  And well, pretty soon, these days of innocence will be long gone.

So when I start to complain again about the kids driving me nuts, just check me, will ya?  Gently remind me how quickly it goes.  Because before I know it, the twins will be going to their first dance.  Excuse me, as I go cry into my pillow now.

Pay It Forward

Doing the right thing is really, really, really hard sometimes.

Recently, when I found some money on the ground (40 BUCKAROO's to be a little more specific), I initially played that little game called, "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers".  And then, almost immediately afterwards,  I felt guilty knowing that someone lost their cash.  That could be me. Or it could be you.  Shit, maybe it was you.  In that case, I should have kept it!

 Or after unpacking all of the groceries and baby into the car, it is then I find a package of contraband butter, which I find in some obscure location (like behind Charlotte's head in the car seat) that made it out of the store without being purchased.  Then the game is called, "REALLY, right now?!  Should I, or shouldn't I pack the baby back up, and go PAY?!!!!"

I have made a really significant discovery recently:  human nature leads us to the lazy path.  NOT the path of righteousness, man.

Just last week, our fam took a walk on a gloomy Sunday afternoon.  We were one block out, when it started to hail on us.  The girls took it as their opportunity to go "singen' in the rain,"  while Tom and I looked at each other, with an unspoken, "Should we turn back?" look.  Finally, after camping out under a tree for a good 5 minutes, waiting out the storm, I said, "Tom, let's man up here.  The girls are digging it."  And so we soldiered on to downtown Willow Glen.

By the time we made our way to Lincoln Avenue, the sun was shining, and the clouds had lifted.  I told the girls they could go into Powell's candy shop and each spend a buck...I know, big spender huh?  As we approached The Dark Side, (Powell's), I looked down to find three gift cards on the ground.  Two were for a chic little clothing boutique called Bella James.  And the other was for TJ Maxx Home Goods.

"SCORE!!!!" was my first thought.  I mean, I haven't bought any new clothes since the babe's been born, because truth be told, money has been more than a little tight.  Bella James is a store that I would never be able to afford, so I don't ever go in.  But I have seen it from the outside while I drink Sangria at Aqui's.

My second thought was, "Someone is really bummed right now because they lost these cards."  And so, with our girls on a severe sugar high, and following in tow, I marched into Bella James, and dropped the cards off to the clerk, explaining the situation

She said, "Oh, you know, I can TRACE these to whomever purchased them."  Well, that sucks, I thought.  I don't stand a chance.  "But if they're not claimed within the week, I will call you, okay?  Oh gosh, these are worth $100!"  I left my name and number, hoping I would luck out.

That call never came.  I waited until today to call and inquire about those gift cards, and the overly enthusiastic  clerk said, "OH!  She came in the very same day and claimed them!"

I was kind of expecting like a consolation prize or something.  How about one card for her, and one for me?  How about a phone call THANKING me for returning them?  Better yet, realizing what an outstanding citizen I am, I get $1,000 shopping spree at Bella James rewarding me for "doing the right thing"?

Nope.  I didn't get shit.  Just a good feeling inside.

Like I said before, doing the right thing is really, really, really hard sometimes.

Cry Baby

I am so EMO.  I am a crier.  There's no hiding it.  There's no shame in it.  It just is, man.  I am a cry baby.

I cry when I'm happy.  I cry when I'm feeling empathetic.  When I met my grand baby for the first time, I kissed on his rolls, and his sweet cheeks.   Then he had to get back on that plane with all grown up Katie-K, who's now a Mama doing a fine, damn job.  Not knowing when I would see those two precious beings again, I cried.  I cried when I left my Besties in Vegas, knowing full well,  that we'll probably never have a time quite like that again.

 I cry when I feel proud.  I cry when I'm overcome with emotion, with the tears that fall freely, being my release.

There have been many a time, smack dab in the middle of my Weight Watchers meeting, when I break down.  Professional?  Not exactly.  But part of my human condition?  Absolutely.

I received this gift from my Dad.  Oh - My - God, is that man a crier.  Through his example, I learned not to be ashamed, but rather, embrace emotion. Not quite the dealio for men of that generation.  A gift I've come to appreciate and accept about myself.

So it should be no surprise, that I started tearing up as I ran with the twins this last weekend.  You see, Abby and Bella have been involved in a program called Girls on the Run after school.  They have been training twice a week to run a 5k since the end of February.

The night before the race, I showed the girls how you get everything ready, 'cause race day comes damn early.  From your pony tail holder, to your socks, to your shoes, to having your oatmeal placed out on the counter and ready to go, the night before.

And so there we were on a chilly and overcast Saturday morning, awaiting the shuttle to take us into Vasona to the start line at  6:30 AM.  Excitement and anxiety filled the air, as 3,000 young ones waited to run.  Not to mention all of the mama's and daddies, grandma's and grandpa's who were lining the streets to cheer on their loved ones.

We took off in the front of the pack, racing like jack rabbits, to get the crowd behind us.  "Channel your inner Kenyan," I told the girls.  They didn't really get what I was talking about, but it sounded like a good pep talk at the time.  By the time we reached Mile 1, both girls had lost steam, feeling like they may need to walk.

"Let's just take it nice and easy.  Here we go, with a nice, and steady pace," I coached them.  By the time Mile 2 rolled around, I coaxed, "Only 1 mile left girls.  You are so strong."

All of a sudden, Bella got her second wind, and chimed in as though she was some sort of motivational speaker on a circuit, during a high school pep rally,  "C'mon Abby, 2 miles DOWN, only 1 left.  We GOT this THING!"

But Abby didn't look so convinced.  Bella started to ease ahead of us.  "Go ahead girl, we are right behind you," I said, not wanting to hold her back.  Abby and I fell into sync with each other.  As we crossed the bridge, with only a quarter of a mile to go, I looked over at Abby.  This was my very first time running with my daughter.  And here she was.  Sucking wind.  Sweating.  Pushing through.

My eyes started to tear up, pride filling my throat, so that I was barely able to eek out to her, "Abby, I'm so proud of you, babe."

There was something unexpected that happened as I watched her struggle, and then persevere through this physical hardship.  It felt as though my heart swelled with honor, gratification, and love on Saturday.  Not just for my girls.  But for all the little ones there, who never envisioned themselves accomplishing such a feat.  Running 3.1 miles is not for wimps...especially if you're in elementary school!

'Cause I know what it feels like to be unsure whether you're gonna make it or not.  To have a difficult time seeing the light, so to speak.  It's only when you reach deep within and do the extraordinary, do you find what you are really capable of.

I do believe I watched my daughter participate in that miracle on Saturday.  And I feel blessed to have been part of it.

Viva Las Vegas!

Or should I call this blog entry, "Cougars Take On Vegas", because I can't tell you how many times we were called that as we strutted our hot mommy bods down The Strip this last weekend.  One of us, would yell back, "We are NOT Cougars!", like that would effectively convince the young male passersby that indeed, we were still in our 20's.  But in our defense, we did have ONE cutie patootie with us who was all of  31 years of age.  And she was our Bobcat mascot.

Until this past weekend, I had never been to Vegas.  I had no idea what to expect.  And quite honestly, I don't think there is any way that one can physically, mentally, or spiritually  prepare for a girls weekend away in Sin City.

 I'll be the first to admit, that I was filled with anxiety, and felt a bit uneasy about this trip.  I was going with the same core group of ladies, more or less, that got kicked out of the PINK concert, plus 2 other women, whom I had never met before.

People just kept saying, "If you have something in your closet and you don't know when you'll ever wear it, bring it to Vegas."  And that I did.  As soon as I checked my bag packed full of more stilettos than one should own, I boarded the plane.   With Charlotte being only 6 months old, I carried on my pump.  Oh yeah, cause that's how mommy's roll.

I should have known from the moment I sat down on the plane next to two cute little 21 year old's who were doing vodka shots, I was in trouble.  One was saying she needed to get her nails did (which had yellow tips, by the way), and the other was telling me how great Vegas is because "You can smoke anywhere!"  I wanted to tell her, "Smoking is very bad for you," but I saved my Mommy pep talk for another time.

All the girls arrived at the airport, and the timing could not have been better.  I anxiously waited for my suitcase at the baggage claim.  As more and more passengers from my flight collected their belongings and rolled off to get drunk, or gamble all of their money away, I stood there.  Waiting.  Until I was the last one left.  Of course, this was just my luck!!  My first weekend away in FORever, and my bag was lost.

How, oh how, would all that sequined hooker gear, glitter, and high heels be replaced?  The Southwest assistant, assured me, "As soon as your bag arrives, we will deliver it to your hotel."

I wanted to scream at him, "DO YOU KNOW THAT I STARTED PACKING MY GLITTER AND SHORT DRESSES A WEEK AGO?  DO YOU KNOW HARD IT IS TO FIND COMFORTABLE STILETTOS IN A GOD DAMN SIZE 10?"

But I didn't.  I held back tears, and soldiered on.

And the girls were great about it.  In fact, come to think of it, when we arrived at the hotel, no one dared even unpack their bag because I think they were afraid I would spontaneously combust.  Instead, we went shopping "just in case" I would need a dress for that night.  We were quickly schooled on the symptoms of alcohol poisoning when out of a gaggle of young drunk guys ahead of us, one hit the deck with his HEAD on the marble floor, and then started bleeding.

Again, I wanted to shout out, "THAT is NOT being SAFE!"  But I held back, and just watched in horror, as this guy's "friends" loaded him into a wheelchair to go get more drinks.  "That's not cool," we said to them. WTF?  Crazy!

Just then, my phone rang.  Lo and behold, my bag was found.  Glory and hallelujah on high!  I have never felt so much relief in my life.  I mean, unless you count the time I delivered the twins, and they were finally out of my body.

Anyways, the progression of debauchery basically started from there, and the weekend went somewhat like this:

Thursday night was spend at Studio 54, and Rok; two clubs where ladies get in and drink for free before 12.  There is no mistake.  You read that right.  A man I'll refer to as, The Leprechaun,  tried to spin me on the dance floor.  I had to tell that small little man, "DO NOT spin me, or I will squish you like a bug, thank you."  We got home around 3 o'clock in the morning.

Friday was spent at Walgreen's investing large sums of money in band aids and protective Dr.Scholl's goods.  After one night in heels, most of our feet were toast.  We hung by the pool.  And then rallied for another night out at The Venetian for dinner, and Club Tao.  We met another small little man there named Bruno.  He was nice and let us sit on his couch, because by this point, we could no longer walk, and had resorted to hobbling.  By the time we got home it was 4:30 am, and we thought our Bobcat would need a pinkie toe amputation.  As Ella yelled at us, "WASH YOUR FEET", I stared in horror at Bobcat's little toe.  I had never seen anything so purple, and swollen, and angry.  I wanted to help Bobcat by draining those blisters, but I wasn't strong enough.  Cornell stepped in and took care of business, while French Gulch prepared yummy grilled cheese sandwiches.  If you haven't guessed already, we had all gained a nick name by this point.  However, I still have too much mind fog to remember what mine was.

By the time Saturday rolled around, we decided to start our evening with a show at The Wynn, followed by yet another night of clubbing, at Surrender.  By now, we broke the code, and figured out how to get our names on the guest list.  No line.  No pay.  THAT's what I'm talken about.  We got home by 3 am.

I have never experienced anything like Vegas in all my life.  We rallied.  We owned that town.  We were Cougars on the prowl.  With one Bobcat, to boot.  I spent time with my besties.  And I met two women who I am now honored to call my friends.

I'll never forget that before I left, my girlfriend warning me, "You are going to be out until 4 or 5 in the morning."  I shrugged her off, and said, "No way.  I never even did that in college.  I won't be able to hang."

But you do.  Cause it's Vegas, baby!

The Sisterhood

"Mama, was Charlie a planned baby or a surprise baby?"  Cosette asked between bites of Cheerios, one day this past week.

"Um, she is a bit of both," I answered honestly, "Daddy and I were surprised that we were having her,"
(WHY that came as a shock to Tom or me, while using the Natural Family Planning Method, and after sharing a bottle of wine on DAY 13 -the most fertile day for most women - in my cycle, is beyond any logical comprehension), "But God definitely had a plan for her to join our family,"  I finished up my explanation nice and neat, like.

One must be careful with the info that is given to the siblings... I'm already flashing forward to the near future, as Cosette is screaming at her baby sister for some sort of injustice that has taken place.  Perhaps after Charlotte has ruined a Lego house, stolen a Barbie from her grips, or chucked a rock at her head for some unknown reason, with Cozy yelling frantically, "You weren't even PLANNED!!!  You were just a SURPRISE."

 This in turn, I'm convinced, will lead Charlotte to counseling in her early 20's.

As Abigail was holding Charlie on her lap, I just couldn't get over the resemblance between the two.  Not that I even remember what the hell Abby looked like at that age.  Shit, I don't remember much of the twins early existence.  But there are some pictures floating around, that do indeed prove, they're mine.  And yes, with this picture proof, Abby at six months old, looks a lot like Charlotte.   It's like creepy, eerie, and strange just how much those two in particular, resemble each other.

 After sharing this revelation with Abby, she said, "Well Mom, you know how Bella and I grew inside of you?  This is how I think it goes...we left a little piece for the next baby.  So Emma got it.  And then Em left a little piece for Cosette.  And well," she sighed, looking down empathetically at Charlotte, "Sorry Charlie, I don't think your little piece is gonna work out for another baby."

It was almost enough to make me want to bring life into the world once again.  NOT.

What I've found is this:  when the thought of having another child repulses you/scares the shit out of you, as a woman, you are officially done reproducing.  And that, my fellow readers, is where I'm at.  I can just hear you all applauding right now from the privacy of your own home computers.  Yes, the game is over.  The store is closed.  Nicely put, our family is complete.

And that's a good thing, considering I almost killed Isabella on Monday.  For the second time in the past 6 months, Bella left her glasses in a spot, where the spectacles were smashed into a tangled mess by another person's feet.

 The first time, she got a time out, and a talken to.  The second time, I SAW RED.

"Bella, you need to come up with PLAN of how you will take care of your GLASSES.  And you are not to come out until dinner.  I'm too angry to even discuss it with you rationally right now."

And I wasn't kidding.  I find it somewhat comical though, when after hearing Mama's angry wrath, everyone else who IS NOT in trouble, makes sure to stay the hell out of my way.

Abby, Emma and Cosette played Calico Critters with each other in hushed whispers, like good girls who are scared of  what their mom will do, if hypothetically speaking, they ask for a snack, or something of the sort.  Their eyes, darting up every now and again, to make sure it was safe, for example, to use the bathroom.

After getting the other girls situated with dinner, I decided I was in my right mind to speak with Bella without completely losing it.

"Bella, do you know how much glasses cost?  Do you know how hard Daddy works to pay for them so that you can do your best at school?  What is your plan to take care of them?"  I asked in a somewhat Zen tone.

"Well, I can put them into my case when I'm done wearing them," she answered.

"That's a FABULOUS idea.  But this time, you are going to pay for the damage to the glasses.  You will be responsible for it, because by the looks of them, I'm not sure if they are repairable,"  I was really trying to drive the point home.

Her lip started to quiver, eyes welling up with tears.  "But HOW am I supposed to do that Mom?  I'm just a KID!  I don't have a JOB!  I don't have that kind of money."

Oh please.  She was actually trying the "I'm just a kid" line.

"Your job, Bella,  is to be a good student, sister, and daughter, while being responsible for your things.  You better get resourceful.  Look in your piggy bank and figure it out."

By this time, she was bawling, not knowing how she would move forward with the severity of the spectacle situation.

"Come to the table when you've pulled yourself together.  Dinner is ready,"  and with that, I made my exit out of her room, and onto the couch to nurse Charlie.

Shortly thereafter, Bella joined her sisters at the table, and explained, "Mom said I have to pay to have my glasses fixed," sniffly snot.

Almost immediately, Emma chimed in, "We'll help you Bella.  We can have a Lemonade stand."

"And how about a car wash?"  Abby added.

"Don't worry Bella, we'll help you," Cosette added.

And for a moment, Isabella, stopped crying.  She looked up at her sisters, and understood, that she may have been lost, but now had been found.



And it is my hope and prayer, that when Tom and I meet our maker, and we are now longer here, our girls will love, care, and look out for each other.  I believe deeply, that this is the most valuable gift that can be gained from being in this thing called, "family".

I also believe that if Bella's glasses get smashed ONE more time, you will most likely see me on the 5 o'clock news for homicide.

Renewal

So I'm struggling right now.

Not with alcoholic consumption before noon.  I'm stronger than that...most of the time.

Not with finding an effective birth control method. Snip.  Snip.  Finally, I'm safe.

No, I'm struggling with a biggie here:  religion.

Most of you already know, I grew up Catholic.  But as I have gotten older, I don't necessarily feel connected to God at church.  Rather, I feel the most connected with the Big Man, when I'm out amongst the green carpet of fresh grass and blooming wildflowers outside in nature.

I kid you not, some Sundays come and Tom loads up the girlie's and takes them to church, and I go off on a hike with Charlotte.

It's just where I'm at right now, that's all.  Simply put, I am a spiritual person, not necessarily, a hell and brimstone,  religious one.  However, I totally dig Mother Mary, and Jesus, while definitely trying to be open to other religions.

One day, as Emma intently examined The Last Supper portrait hanging on our wall (once a Catholic, always a Catholic), she looked to me and asked,  "Mama, what's Jesus doing here?"

"Well honey, this is the last time he had dinner with his friends, the Disciples," I answered.

"Why Mama?  Why was it the last time he ate with his friends?"  she asked.

Oh shit, here it comes, I thought.  How do you word "he was crucified and died on a cross for your sins" in a kid-friendly sort of way?

"The next day, he died on the cross," I said simply.

Emma looked at me.  She looked at The Last Supper.  She looked back at me, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Oh but WAIT!!!"  I said, excitedly, "Listen to THIS!  It was like the best magic trick EVER!  Do you know what happened 3 days later?"  I was trying to give her the facts, but keep it light.

"Jesus ROSE up from the dead!!!  (this was the non-Da Vinci Code version, alright?)  Can you believe that?  Isn't that GREAT?!  And that, baby girl, is why we celebrate Easter."

I was invited to have lunch with some ladies recently, where we would be discussing Easter traditions.  The table was set simply, but with beautiful fresh cut flowers.  Fruit and yummy burritos were served.  And I walked in carrying Charlotte and a six pack of beer.  Hey, it was 1 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, but it's all good, right?

I'm not sure you could call the "Doom and Gloom" of Lent a tradition.  I've never been good with someone telling me I have to give something up, so instead, I try to just be more mindful during Lent.  I try to just more  aware.  I try to be more in the moment.

Like helping Cosette tie her shoes,  instead of sighing in frustration at her inability to do so.  Breathing calmly, when after changing a dirty tablecloth for a clean one (one that perhaps doesn't have syrup stuck to the place mats), only to have one of the girls spill a glass of milk all over it.  And so it goes, right?

Tom and I try to also instill this value in the girls, because after all, isn't that what we should be going for on this journey?  But I am open to anything that will make biblical stories (yaaaawn), more engaging and fun!

Anyways, these ladies brought up the coolest idea, and I'm sure some of you already know about these:  Resurrection Eggs.  The concept is very simple and tangible for kids and adults alike: there are 12 plastic eggs, and inside of each one, is a symbol of Jesus's journey until Easter day.  I got mine at a Christian book store, since I was a Resurrection Egg virgin, but you can just as easily make them.

For those of you that are interested, here is what is inside of each egg, numbered 1-12.

1.  A small toy donkey (Jesus rode this into the city)
2.  Silver coins (Judas betrayed Jesus with 30 silver coins)
3.  Cup (used at The Last Supper)
4.  Praying Hands (Jesus praying to God in the garden, knowing what was about to happen)
5.  Leather Whip (Pilate had Jesus whipped)
6.  Crown of Thorns (soldiers, mocking him, placed this on his head)
7.  Nails of the cross (Jesus was made to carry his cross, before being nailed to it)
8.  Die (the soldiers were playing a game and taking bets, to see who could "win" Jesus' tunic)
9.  Spear (one soldier stabbed Jesus in the side with a spear)
10.  Linen cloth (what Jesus was wrapped in after death)
11.  Stone (used as a door for Jesus's tomb, which an angel later rolled away)
12.  Empty (as the tomb was)

For the very first time in my life, I understand the story of Easter!  Call me slow, but hey man, I'm fired up!

You can hide the eggs, or pull one out at dinner time, letting each kid take a turn.  Or you could even have the kids make their own treasure box with all 12 symbols inside.  That way, you don't have to hear, "I want to hold the DONKEY!!!!!  You got to open the EGG!!!  It's MY turn," as you share the story and joy of our risen Lord.

Happy Easter everyone!

Little House Lives On

For Halloween, most kids want to dress up like Darth Vadar, a miniature Twilight Vampire, Batman, or a "Diva" who's wearing a glittered mid driff shirt, while clutching a sequined microphone.

Not the Walsh girls!  Oh no!  A very good friend introduced them to the Little House On the Prairie series about 4 years ago, and it's been all downhill since then.  The Walsh sisters encompassed Ma, Mary, Laura (before blindness set in), and Carrie this past Halloween, when my Auntie was kind enough to make their costumes.  Without a pattern.  From scratch.  Bonnets, aprons,  and all.

 On any given day, I am re-living my own childhood,, as I sit and watch THE show that I grew up with.  Little House, with it's wholesome values, and God fearing men, was pretty much one of  the only TV shows that passed with Foxy's approval, and I was allowed to watch with wild abandon.  Fond memories, they are. In case you were wondering, The Waltons and The Brady Bunch came in a  close second.

 But let me tell you what's changed and gotten even better over the last 3 decades regarding Little House: watching Pa chop wood.  Just saying.  I go into each episode, holding my breath with the anticipation that maybe, I will be graced with Michael Landon's bronzed chest, glistening with perspiration, as he swings his big ax.  Hey man, chopping wood isn't for wimps.

Anyhoo, getting back to my story.  So, over Spring Break, I decide to take the girls to San Jose History Park.  I've never been there, but I've heard that it's cool.  And as I pull into the lot, I see a replica of old town San Jose, complete with  a gas station, post office, homes with wrap around porches, and a train.

 But what I didn't see, was something that left my girls speaking in COULD THIS REALLY BE HAPPENING TO US?  tones.

"Mom, oh my gosh.  Oh my gosh!"

"What?" I put the truck in park.

"There's a COVERED WAGON!!!!!  Kids are wearing BONNETS!!!!  There's a  wooden SHACK!!!!"

The Walsh girls bolted from our vehicle before I even had my seat belt unbuckled.  I mean, as far as they were concerned, we had just fucking entered Walnut Grove.  Word to your Ma.

I finally caught up with Charlotte in the stroller a good 5 minutes later.  As I approached, I saw a young male docent who could maybe drink legally, but it was difficult to tell.  And he was speaking in a hushed tone too...but he was no match for my girls.  And he certainly wasn't chopping any wood.

"Um girls, we have a class going on right now," he looked to me for back up, as all 4 blond heads pop out from the back of the covered wagon, "but you can come back in just a little while."

Seeing that this was going nowhere quick, because clearly my girls believed that Nellie Olson was somewhere on the premises...she just HAD to be, I looked at him and calmly explained, "You have to understand.  They dressed up in Little House costumes for Halloween."

I mean, who does that?  Do other kids, pull up in their moms SUV and literally FREAK out with enthusiasm over a covered wagon and a wooden shack?  I think we may be a bit extreme in that department.  I do believe that if there was some sort of award for enthusiasm, we would win it.

Case in point.  We're at the library a day later.  All 4 have found a good book and a nook to devour their latest read.  I'm tucked into a back corner while nursing Charlotte, donning my Hooter Hider, and reading out loud to Cozy, yet another Disney Princess book of crap.  When all of a sudden, a monochromatic voice comes over the loud speaker.

"Hello friends of the Willow Glen Library.  In just five minutes, we'll be making Origami collages in the Community Room.  Please join us for this marvelous opportunity."

My girls reaction, much like the covered wagon, was off the hook.  It's like someone just announced that ice cream was now a staple food in our diet for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"On my gosh Mom.  Can I go?  It's ORIGAMI HOUR!!!!"

Charlotte popped off my breast, as if saying, "Well hurry up woman, paper making creations are about to take place.  MOOVE IT!"

So there I was, once again, trying to gather up our belongings in a hurried fashion, not even fully checking to make sure my breasts had made it back inside of my shirt, as I stumbled into the Community Room with my nursing cape on backwards.  Charlotte had lost a sock in the upheaval, and who knew where all the books that we had the intention to check out had gone to.  It's didn't matter, man.  Origami magic was about to take flight.

So I guess my point is, well, I don't really have one.  My girls are funny.  They love the simple stuff.  In fact, just today, I had to stop them cold turkey at Costco from taking no less than a dozen cardboard boxes.

"Mom, please?  Pleeease?  Can we take some boxes?"

You're wondering what's the big deal, right?  Well, I'll tell you.  We've had every sort of box from Pizza to tampon boxes made into SOME thing.  But it's a something that requires 10 rolls of tape, 2 staplers, and my good scissors.

I try not to squash the enthusiasm too much, but I would like to have access to a roll of scotch tape that hasn't been fully utilized to make a cardboard city, you know?

Maybe I'm asking too much.  But I'm pretty sure, that one day I'll look back on this fleeting time of pure innocence and long for it to come back...huh?  Probably right around the time the twins turn 13, and are pulling the same pranks I did with Foxy.

Oh God help me.

To Have and To Hold

From this day forward.  In sickness and in health.  In good times and bad times.  FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES.  Ah marriage... no pressure.

I had the amazing opportunity to attend a dear friend's wedding this past weekend.  I can't even tell you the last time I went to such a blessed event.  Thirteen years into my own marriage, it's like the sands of time have come and gone, and everyone that I know has already gotten hitched.

Give me an excuse to eat, drink, dance and basically have a kick-ass time, and I'm there.  But this wedding was especially lovely.  This couple is unique.  This bride and groom are about my age, and they truly played the waiting game to hold out for that perfect person.

You see, I was one of the first friends to meet "The Guy".  It just so happened that it was on the night of my birthday, after consuming lots of red wine.

 "The Guy" met us out at Number One Broadway in Los Gatos, on a Friday night, after a loooong work week.  By the time he arrived, we were all at least 6 drinks ahead of him. "Well, lookey what we have here," I thought to myself.  Let's see if "The Guy" passes my test.

Now keep in mind, my girlfriend and "The Guy" were not even officially dating yet.  I mean, this was very fresh.  Very new.  Let's break him in, I thought.   He hadn't even been in the club for more than 5 minutes, when I confidently stumbled up to him, made my introductions, and then said something to the effect of, "It's MY birthday, and YOU are going to dance with me."  I'm sure it was about that same time, my girlfriend was asking why did she even come out that night.

But see, there was a method to my madness.  My thought was simply this:  if "The Guy" gets up, and dances with me without an excuse of "Oh no thank you, it's been a long week...let me just get a drink first", he's a KEEPER.  He's unselfish.  He's not arrogant.  He doesn't care what he looks like next to a 6 foot tall glittered up birthday girl who shoulda been cut off about 2 hours ago.  And a KEEPER he was.  He got right up as I man-handled him to the dance floor, and grooved with me.

About a month later, I reported these extremely significant findings to my girlfriend.  By that time, they were dating.  I just kept saying, "He's a keeper, Jenn.  He's a keeper," like I was some sort of Dating Expert.  But after being single for THREE years, and holding out for Tom Walsh Super Genius, I like to think I sort of have an idea of what a Keeper looks, smells, and acts like.

A few weeks prior to the wedding, my girlfriend asked if I would mind making a few announcements during the reception.   "Wow, what an honor.  Of course!" I told her.

"Well," Jenn replied, "you were one of the first friends to meet Mark.  We're not going to have a DJ, so I was thinking you could announce the Father-Daughter dance, the Mother-Son Dance, the bouquet and garter toss, and the cake cutting."

My first thought was, "Oh shit, a short dress and stilettos just isn't going to cut it for this.  I hope I have a somewhat conservative dress and heels in my closet. And my second thought was, I can't get loaded.  I need to be well-behaved."   I mean, think about it: Drinking and then handing me a mic?   Why did she think I was the right person for this job?  Those 2 criteria alone, should have left her thinking that anyone would be a better pick.

But as the time approached, I tried not to worry too much about my part, because truth be told, the wedding day is ALL about the COUPLE.  And as she walked down the aisle, I started sobbing like a baby.  She was stunning.   And I don't say that lightly....stunning!   And he was angelic, sweet, and handsome.  And as they embraced after seeing each other for the first time all gussied up, about to be wed, they truly looked at each other, as if saying, "Finally.  I'm so glad I waited.  I'm so blessed I found you.  You are a keeper."

As they exchanged their vows, tears streamed down their cheeks, I was reminded that a wedding is such a concrete symbol of hope,  faith, and opportunity to create a new life with another person.  And being an attendee?  Well,  I felt like I got invited to watch a miracle take place.

 Here's to Jenn and Mark!  To a lifetime of love, forgiveness, being open to becoming humbled, learning, growing, and holding hands together.  Ah yes... much love to you both!!

Lessons Learned

It seems as though on any given day, I learn a lesson of one sort or another. These are some of the little things that have actually "stuck" over the years.

Eating Jack in the Box after I've been drinking sounds like a good idea, but it REALLY isn't.  The Ultimate Double Cheeseburger, with a large fry and a Diet Coke worked for me in my 20's, but not so much after 30.  Now I just stumble to the fridge and eat, but try to make a sensible choice.

Understanding and accepting that my parenting skills will never work so miraculously that all 5 will be ZENNED out at the same time!  I'm down with it.  As long as all 5 don't go off and freak out simultaneously.

Picking up on how my anxiety over getting the laundry done, getting homework checked off, making dinner, or getting off to work on time, affects my kiddos.  Just last week, I experienced an event TEN minutes before I was to be out the door for work.  I was nowhere near being ready (didn't even have my make up on, and wasn't dressed yet), when Abby asked me for help with a Math word problem that had MULTIPLE steps.  I was forced to take a deep breath, let shit go, and help my daughter, knowing that I would very well be late for work.  BIG PICTURE, right?

3 drinks really IS just perfect for me.  Consuming 4,5,or 6 alcoholic beverages is not going to make me feel more relaxed.  Just hungover, tired, and crabby the next day.  Oh, and drinking water between those drinks works for me too.

Giving myself permission to stop and walk during my run is an okay thing to do.  Back in the day, I would have just powered through it, my internal monologue sounding like a Drill Sargent, "Stopping is for WIMPS!  You're NOT tired.  It's a figment of your imagination, WALSH!"  Now I'm too tired and old to power through it.  Taking a leisurely stroll followed by laying in the fetal position sounds much more appealing.

I'm convinced that I'm a better parent when I have ingested  Vicodin.  And I'm a stellar parent after I've taken a Vicodin AND a Vodka Cran.  Okay, so  I totally get how folks get hooked on prescription meds.  And I'm pretty damn innocent when it comes to that kind of stuff.  But if someone is gonna arm wrestle me for my Vicodin, I will cut you.  I'm kidding.  But not really.

Nothing could prepare me for teaching 6th grade in the East side.  I can't believe that I thought that I had all the knowledge to dole out going into that profession.  HARDEE HAR HAR.  Those kids and their experiences humbled me daily.

Marriage is an interesting dance of recognizing and appreciating what Tom has to offer me, is what I lack, but what I need to grow.

Loving a grand baby has given me access to a piece of my heart I didn't even know existed .  It's a deeper, different kind of love.  I'm taking all that in right now.

When an elderly person corners me in the dairy section of Safeway, admiring Charlotte, and I may be rushed for time, I stop and recognize that it's a blessing.  So what if I'm a running a bit late?  It's the sweetest thing to watch.

Nothing life shattering.  Just little lessons I've learned.  Feel free to add your own!

Rocken' it at the Booksin Ball

So I jacked up my knee again.

While out on a run?, you ask.  I wish.  Pushing my Baby Jogger up a hill? you inquire.  Sadly, not.  While participating in lunges?, to build my non-existent glutious maximus?  Negative.

Did I re-injure my knee at The Booksin Ball after ingesting quite a lot of wine, and channeling my inner "Beyonce" while on the dance floor?  Yes!  Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

I guess getting parallel to the floor isn't so good for the old body.  But let me tell you...I had a GREAT time.  'Til the next morning, when much to my detriment, I hobbled out of my bed like a 98 year old elderly woman.

Tom and I hadn't been out since the babe has been born, so I was more than ready to get glammed up and get my groove on.  BTW, glam is code for:  really short black dress, my Vegas heels, and painting glitter across my eyelids because I think I'm Ke$sha.  Is that even how you spell her name?

I was a bit concerned though, when as we entered, and I saw some women wearing taffeta and sequined ball gowns, and some guys sporting tuxes, like at prom.  WOW.  Perhaps we are under-dressed, I thought.

 But then, it happened.  I turned around, and there before me, was a sight to behold: a 6 foot, 6 inch tall, kilt-wearing man, who was probably pushing 3 bills.  If that dude could sport a skirt, I could most certainly wear my hooker gear.  It was all good.

I loved that there was hair spray readily available in the bath rooms.  I didn't love how there were bottles of wine on the table that we couldn't drink.  Someone else had already purchased this wine.  Well, here's my 2 cents:  DON'T put alcohol on a table where inebriated people co-habitate, 'cause that's just asking for trouble.  I loved the slide show.  I didn't love that I saw the same pictures like 100 times while I was there.  I loved that they had a DJ.  I didn't love how the DJ only had vinyl.  I was really looking forward to dancing to "Raise Your Glass".  No can do.  Dude had shit like, "Say You, Say Me," by Lionel Richie.

I'll be really honest.  I didn't know what to expect that night.  Booksin has a ton of parent volunteers.  I'm talking a TON.   We've got Cornerstone, and BESCA, and Walk-a-Thon peeps.  We've got mama's who volunteer to be coaches, so my girls can participate in an after-school program called Girls on the Run.  These people devote their lives so our school can be an amazing place.

And then there's me:  the lady with all the kids, who just had ANOTHER baby, and makes her girls, gasp, walk across the grass to the car, so she doesn't have to get out.

I guess I was expecting folks to be sorta conservative, and mellow.  But I'll tell you what...even the taffeta and sequined ladies got down on the dance floor.  Come to think of it, so did Kilt-Man.  In  hindsight, it was very good that we said our good-byes before I pulled that dude out on the dance floor to swing me.  'Cause that's sorta where I was headed.

All in all, it was awesome night.  It rocked.  And I'm really glad that Tom and I left before I did something illegal.

Forgotten

It seemed "ironic" to me that each and every time Isabella had a counseling appointment at Kaiser, her twin sister, Abigail, seized the opportunity to flip out in the waiting room.

The first time it happened as I was nursing Charlie, and was brought on by Emma chucking a block at her head, or something of that nature.  The second time it happened, there was a direct correlation to frustration over homework.  And the third time, well, the third time it happened, my eyes were finally opened and I noticed a pattern.

Hmmm, I thought, with all of my mommy intuition (that I seemed to be lacking), I think there may be something going on here with Abby.  Maybe I should get her into the counselor also.  And while we're at it, can Mommy have a mental health check too?

And so it was set.  The next time Bella had an appointment, Abby would join her.  Now the next time, it just so happened, was set to take place the same exact time that baby sister, Charlotte, was due for her 4 month check up and shots.

The great thing about Kaiser, is that everything is located in one place,  more or less.  So, I dropped the twins for counseling, while gathering the youngest 3 kiddos, and walked over to a different building for the babe's appointment.

 I won't lie:  I was filled with a bit of anxiety with this whole fandango, but I got everyone where they needed to be on time.  After leaving Emma in the waiting room to finish her homework, and bringing Cosette with me, I realized that I shoulda switched kids.  Cozy was in my face, in Charlotte's face, and in the Doc's face.  As I looked at the clock, I realized I wasn't even close to happy hour yet.  Damn, and we still have shots to knock out.

I don't know about you, but holding down my infant child, while she gets poked  with needles is NOT my favorite past time.  After Charlie became a human pin cushion, I felt like I barely had time to comfort her, because we had to quickly gather up our things, and walk over to retrieve the twins from their head check.

We made it back into the office just in time for me to nurse my fussy babe.  Just as she latched, the counselor came out, and said, "Michelle, I'm ready for you to come on back."

I'm up for all sorts of challenges, and my main objective at that point, was making it back to her office without having the babe come off my breast.   Don't fret:  I donned the invincible nursing cape.  While giving a  "you better not chuck any blocks at each other, while I'm gone," glance in Cosette and Emma's direction in the waiting room, and a few steps later, I was sitting on her comfy couch.

Almost immediately, Linda asked Abby, "Would you like to share with your mom how you're feeling right now?"

This is the part, as a mom, you gear up to hear how you've failed your child.  And I wasn't disappointed.

"Well Mom," Abby started, eyes rimmed red with tears, "I kind of feel forgotten."

Now I started my bawling session.  After gathering my thoughts, I assured Abby, "Honey, I'm not crying because I'm mad or upset with you.  In fact, I'm so proud that you are able to tell me how you feel.  And I can see how you would feel that way."

It was just that here was a concrete example of yet, another thing, I needed to work on.  Truth be told, out of all the girls, Abby is the one who holds it together, helping out, willingly, when needed at home.  Whether it's changing a diaper, reading Cosette a story, or getting lunches organized for school.  And I, in my own busyness, had taken her for granted.

"Abby, it sounds like your mom has really heard what you're saying," Linda said, glancing at me.  Then seeing my distress, she continued, "Michelle, are you okay?"

"Yes," blubber, blubber, sniff, sniff, "I just feel like it's another thing to work on," Blubber, blubber, snotty nose wipe.

At this point, Charlotte had stopped nursing, and was looking up at me, concern filling her eyes.  It was like my 4 month old was saying, "Mom, is your break down gonna last long?  Because if it's going to affect your milk production, I sort of need to know..."

After Linda convinced me that I'm doing the best I can, which is what counseling is allll about (VALIDATION), Abby and I came up with a solution.  She and I would play a game ALONE.  No sisters.  No interruptions.  Just Abby and me.

And we did.  For the first time in a decade, I played a game with my oldest daughter.  And it was great.  I loved having her all to myself.  I loved not having to run interference with anyone else.  I realized that I had been missing out big time.  Most importantly, we just got to chill together.

What is it that Oprah says?  When you know better, you do better.  Well, this is a concept that I'm striving for, but have hardly perfected yet.  But that's okay.  'Cause last night was Bella's game night with mom.  And tonight is Emma's turn.

Vay-Cay-Tion

We just took a family vacation to the snow this last week.  I use the term "vacation" loosely, speaking as the mother figure in the household.

I think there should be some sort of reality show that involves packing up a family of 7 for a week,  for a camping trip in the Alaskan wilderness during its sunny season, January or February.  Only a four door vehicle could be used.  No SUV's allowed.  And none of those special packing holders that go on top of the car either...that would be considered cheating.

Okay, I changed my mind about the SUV thing.  I could win a show like that.  Or maybe I would go insane first.  But if I make it to an asylum, aren't we all winners?

I swear, whenever we go on a family "vacation", I start the process of loading items into bags, a WEEK before we're actually on the road.  And if for some reason we get stranded, or stuck, or my head spontaneously combusts, the entire family will have enough food, water, and clothes to last them a year, minimum.

 Part of it is my own fault.  I'm a psycho organizer, and I don't want to stop at the damn grocery store for something which I may have forgotten at home.

The only exception to this rule, is if we run out of alcohol.  That, in and of itself, warrants a trip to the local grocery store to stock up.  In fact, when the twins are old enough to drive, I have already made the executive decision that they can borrow my driver's license to go buy mama her potato juice.  I do enough around here.

I especially love packing for snow trips.  Everyone in the family needs the following to have "fun" in the snow:

1.  A snow bib that actually fits, even if the kids have had a growth spurt, and the pants that you JUST bought last year, look like a pair of Capri's.

2.  A water resistant winter coat, preferably with a hood.  If some one's jacket doesn't have a hood, pack Saran Wrap and make your own hood.  A plastic Target bag will also suffice.

3.  Enough socks to warm a small nation of midgets.

4.  Gloves that fit; they can't be too big, or too small.  This all changes when their hands get wet, and the damn things won't go on over their paws anyways.

5.  A snow hat.   Cowboy hats and those of that sort,  just won't cut it when you're trudging through 2 feet of fresh powder, with a 4 month old strapped to your midsection in a Baby Bjorn.

6.  Snow boots that fit, or that you can at least shove their feet into.

When the Walsh family goes to the snow, that gear alone, takes up the entire back of our Yukon.  I'm just gonna start strapping kids to the top of the truck with bungee cords, so I don't have to endure the never ending question of, "Are we there yet?  How much longer?"

Note, each child asks this question with a different whiny intonation about a thousand times.  And it's times like those, when I ask myself, why the hell I didn't pack a road soda.  If you don't know what a road soda is, we can't be friends anymore.

And the timing with the baby is KEY.  The car needs to be packed with all gear, including snacks and lunches, books and toys, with all occupants having emptied their bladders, as Charlotte comes off my breast.  Because if THAT timing isn't right, we're all gonna be screwed.  We have 3 hours people.  3 hours before little Charlie starts howling for more boobie.  MOVE IT!

 See what I mean?  This really could be a reality show.

I may gripe and complain about the packing and all that, but you know what?  This is what family memories are made of, God Damnit.

Nothing can compare to hearing your kids belt out at the top of their lungs, "It's SNOWING!  It's SNOWING!  Oh my gosh Mom.  It's magic!"

Unless they're yelling that out at 5 am...which, has happened before.  Cocktail hour comes especially early on those days.

Life in all of its simplicity I've found, is the key to happiness.  We haven't introduced the girls to skiing yet.  Why?  Partly due to the cost.  Partly because the one time I skied myself, I was too scared to get off of the lift.  There was a hill, and I was a beginner, and I was on the top of a MOUNTAIN!    But mainly, because the girls are just so darn happy playing in the snow.  The girls are content with snowball fights, drinking hot cocoa, and sledding.

Until someone gets hit in the lip with a jagged icicle.  That's happened before too.  See, that's where having alcohol on hand is really important for sterilizing the wound.  A little for me, a little for you.

Seriously, packing up, and making the trek to Arnold is the highlight for our girls.  I know that they will remember these trips for the rest of their lives.

And you know what?  I will too.

Love Thyself

So I've noticed that I'm looking a bit "crepe-y" lately.  Not to be confused with "creepy".  My under eye area is looking saggy, and dark, and well, TIRED.  I've noticed the same thing about my neck...and my decolletage.  Like, what the hell am I doing with age spots?!  I'm only 38 years old God Dammit.

And so the negative voice comes alive good and loud within my head.  It says, "Damn Michelle, you're looking spent.  Old.  Forghetta 'bout the make up, cause it's not doing anything for you.  And your hair?  It's dry and dull.  Yikes...look at all that gray."  I try to turn down the volume of that voice, but some days it just won't shut up, you know?

After I lost 90 pounds, I thought I would be happy!  I mean, who wouldn't be happy, right?  I really thought that if I got to my goal weight, love and sunshine and light would take over my life.  How WRONG I was.

When I achieved my goal, that negative voice was louder than ever.  And I was left with one thought:  I need help.  I better find a good counselor.  There's something else going on here, cause this ain't about the bread basket.

Contrary to what we all think, whatever vice we are using to self-medicate, whether it's food, or alcohol, or shopping, NONE of that will fill the emptiness and void that is lurking within our hearts.  NOTHING can fill that hole except for one thing:  Loving thyself.  Accepting thyself.  Forgiving thyself.

Chocolate won't do it.

Wine...well, wine takes the edge off, but that won't do it either.

 And shopping for some really cute shoes, that distracts us for about a minute.

But facing our own demons will.  Staring them straight in the face and telling them to back the hell down, works rather well.

Think about it...when we mess up, what does our the internal dialogue say?  "You can't do this.  You messed up again.  You're a failure.  You're weak."

Would we EVER talk to our best friend that way?  Absolutely not.  Then why oh why, do we give ourselves permission to speak in such an unflattering and hateful way about ourselves?

Often times, in my WW meeting, my members will say, "I was really 'good' this week."  Or "It's no wonder I didn't lose weight...I was 'bad'."  We are not dogs.  We are not 'good' or 'bad'.  We learn from our experiences to become better people and make better choices.

So here's what I'm working on...recognizing that voice when it starts speaking.  And turning the damn volume OFF.

Yes, I'm getting older.  Yes, I'm looking a bit tired.  But that's okay.  I'm okay.  I'm lovable, even though I'm looking old and tired.

"Change the voices in your head...learn to like you instead." Pink

T.M.I. Stands for...

Do you often find yourself being the recipient of too much information?  You know, people telling you ALL their business...like, even when you never asked.  T.M.I. 'rs come in all forms:   family, friends, or strangers, who may or may not be under the influence of hallucinogens, prescribed medications, alcohol, or their own delusional life.

If you're nodding your head "yes", and referring to my blog, I totally hear you.  I, myself, feel like sometimes I walk that fine line between being really honest, and scaring the hell out of people with my info.

Sometimes though, I believe you can't have ENOUGH info.  Like for example, when your husband has had a vasectomy, and you just had your fifth kid, and you want to see the 3 month sperm count statistics before....well, you know, BEFORE.  Just wanted to make sure you're still with me.

Often, I feel like I'm that friend, who people can trust with anything,  It's a compliment that folks trust me, but sometimes I feel like I could have gone my entire life without that info being disclosed to me...to keep in secret...until I rot in the ground.

 It's a responsibility I don't take lightly.  Let's just hypothetically say, that friend "A" shares some dirt about friend "B".  You know what I do?  I pretend like I had NEVER heard that before, even though I just got off the phone with friend "B".

 I'm like Switzerland, okay?  I don't want to take sides.  I don't think I should have to.  And so, I just play dumb.  Not hard.

Now, I'm a curious person.  I love asking "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?"  to anyone.  My doctor, my dentist, my kid's teacher.   No one is off limits.  And in this case, I'm just asking for people to tell me too much information.  But the stories always end up being memorable.

 For some reason I thought this was an appropriate question to ask the taxi driver on the way home from Boswell's on Saturday night.

 "Have women ever tried to pay you, but don't have the money?"  Wink.  Wink.

He replied, "Yes, and I rather like it."

 To which I quickly responded, "I live riiiiiight here, and I have CASH."

My Simple Little Life

There are some days that I just wake up really happy to be alive.  It doesn't happen 100% of the time, but when it does, I am so grateful that God gave me another day to be with family.

I love it when Cosette stumbles into our bedroom in the morning, sleepy eyed, and wobbly from rest.  As usual, she is the first one to rise in our home (not including Charlotte).  Daddy hears her, and welcomes her by lifting our down comforter up, and saying, "Good morning lovergirl.  There's room for you right here," as I lay dozing next to them, while nursing the babe.

I love it when all I have to do is talk in a high pitched "mama" voice, to get a smiley reaction from Charlie.  I love kissing her face, and her ears, and her chubby thighs.  I even love smooching on her stinky neck cheese.  It's like the best thing in the world.  Period.

I love walking home from school with the girlies on a 70 degree January afternoon.  Everything looks fresh, and clean, and bright, and hopeful.  I love watching their backpacks sway back and forth on their shoulders.  My big girls.

I love it when Emma asks a big sis for help turning the shower head, and they help her willingly.  The simple fact being, they are tall enough, and she's not yet.

I love leaving for work on a Tuesday at 5 o'clock, knowing that I have a husband who supports me in that endeavor.  A husband who works hard during the day, so he can be "on" to watch 5 kids ages 10 and under, so I can do something that I love.  How lucky am I?  And the car ride TO and FROM work, with no kids, isn't that bad either.

And I especially love how the day comes to an end.  Typically, the last thing I hear before I doze off, exhausted from the days demands, is my husband's voice.  He stands over Charlotte's bassinet, saying prayers of love, and blessings, and protection.

Yes indeed, today I appreciate my simple little life.  And I have the same wish for you!

Mizunderstood

I'm a bit of a control freak.  And yes, I have a BIG mouth.  But I also know when, and how, to keep it shut, to get what I want.  See, if you didn't already know this about me, then obviously we haven't been "busted" together for anything...yet.  But I'm passive aggressive.

Wow, I just feel so free now that my secret is out.

If someone tells me how to act, or not act, I will deliberately, but quietly, do the opposite.  Tell me what to wear or not to wear, and I may just show up with no clothes at all.  Tell me to be quiet, and well, we all know how that will end.

 I can't help myself.  It's like life is a game, and I would like to see what I can get away with...not in a malicious or even devious way.  But just to push the limits a bit.

Which sometimes leads to getting kicked out of concerts.  Or pissing off my boss.  Or saying things that leave my friends, who haven't ingested as much alcohol as I have, like they want to crawl under the table.  I have this tendency to make "rule followers" feel really uncomfortable.

As I tasted wine recently with good friends, and then proceeded to refill my own glass, (which is totally taboo), my girlfriend nailed it.  She said, "Michelle, the reason you get away with so much, is because most of the time, people just don't know what to do with you."

Case in point, y'all know who I work for.  LOVE IT.  Don't love all the bureaucratic BS, but LOVE my members!  They are the reason I go to work.

Every year, there is a meeting where there is some sort of "cruise ship" theme, and the employees are supposed to dress up.  Like in a cocktail dress.  To be with other women.  Eating salad.  On a Sunday afternoon.

You know what?  The first year, I followed the rules.  But when I found out there were NO cocktails, NO open bar, and NO disco ball, I'm like, WTH?

So, the following year, KNOWING full well, that I would be presented with an award on stage, I showed up in a tank top, jeans, and a pair of my best flip flops.  My team cringed, as I strolled up to the podium to receive my award in front of hundreds of other "cruise ship" dressed employees, by my boss, who donned her best Sears outfit, complete with sparkly blazer, and shiny pumps.

So it's really no surprise that I got kicked out of the PINK concert.  There I was, minding my own business, when 2 of my girlfriends and I spotted some family members sitting about 20 rows closer to the stage.  A drunken field trip is what ensued, with my ass sitting in the aisle, as my girlfriends sat upon the laps of my aunt and cousin.

 By golly, what do you think happened next?

BINGO!  An usher came and escorted my 2 girlfriends up and out.  They got up, and went willingly.  I, on the other hand, was in the market to buy some time.  I just kept saying the same thing to him over and over.  "This is my family.  This is my family.  This is my family,"  as I thought to myself, I would like to see this 4 foot 9 inch leprechaun, move my 5 foot 11 inch drunk ass, up and outta here in my mini skirt and stilettos..  I certainly wasn't compliant, but I also wasn't an out right beeyatch. I just sat, immobile, mumbling, quite possibly resembling someone with severe learning challenges who was dressed like a hooker.

Finally, I made my way back to my seat with some "help".  Shortly thereafter, the cops showed up and proceeded to show me the door.

This wasn't my first run-in with the POlice, nor am I sure, will it be my last.  I recall a few years ago on my birthday an incident involving glitter.  As I stumbled down Los Gatos Boulevard on my way to the Blackwatch, I noticed two of LG's finest out in front of Mountain Charley's.  I stopped, and said, "It's my birthday, would you like me to glitter you?"  as I held out a powder puff full of sparkles.

"No thank you," they replied in unison.  You know what I did?  I ran that powder puff down their forearms as I dashed away.  And I do believe that I was once again, wearing a short dress and stilettos.

Hmmm, I'm noticing a pattern here.  Something about my clothing choice and having issues with the police.  Gosh, I can't wait for my next event when I get to dress up!

People Are People

Enter De Peche Mode keyboard playing in the background for full effect...

Boy, I'll tell you what.  I continue to be humbled by my journey here.  From the birth of Charlotte, which didn't exactly go as I envisioned.  She was sunny side up, my placenta got stuck which led me to the O.R., I lost a tremendous amount of blood, etc.  To my post partum depression and issues surrounding nursing.  Or lack there of.  And now, my knee is jacked up, leaving me with limited work out options.

The message God is sending me is clear:  Slow down.  Be in the moment.  Pay attention.   What worked for you in the past, will not work for you this time.  It's so frustrating.  But humbling.

I think it's comical how I continue to think I'm in control of my life.  I just keep getting broken down.  I feel like I'm the Six Million Dollar Man...without any strength.   Or maybe I'm  the Bionic Woman...without the cool sound effects, and kick ass jumping ability.  But one thing is for sure:  I'm being rebuilt.  Emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

So I had this big light bulb moment today.  People are people.  Everyone has a story, and all of our threads intertwine in some way.  But it's up to us to make this united tapestry beautiful.  The only way we can do that, is if we stop being caught up in US, and instead,  pay attention to others, and what they may need in that moment.

So, I'm in line at Trader Joe's and the woman in front of me starts asking about Charlotte.  You know, all the typical Q and A...how old is she, what's her name, is she your first child (that's my favorite question, by the way).  I just love to see people's reaction.  It's like money every time.

Anyways, so she and I are talking, and all of a sudden, she looks at my dead on, and says, "Is your name Michelle?"

I usually get sorta nervous when people ask me that, cause I start racking my brain, thinking, "Oh dear God, what illegal act did this innocent bystander watch me commit?"

She continues, "I played basketball against you in high school.  I went to Mitty."

Talk about a small world.  I mean, we played basketball against each other, TWENTY years ago.  But not much has changed.  Here I was, in line at TJ's, without any makeup, hair up in a pony, donning my workout gear.  I was shocked she recognized me and knew me by name!  So our threads are still connected.

Right before Christmas, the girls went to the shelter with my aunt to hand out candy, and basically, blow some Christmas sunshine up you know where.  I accompanied with the baby in the sling, not really knowing what to expect.

Here's what I saw:  people that looked the same as you and me.  A mother and daughter who were dressed well.  Another woman who had just gotten a job at Target.  A young black man with clean clothes, and big guns...and I'm not talking about weapons.  Dude looked like he just got done working out at the gym.

As I walked by the folks in line, waiting for dinner, many inquired about Charlotte.  Babies are just so darn approachable.  And think about it.  No matter who we are now, we were all as small and helpless as Charlotte at one time.  Their eyes lit up as I walked past them.

But the highlight was watching the girls do their "work" joyfully.  You know how you wonder how your kids behave when they leave you?  Well, they forgot I was there, and just went about their bizness.  And it was such a pleasure for me to watch them LOVE helping out.  Again, an example of  the threads being held together.

As I waited at Kaiser to have my knee X-rayed, I realized I had never been surrounded by so many folks that were injured.  One guy said out loud, "Just give me the cortisone shot."  He didn't WANT to know how bad off the damage was in his knee, and I could totally relate.  Another woman, who sat across from Abby and I, had broken BOTH wrists when she fell off a balance ball at the gym.  Think about that scenario...both hands.  She was left not being able to feed herself, wipe herself, or clean herself.

I won't lie.  I had myself a little pity party when the doc showed me the list of activities that I couldn't do:  NO running, NO lunging or squats, NO hills, and absolutely NO dancing on any kind of bar while intoxicated.  But I had a choice in that moment:  focus on what I couldn't do, or focus on what I COULD do.  I chose the later, because seeing those folks who were more severely injured than me, put it in perspective.

While out on my WG jaunt today, I encountered Lou, a woman who's home I have passed for the last 10 years.  Her kids are grown, and she's just a positive, loving lady.  I asked, "How was Christmas?"  She answered, "We've had better.  My daughter was held up at gunpoint at her work on Christmas Eve."  We stood there entranced, as she explained the details, assuring me that her daughter is "okay, but changed, from the experience."  Lou said, "Gee, aren't you sorry you asked how my holiday was?"  I said, "Not at all!"

Because truth be told, if I was running today, Lou and I wouldn't have had that conversation.  Sure, we would have waved at each other, and hollered hello, but that would have been about it.

So I'm glad that I was forced to slow down today.

Because we all have a story.  More often than not, we just want someone to listen to it.

I wish you could experience what I am hearing first hand as I blog this very moment.  My loudly, snoring husband in the bed beside me.  And Charlotte whistling through her gums like an old drunk lady, in her bassinet while she sleeps.  Am I being in the moment if I watch them while they slumber?  How my baby is the color of porcelain?  And how my husband has his fingers clutched over his chest as it rises and falls.

Life is good.  Even if I can't run right now.