FOCUS!!!!

As I strolled into the school office to pick up Bella early for an appointment, I was greeted by another Mama.  One I have grown very fond of over our elementary school years together.    I don't know her really well, but she puts out a good vibe, you dig?

"You grabbing your kids?"  I asked.
"Yep.  We're going to the Orthodontist," she replied, "How about you?"
"Me?  Oh, we're going to the Psychiatrist."

I felt like I was playing a game called, "Who's Family is More Mentally Unstable?"  I mean, how many 10 year olds do you know that go to a PSYCHIATRIST?  Let me clarify by saying that  I am not ashamed, embarrassed, or freaked out that we go to counseling or the Psychiatrist.  But most folks, who are being seen by mental health professionals, keep it on the DL. 

Not me.  Let's talk about the big pink elephant in the room, shall we?  In fact, just the other day, one of my Weight Watcher members said, "Michelle, I have had about 6 different WW leaders.  But you're the only one who says, let's be real with ourselves.  Let's figure out the REAL reason why we are using food."  Cause we can talk about points, and snack tips, and exercising til we are blue in the face...and STILL STRUGGLE because we refuse to dig deeper.

I simply replied, "Well, I'm sure your other leaders didn't spend thousands of dollars in therapy, like I have."

When I became a mama, I didn't think for a second, that any of my kids would have a Learning Disability.  That is NOT the kind of shit you see on the Pampers commercials, you know?  By the time the twins entered Kindergarten, I was jumping for joy, naively thinking, "I'm FINALLY going to get a break!"  I had just given birth to Cosette, Emma had started Preschool, and I had two 5 year olds in school for 4 hours...I actually considered it a "break".  HAHAHA.

There were definitely little red flags that the girls were struggling, that I just didn't recognize at the time.  Mainly, because I was a sleep deprived, first time mama of school age kids.  And partly because, Kindergarten had changed two-fold in the last 30 years.  Expecting my 5 year olds to read, seemed, a little...um....overzealous.  I thought, "What the hell happened to Circle Time?"

By the time, Bella hit second grade, she "got" that she had fallen significantly behind.  She would come home and sob about it.  "Mama, it's so hard.  I don't understand.  Everyone else is ahead of me."  Do you know how that tore me up?  My baby's confidence was crumbling, and she was only SEVEN years old.

 Calmly, I told Bella, "Honey, you have so many other gifts that are not being graded in school.  You are an amazing artist, singer, and a kind, and caring friend.  All Mom and Dad ask is that you do your best."  But these words didn't matter because she didn't believe them. 

We all know what if feels like to be left behind.  When everyone else is "getting it" except us.  Or when we are picked last for the team.  It sucks.  It doesn't feel good.  And it feels like the world is coming down around us.

You would think that the school district wants the best for your child, right?  Especially if they are falling behind?  Especially if their confidence is dwindling faster than a Kenyan running a hundred yard dash?  NOPE.  I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get the twins tested to determine where their inefficiencies were.  I felt like I had to convince them, "I'm not making this shit up.  My girls are struggling....please HELP me, so I can help THEM."    But testing costs time and  money.... After realizing that I was not going to stop stalking them, the twins were tested.  It seems that they were both "low", but not "low" enough to receive Resource help or a tutor.  In fact, a child must be TWO years BELOW grade level to qualify for help.  WTF?

Feeling frustrated and defeated, I took Bella to see a Developmental Pediatrician, hoping he could shed some light on why Bella was struggling so much.  (Side note, Abby was still having a hard time, and was behind, but was holding her own.)  He looked at her testing from the district.  He asked Bella a few questions.  He diagnosed her with ADHD, inattentive form.  He recommended meds.  All in about 20 minutes.

I walked out thinking, he could take a flying F'ing leap, because there is NO WAY I'm drugging my baby.  The Hell If...  F Off.  You know, all the typical "denial" type monologue we play in our heads, when we are not ready to deal with the truth. 

I mean, sure I had to yell "FOCUS BELLA" at least 20 times during homework.  And yes, several times, I had to clap my hands in front of her face, to bring her back to reality.  But the doctor diagnosing her, was like saying she was "damaged goods".  You can't tell a mama her baby is broken, and expect her to accept that info with open arms, you know?

And so, there I lived, in Denial.  I researched on the Internet for hours on end, trying to find a way to help my daughter.  I tried a high protein diet.  I added Omega vitamins into the mix.  After Bella started wearing tinted glasses to reduce glare, we started Vision Therapy.  And as 2 more years passed, Bella's learning gap became bigger.  Her confidence plummeted.  And I started to understand and accept that what I was doing, wasn't working.

In the meantime, I pursued getting a 504 Plan in place for each one of the twins.  For those of you not familiar with LD lingo, a 504 Plan includes modifications and accommodations drawn up by the teacher, parent, and school official, and is supposed to be honored as a legal document.  But you know what I realized?  A 504 Plan in the San Jose Unified School District, is a fucking Boy Scout Pledge.

Bella would bring home a TEN page Theme test that she had...gasp...failed, and I was asked to go over it with her at home, and fix the mistakes.  During that process, I asked her,

"Did the teacher give you extra time?"  NO.
"Was the test broken in to smaller pieces and given in chunks?"  NO.
"Did you feel overwhelmed, and you just filled in the bubbles and answers so you could be done?" (And make the torture STOP?)  Yes Mom, and then I had to still finish it during recess.

THAT is when I saw RED.  These were modifications that were clearly listed on Bella's 504 Plan, but either no one cared, or no one was paying attention.  And see, here is what really pisses me off.  I'm not fighting just for MY kids.  For every kid like Abby and Bella, who takes a little longer to complete work, and processes differently, there are at least 5 more kids just like them.

I became a full time Advocate/Master Communicator/Stalker, to ensure that while the teachers understood I was supporting them at home, I would be holding them accountable at school.  And if something like the prior ever happened again, you better be damn sure, you will be hearing from me about it.  And I probably wouldn't be wearing my patience panties.

BTW, teachers are a HUGE part of this equation.  For the amazing teachers out there, who are willing to teach to ALL kids abilities, I applaud, and thank, and love you. 

But having the twins in different classrooms each year, makes it nearly impossible NOT to compare teachers and styles.  Typically, Abby receives the fabulous teacher.  And Bella gets the one who is stuck in the Stone Age Days...resistant to change, resistant to incorporating new techniques, and resistant to using technology that is readily available to help kids learn!  It doesn't help my frustration level that I actually worked in the teaching profession.  And gosh, may know a thing or two, about how to effectively teach kids using different modalities.  For example, while teaching my 6th graders Vocabulary, we acted out the word, drew an illustration for the word, AND wrote out the definition for the word.  I know, crazy, huh?

Finally, I came to terms with the fact that I needed to revisit medication for Bella.  But I also realized that we would also benefit from counseling.  Through this process, Bella could learn coping strategies when she feels overwhelmed or frustrated.  So now, 2 months after starting,  when my 10 year old is having a "Postal" moment, she can identify her feelings, journal about them, and move on.  I don't know about you, but I was about 35 when I learned how to do that.  It doesn't hurt that Bella's counselor is a twin mom...she ROCKS.

We also have a phenomenal Psychiatrist, who is no-nonsense, like me.  She invested 90 minutes during our initial consultation, wanting to meet the entire family, and really talk to Bella.  This sat much better with me, than the initial 20 minute diagnosis, 2 years earlier.  Dr. F also has kids in SJUSD, and so we covetched.  She explained to me, that if I didn't mind essentially, being a pain in the ass, there were some other ways I could get Bella what she needed at school.  I liked this lady.  I liked her alot.  She was on OUR side.  She cared about my baby.  She wanted what was best for us.  And yes, it included a trial prescription of Adderrall.

For the first time ever, Bella feels good about school.  She doesn't dread it.  She is able to FOCUS.  She starts and finishes her homework.  Meltdowns still happen occasionally, but are infrequent.  It's not perfect, but just for a moment, I feel like I can breathe...Until one of the other girls will need me.  And they will.  It is such an interesting dance to be an advocate for one or two children, while not forgetting about where the others are. 

If anyone has figured out how to be  the perfect parent, without becoming a  full-fledged alcoholic, I would like to hear from you. 

But for those of you, who are struggling like I am, let's remember we are not alone.  More than anything else, we are here to support eachother. Without judgement, but rather, with love and understanding.   And I for one, can say, that I have felt this support from family and friends.  And it is the only thing that has gotten me through this endeavour, without jumping.

Perspective

Let me tell you about a little question that everyone keeps asking me that is really starting to piss me off...

"How are you feeling?" 

It doesn't seem like a loaded inquiry.  I truly understand that everyone from family, to moms' at school,  to the cute little Trader Joe's cashier who's bagging my groceries, are genuinely curious to know, how I'm holding up.  "How are you?" is code talk for,  "It must really suck right now to be you.  Tell me about it."

But see, here's the thing.   I'm not so sure most of the world is really ready for my uncensored version of "how I am feeling." at 36 weeks pregnant, with my fifth kid.

Here is what I want to say when someone innocently asks, "How are you?"

Fat.  I don't like weighing more than my spouse, alright? 

Ginormously swollen.  From my breasts that look like they belong on someone else's body, to my belly which is displaying the lovely Linea Nigra (or whatever the F it is called), right down to my cankles.  I feel like I could earn money at the Fair right now..."Step right up!  Step right up!  Tell us where this prego's legs end, and her ankles begin and YOU WIN A PRIZE!!!"

Tired.   I grew a skeletal system today, what did you do?  I don't care what ANYone says:  growing a human being at age 38 is NOT the same as it was at 28!  Thank GAWD I had the twins first.

Uncomfortable.  Does your uterus feel like it's slapping between your knees?  Can you carry on a conversation, without gasping for air, sounding like you may go into cardiac arrest at any moment?  Do your panties become sweaty with perspiration from walking down the God Damn hallway of your house?  Do you make random grunting and groaning sounds as you try to "drift off to sleep?" 

If you answered yes to any of the above, you also must be knocked up.  Isn't it F'ing GREAT?!!!!

Seriously though, time really is going by quicker than I imagined, and I am working hard on "being in the moment" during this LAST pregnancy.  But I won't lie when I tell you that I had to make one thing crystal clear to my husband recently. "You sir, will not be getting any of this, (me, motioning to my entire body, while I snap my fingers) until you get snipped." 

He made his vasectomy appointment the next day.

Recently, my sister in law was sharing with me that after each of her 2 kids were born, she made it home the same day in time for dinner.  I sat listening, in shock....WHY would you want to go HOME?  To laundry, and groceries, and your OTHER kids?  Ohhh hell nooo.  I view the entire labor and delivery process as an extended vacation AWAY from my immediate family.

After my vaginal birth with Cosette,  the doc popped into my room the next morning to give me the okay to leave.  The hospital.  Now.  Someone else needs your bed, and you're taking up space AND costing us money.

Doc:  How's your pain today, Michelle?

Me:  Doc, before I give you the details of my pain, let me tell you about what's going on at home.  I have 3 small children aged 5 and under.  You can't even gage my pain level right now.  I mean, where do I start?  How much time do you have?  (Do you hear the violin music?) 

Doc:  Okay, I understand.  Why don't you leave day after tomorrow?

Me:  YOU ROCK.  You have just been officially added to my Christmas card list.

Why in the world would I leave a place that does the following:  Brings me food when I request it.  Yes, you read that right.  I push a red button, and some nice person brings me juice and graham crackers with peanut butter.  At home, this scenario is reversed. 

I also get to watch TV, uninterrupted, in the MIDDLE of the DAY.  OMG!!!  Seriously? 

I can have the baby taken to the nursery so I can actually get some sleep, and someone will bring the baby back to me when it's time to nurse.  I think I must be dreaming.

And best of all, the nice nurses at Kaiser offer me Vicodin ever 4-8 hours.  That's what I'm talking about. 

Yes, you too, can do this each and every time you have a baby if you so desire.  The invitation is open: please come see me after I deliver.  Because if history repeats itself, I'll be at Kaiser,  for at least 3 days.

We can catch up, watch Oprah, and play Scrabble.  But would you please do me a favor?  Bring some wine.

Rascal the Rabbit: 9/15/09 - 9/5/10

I'm sure many of you are already aware that our bunny, Rascal, has gone to God.  He's met his maker.  He's doing the big binky jumps in the sky. 

He had a good life.  That is...until he got eaten.  By something.  We're not sure exactly what got him.  But guessing by the...um...remains that were found at the crime scene, it could have been anything from a common house cat to a polar bear.

Thank God the murder took place when the girls and I were up North, visiting my folks.  Tom, on the other hand, groggily walked out back that morning, to sit down and enjoy his morning cup of Joe.  Nothing would prepare him for what he was about to witness. 

Midnight came bounding up to greet him, like usual.  But no Rascal.  Hmmmmm....Tom thought.  Where IS that other bun?  Much to Tom's dismay, shortly thereafter, he discovered the body.  Or should I say, parts of the body, strewn across the backyard.   I'm telling you right now, there is just some shit that husband's are supposed to handle, because there is NO way I would have handled that situation without screaming.

So Tom delivers the devastating news to me.  And it is then my turn, to pass it on to our offspring.  Well, my M.O. with stuff like this is simply, "Just do it.  No time's a good time, so bite the bullet, and get it over with."

Surprisingly, every one of the girls took the news better than I expected.  I mean, sure, there were sniffly noses, teary eyes, and the occasional, long drawn out moan, pleading, "WHYYYYY RASCAL?  WHYYY YOU?!"  But for the most part, I thought I had the hard job...you know, being the Bearer of Bad Tidings, so to speak.  Is that even a phrase, or did I just make that up? 

Anyways, little did I realize that on our way home, Tom would be grilled on the cell phone for information regarding this horrific homicide.  It was like, CSI, Who Killed Rascal the Rabbit?  The conversation that followed went like this:

Abigail:  "Daddy, how do you know for sure that Rascal is dead?

Tom:  "Well honey, I found a feather and a little bit of blood.  I think an owl got him."

Abigail:  "Maybe he's still alive Daddy.  Maybe he's injured and hiding under the shed."

REALITY:  Tom found Rascal in pieces.  All over the yard.  Decapitated, head severed and partially consumed.  There's NO way you tell that to your kid.

Emma:  "Daddy, were Rascal's eyes open or closed?"  (Note, at this point, I'm trying not to crash the car, while I think, Poor Tom!)

Tom:  "They were closed sweetie.  He died peacefully."

REALITY:  Which eye are you referring to?  Because both of them were eaten out of his skull. 

Up until this point, I gave my husband 5 stars.  I mean, he was deflecting.  He was thinking on his toes.  He was consoling the girls, without giving out too much info.  Lastly, the cell is handed to Isabella, Rascal's rightful owner.

Isabella:  "Daddy, did you bury Rascal?"

Tom:  "No, honey, I picked up what was left, and threw him into the garbage."

Isabella:  "You THREW him into the GARBAGE?!!!  WHYYYY Rascal?  WHYYYYY YOU?!!!"

I mean, we were sooo close.  And then he had to be honest.  Shit, tell her, you gave Rascal a Viking burial, out at sea, with a little wood raft set adrift, enraptured by flames.  ANYthing, but the garbage can.  The truth is so overrated sometimes. 

Midnight is currently back in her bunny hutch.  She will be let out only with supervision.   But honestly, I have to say, those rabbits had a good run for about 3 months.  Eating our yard.  Lazing in the sun.  Doing the binky jumps.  Rascal didn't live a long life.  But he certainly had one helluva party while he was here.

Confessions of an At-Home Mom

Okay, so I need to come clean with something.  I've been grappling with this for awhile now.  It makes it difficult for me to fall asleep at night.  And left wondering...what is this world coming to?

There is a mom at the Cabana where I take the girls.  Let's call her "I Want to Kill You When No One is Looking".  Oh wait. That's not really very nice, is it?  Well, she is the one that represents the severity of the situation I am referring to. 

Allow me to break it down for you.

Glorious 85 degree day at the Cabana Club.  Big girls playing Marco Polo.  Swollen prego mama putting her feet up for a moment.  Cosette floating in an inflatable tube, having the time of her life. 

And then it happens.  The unthinkable.

This mom comes over to my Cozy, and says she needs the tube back for her son.   Okay, I get that, IF Cosette had the tube for longer than, let's say, 60 seconds.  So of course, Cozy gives back the tube happily, and the mom proceeds to hold onto it.  Like it's a nugget of gold. 

Does the son even float on it?  NO.  Is he really even interested in having his tube back to PLAY with it?  NO.  He wanted his tube back because my daughter HAD it.  And his mom doesn't want to deal with the fit he will pitch if he doesn't get it back NOW.

Therein, lies the problem.  I see the above as a "teachable moment".    All kids, including mine, have a hard time when someone else wants something that belongs to "them".  But this is where WE come in.  To teach them to share.  To teach them, that this is what friends do.  To teach them, that we will help them learn this process so they become better people.

Call me crazy, but this is how I would have handled it, if Cozy was freaking out.

Cozy:  NOOOOO!  That's MY tube.
Me:  Well, friends share.  So he's going to have a turn on your tube.  And in five minutes, you can have a turn. 
Cozy:  NOOOOOO!  It's MINE.
Me:  Here are your choices:  share your tube, or get out of the pool.  What are you choosing?

I'm not making this shit up.  Ask anyone of my friends and they will tell you, "Yes, that's exactly how Meanie Mommy Michelle would handle that."  What I don't get, is why it appears to be F'ing Rocket Science to some other folks. 

After that mom took the tube from Cozy, I made it impossible for her to not feel me staring at her.  I was mad-dogging her.  I was angry.  But I also decided, for the best interest of all concerned, that I had to let it go.

Then it happened AGAIN...on Cosette's birthday.  Not only did she take her tube away from Cosette.  During adult swim, as I floated on 2 noodles that the girls had found lying around, the son pitched the fit of all time.  You wanna know why?  I had one of his noodles. 

The mom looked at me.  I glared right back.  She had to make a decision...take on big 'ol prego, or listen to her kid whine.  She chose the later.

So now I have a strategy.  The next time, she decides to bring toys to the pool that she doesn't want to share, I will float in all of them.  Every last one.  Let's see how she handles that. 

And That's the Truth, Ruth

There are a few "Universal Truths" floating around out there that I would like to address.  In my humble existence on this planet, we call Earth, I have found out one really significant thing.  NEVER believe what ANYONE tells you because they are LYING.

Lie Number 1:  Marriage is Easy.

Do I really need to expand here?  I mean, I don't want to pop the bubbles of those out there who are engaged, or newly wed...but I'm going to.  Marriage is A LOT of work.  If you want to LIKE your spouse and continue to stay married to them, that is.  No one ever told me that.  At least if they did, I was like, "whatever". 

Remember that blessed event known as your wedding day?  The day that was solely devoted to YOU and your spouse?  Where family and friends gathered to support and love you? Not to mention, score a free meal, and drink like fish from the open bar, all at your expense? 

I've discovered the days of having it be all about me, are long gone.  When kids enter the mix, it only makes your marriage, how shall we say, more interesting.  Like anything, marriage can become monotonous.  Marriage can lead you into this fantasy of living happily ever after, only to discover, that you and your spouse have begun taking each other for granted.  Exhibit A:

Courtship Conversation:
Her:  Hey baby, I can't wait to see you tonight. 
Him:  I know.  Me either.  I'm counting down the minutes.
Her:  Oh Snookums, I'm going to attack you with my love.
Him:  Not if I attack you first.

Marriage Conversation:
Her:  What time do you think you'll be home tonight?  (Implication: so I can hand off the kids and get a break?)
Him:  Ummmm, it just depends.  I might have to work late. (Implication:  so I can skip bath and bed time help with the kids, because I'm wiped out).
Her:  Oh, okay. (Implication:  you will not be having sex for the next 24 months).
Him:  (In his head, "I am SO getting some tonight.")

You know, Tom and I have only been married for 12 years, but most days it feels like 120.   One thing is for certain though: our love has grown deeper with the passage of time.  Because let's be honest, that courtship fantasy phase ends the minute you get married...and realize...you will be...with this person...for the rest...of your life.

If I have learned anything about marriage, it's this:  we turn OFF the TV and actually TALK to each other every night.  Do I want to do that all the time?  No.  But, I want to stay married, and I realize that communication is key.  And having fun with each other.  And great intimacy...I'll stop talking now.

Lie Number 2:  Raising Kids is Easy
Please see my previous blogs regarding this subject.

Lie Number 3:  I Can't Lose Weight Because "Fill In the Blank Here."
I'm hypoglycemic.  I'm hyperglycemia.  I'm in menopause.  I'm not in menopause.  My great-grandfather came over on the Mayflower, and we have this condition that makes it really hard to lose weight.

Here's the reason why folks like this continue to struggle with their weight:  they are "stuck".  This is truly what they believe.  And until they TURN OFF that internal BS, and tune into the POSITIVE THINKING channel, they are doomed.  Because really, it's not about (gasp) the food we ingest.  The food, just happens to be the drug of our choice.  And oh, what a sweet choice it is.  I finally learned, as I would reach for a 2 pound box of See's candy, to ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?"  Is it See's?  Or is it validation?  Or maybe stress release?  If I came back to See's, then I gave myself permission to have a piece. 

Here are some tips I have learned from losing and maintaining my weight:  tracking my food is helpful for awareness.  Moving my ass is imperative to my sanity.  And not depriving myself is key.  I mean, we all have our weakness: I had to give up drinking during the week.  Now, I just binge drink on the weekend.  But you guys know what I'm trying to say here.

Let's love and honor ourselves on this journey, shall we?  Right where we are.  Flaws,  imperfections and all. Let's realize when we make a mistake, and learn from it vs. beating ourselves up.  Cause if we keep following others and what they do and say, we lose sight of ourselves.  And our voice.  And our choices. 

Yay for self-discovery.

Survival of the Fittest

I don't know how women have babies "naturally".  Seriously.  I'm not kidding.  At all. 

Like if the epidural didn't exist, and we HAD to give birth in the fields naturally (ie: screaming obscenities, and writhing with pain induced seizures), and then head back out to the field to bury the placenta, and shuck some more corn for dinner, I'm sorry.  If it was up to me, there would be no human population left.

My hat is OFF to women who push out an 8 pound baby without the body numbing help of modern medicine.  Personally, I have always been so damn scared of how painful labor could become, I never get the hospital past like 4 cm...legitimate enough to be in "active" labor, but early enough to call the Anesthesiologist at the first inkling of real pain.  I like to trick myself into believing that I could handle it...all 10 cm, you know, my body opening into a crevasse the size of a begal, so I could birth someone's HEAD, followed by their entire BODY.  But who am I kidding?   Poor Tom.  I don't even want to see his reaction if I had no meds.  Oh my stars.

So as far as survival of the fittest is concerned, I would totally lose this match.

We used to have 3 rabbits, now we have 2.  What happened, you ask?  Well, Henry was a biter.  And I don't use that term lightly.  Before having him neutered, he would mount the other male bunny, and just ride him...well...sort of like an inmate.  We thought for sure, having his manhood removed, would chill him out.  No can do.  Henry continued to bite...everyone, and everything.  And I'm not talking about little nips here.  I'm talking, flesh hanging from the palm of your hand type injuries.  When going out to feed the bunnies, the girls had resorted to donning Ugg boots that reached thigh level, to shield them from an attack.  The last straw came the day, I heard Cosette screaming from the backyard...we didn't have any Uggs in her size.

That's it!  I thought.  This bunny is gonna meet his maker.  "Girls," I calmly, but assuredly stated, "Henry is going to be let free today.  I'm sure he will find a nice home, amongst other savage animals in the wild."  And so Tom loaded up the girls, and drove to a hill with a creek near our home.  "If Henry is strong enough, he will survive just fine out here," Tom explained to the girls.  Secretly, I hoped, that as soon as our truck had driven out of sight, a huge HAWK would swoop down, and... a girl can dream, can't she?

Playing on any organized team these days is a trip.  I hear that everyone gets a trophy.  First place or last place.  WTH is up with all of this "warm and fuzzy" stuff?  Trophies go to the best.  Losers don't get shit.  Welcome to the rest of your life, kids. 

And what's up with everyone making the team?!  NO!  If you get cut, it means you suck.  The coach is doing you a favor because you won't be riding pine all season long.  If you really want to make the team, go home, practice for 52 weeks so you don't suck, and we'll see you at try-outs next year.  If you can't eat that sort of humble pie, become a stat person, towel boy, or costume donning mascot for the team.

Playing sports my entire life, molded me in so many different ways.  I learned how to use everyone's strengths to work as a team.  I learned discipline through running liners when I, or one of my teammates missed a free throw in practice.  I learned that getting benched after I screwed up in a game, didn't feel good.  But how would I ever dig deeper, and become a better player  if I was kept in?

I don't know.  Maybe I'm just living in a different universe here.  I try to teach the girls that everyone has different gifts.  But that we all have struggles too.  The important thing is to work on our weaknesses, without beating ourselves up, while remembering to celebrate our strengths! 

Just don't ask me to have a home birth in my bathtub supervised by a doula for this baby, so Cosette can cut the cord...ain't gonna happen.  Not my strength.  But you know, I'm okay with it.

The Hell If...

Call me passive aggressive.  Or crabby.  Or just plain unethical.  It's okay.  Sticks and stones...

The H if...I will pay full price for my four year old to go to the movies.  When the attendant asks how many, I reply, 3 kids, 1 adult, as I push Cosette between my legs to be left unseen.  If there are any follow up questions, my reply is this, "What?  This one here?  Oh, she's just 2 years old.  Yep, she's really tall for her age."

The same stands true in any situation that I view as Redonkulous.  For example, when checking in at a pool to pay with my girlfriend and her 2 kids, the sweet little 16 year old behind the counter asked, "How many families?  One or two?"  Please note, one family costs $25, and two families cost $50.   Without a moment's hesitation, I said, "Just one.  We are a lesbian couple, and this is our beautiful family," then I pointed at my swollen belly, and finished up, "Sperm donors...each and every one of them." 

The H if...I will be told specifically what type of glue stick to purchase for Kindergarten.  Are you kidding me?!  I just spent 100 bucks for 4 kids on school supplies, and you will graciously accept what my child is bringing in....Do you know what it is like to go Back To School shopping with 4 kids?  DO YOU?  DO YOU?    You requested Avery glue sticks, and received the Office Max brand...deal with it.

The H if...I will let someone give me shit for wearing 6 inch heels.  It only took me 30 years, and thousands of dollars in therapy, to OWN my height and frame.  So when a person has the balls to ask, "You're 5'11, why are you wearing stiletto's while you do your grocery shopping?"  My reply is simply this: "Because I can."

The H if...I will ever let my girls conceive the notion that a 6 foot, 117 pound fashion model is normal!  I would love to see one of these "women" in real life.  Can we be honest here?   I weigh in at a healthy 150 pounds (when not with child).  So imagine, 30 pounds less on my frame...REALLY?  This is desirable?  Achievable?  Beautiful?  THE HELL IF.... 

The H if...a nanny should have more control over your children than YOU do.  An acquaintance just recently shared with me, that she paid for a nanny to accompany their family while on vacation  to Europe.  Cool... I thought.  Nice...a date night with hubby at the Eiffel Tower...drinking wine in Tuscany, sipping espresso while appreciating amazing artwork....all without kids.  Then she said, "I had to bring the nanny because my kids just don't mind me."  You would have been so proud.  I didn't even reply.  Just smiled and nodded.  

Denial

Some of you may not know this about me:  but I reside in a little community in my head, that goes by the name of Denial.  It's nice here.  Lovely, actually.  Because everything is perfect.  And nothing is wrong. 

In Denial, I'm not 8 months pregnant.  Oh no.  In fact, in Denial, I have yet to purchase one piece of maternity clothing.  Instead, I just squeeze my 5'11 rapidly expanding frame, into my regular clothes.  This includes bathing suits and workout gear.  The innocent bystanders in Denial, don't notice that I'm pregnant either.  That by boobs are so high up in my sports bra, they are actually grazing the bottom of my chin, as I go on my 4 mile waddle.  I will be damned to pay money for an article of material that has an expiration date.  I would rather look like a fool.  And I must...because a really loving friend just brought me an entire bag of maternity clothes.  But then, she's not from Denial.  She's from a little town called Reality.

In Denial, kids never go back to school.  I don't get it when parents jump for joy when the kids enter back into the institution where square pegs are forced into round holes.  Don't think for a second, that I love spending endless days of quality time with my kids.  It's more that I am lazy.  I hate being "on" for dreaded Homework duty, random project due dates, and extra activities like field trips, and Walk A Thon's.  I would much rather go to the beach, take the girls swimming, and sleep until 8am each morning, while the twins dole out Cheerios.  In Denial, the summertime schedule works to my strengths.

In Denial, my youngest child would never, ever say anything in public to humiliate me.  In Denial, she would act like an angel, with a glowing halo.  In Safeway, if she saw an elderly fellow slowly walking past us in the cereal aisle, she would never sing a song called, "Old Man, Old Man, you are so slow, Old Man.", leaving me to hush her.  And pray that Old Man, was so hard of hearing, he didn't actually catch  any of the tune written and sung solely for him.  In Denial, my four year old, would never yell out things from the car window, that would make a grown man cringe. For example, while on vacation, our driveway was blocked by the neighbor's vehicle who decided to park anywhere she pleased.  When the neighbor finally came out to move her car, the child yelled out, "What are you?!  DRUNK?!"

In Denial, I have 2.4 kids, a white picket fence, and a husband who resembles Hugh Jackman.  In Denial, rainbows and unicorns are abundant.  I'm not 38, I'm 28.  And I certainly, don't have garden hose pregnancy induced varicose veins.  In Denial, I am still going to Chico State, riding my bike everywhere, and well, doing whatever the hell I want.

Who am I kidding?  Reality is okay.  But it's just that sometimes, I go to Denial for a visit.  Sometimes it's a short visit.  But other times, require an extended stay.  You should come see me sometime.  Really... there's plenty of room for visitors in Denial.

Checking Off "The List"

"Mama, you look tired,"Cosette observed recently, first thing in the morning.  Mind you, she made this comment BEFORE I had even ingested one sip of coffee, but AFTER I had served up a stack of 72 hot and fluffy pancakes that she and her sisters devoured for breakfast.  Damn right, I'm tired, sister.

Seeing the opportunity for a teachable moment, for my daughter to be truly grateful for EVERYthing I  (and all Mama's) do on a daily basis, I asked openly,  "Well Cosette, what things does Mama do that would make her tired?"  I also thought that referring to myself in the third person, would really drive the point home. 

Not a chance.

"Well, Mama, I don't know.  You relax in the sun, get on the computer, and yell a lot."  According to my four year old, I am living a charmed life.  What the hell do I have to complain about, right?  And I most certainly, should NOT be tired.  Think about it:  I don't really DO much.

I vividly remember having a similar conversation about eight years ago with my therapist.  Before becoming an at home mom, I was the ultimate List Maker.  I was accustomed to teaching 33 sixth graders, while coordinating lesson plans, field trips, report cards, and hormones, you know?  I got stuff done!  I had my list, and nothing made me feel better, than checking off those boxes.  I equated it to a job well done. 

An aspect I didn't see coming when I stayed home in the beginning, was that I did the saaaaaame thing day after day.  As soon as I would stock the fridge with food (check), it was empty again.  As soon as I put away washed and folded laundry (check), dirty clothing filled the basket.  I would vacuum, (check) only to have the dog bring the backyard INTO the house, five minutes later.

I felt like a hamster on a wheel.  No boxes to check off.  Just an eternal, never ending pit of monotonous chores....with no real sign of progress.

"When does it end?  I feel like I'm going slowly insane.  I never get anything accomplished," I confided to my counselor, "If I have to fill up one more sippy cup, I swear...."

"Sure you are getting things accomplished," she assured me, "It's just that the list has changed, and it doesn't look like it used to, Michelle.  It's not like you "seal a deal" on a daily basis.  Or that you get a raise for your hard work.  The list has changed.  These are boxes that can no longer be simply checked off at the end of the day.  You are raising your girls...it is an immeasurable task."

For the first time in a looong time, I felt validated.  As Oprah would say, I was having an "A-ha" moment.

And the other thing I would soon find out was this:  the chores I dreaded with their simplicity and monotony like filling sippy cups, handing out Goldfish, and going to the park, would soon be missed after my girls started school.  The lovely days of naps and Elmo, were soon replaced with homework and  book report due dates.

So I have learned that although the stage I am currently enduring with my kids may seem as though it will never end, it does.  And it is usually followed by a mourning period,  because now I understand their youth  is slowly ticking away on the clock.  And I can't do a damn thing to stop it.

What I CAN do is  focus on being in the moment with them.

Even when I wish it would end because it's soooo hard.  When one child is labeled GATE as the other is labeled ADHD.  When I wonder the next time my husband and I will have the time and money to go on a date night.  When I just don't have the answers.  And neither does Google.

So now my list includes activities like taking the girls outside for a hike/bike ride/or swim (relaxing in the sun); or taking care of myself by venting on my blog (being on the computer); or trying to raise my girls without totally going insane (yelling a lot).

In all honesty, Cosette just answered my question the way she sees things.  Her perspective is open for interpretation, that's all.   I was expecting her to list all of the things I do for her, but the truth of the matter is this:  it's what she and her sisters do for ME, that makes me a better Mama, wife and friend.

I'm just hoping that the next time one of my kids throws me under the bus,  I will have at least had a cup of coffee.

Invasion

Personal space.  A phone booth.  B-O-U-N-D-A-R-I-E-S. 

Just recently, I encountered one of the most disturbing events of my life:  an invasion of people all up in my bizness, with NONE of the above.

Out of respect for my fellow man, when I encroach upon the beach with my gaggle of loud, obnoxious, sand flicking offspring, I give other people space.  It's just common courtesy. 

You know, how you do.  Set up a phone booth North, South, East and West of our chosen mine field, because with 4 kids, sand WILL fly.  And it's not a question of if; it's a matter of when.

This is not a matter I take lightly.  I put a lot of time and thought into making this decision, before just parking it anywhere.  I need to scope out who will be my neighbors for the entire afternoon.

For example, plopping down next to an elderly couple is out of the question; UNLESS they are in the company of their grand kids.  Random groups of teenagers are also an iffy choice due to their possible poor behavior choices (ie: making out, drinking Mickey's from a brown paper bag, or (gasp) using foul language).  Just because that cute little 17 year old in the polka dot bikini may look like Hannah Montana, she very well may act like Lindsey Lohan. 

In my decade of surviving any kind of day trip with my girls, I have found that other moms tend to be the best kind of neighbors.  Moms carry all the necessities: extra sand toys, snacks to share, and usually, wine in some sort of concealed container.

So, here's my predicament:  I'm on vacay with my girlfriend, and we're chilling Lakeside, while our 6 kids run amok.  No sooner had we planted our chairs in the sand, than some Yahoo parks her clan literally inches from our stuff.  My girlfriend politely explains just how many kids we have with us in our camp, hoping to gently, but jokingly encourage her to move away to a further location.

But Clueless failed to catch the ginormous hint of her immediate and impending doom.  So when one of our kids ran all over her towel, flicking sand with wild abandon, neither of us said a damn word.  Clueless was warned, and Clueless failed to heed our warning.  And unless our kids learned how to FLY, it was not physically possible  to NOT mess up her camp.  Quite simply, she was in our phone booth.

The very next day, similar invasion, different location:  Big Trees State Park.  One of my favorite places to chill and be one with the Motha Nature.  I'm talking "glory of God perfection". Where chipmunks eat nuts to their hearts content, and butterflies and dragonflies dip and dart into the crisp, calm and cool water of the creek, while it laps at your feet.

Got your visual in place?  Well, promptly cancel that out, and replace it with a bunch of Weekend Warrior "nature lovers". 

I mean, how in the hell am I supposed to catch up on reading about Carrie Underwood's dream wedding in People magazine, when WW (Weekend Warrior) Mom is yelling, "Johnny, come put REPELLENT on.  And here's the SUNSCREEN.  Johnny, put those rocks down RIGHT NOW.  Where's your HAT?  Oh my goodness, look at your hands.  Here's a wet wipe."

My M.O. is simply this:  if a location is already occupied, find a different one.  I guess the 5 families that decided to join us that day, didn't get the memo.  These people packed in everything but a toilet to "enjoy nature". 

Becoming frustrated and annoyed, I wanted to yell out to that mom, "You are in NATURE!  Stop stalking your kids, take a load off, drink a beer, and please, BE QUIET.  You are ruining my Zen moment."

I struggled with this invasion, and started to question, what does God want me to learn from this?  But I just kept coming to the same conclusion:  never get pregnant again, so that I can down 4 beers and pretend like I'm by myself. 

As if on cue, my daughter came walking towards me, talking to a rather tall man.  Who's the psycho talking to my 10 year old, I thought?  But as they approached, I realized who it was.

"Father John?" 

"Hey, I recognized your girls.  I'm here camping with my family."

 It's like God knew I needed divine intervention before going postal, and sent me Father John.  After getting over the awkward moment of  hugging him, 7 months pregnant, wearing only  my bathing suit, we had a great conversation.   I was reminded about what is really important while we're here.  And it's not Carrie Underwood's wedding.

It is the connection that we have with others.  Whether it's for an hour, an afternoon, a year, or a lifetime.  Even when it makes us frustrated.  Or angry.  Or severely annoyed. 

But if you come into my personal space boundary, all I ask is this:  could you please keep your voice down, and bring a beer, or possibly an Us Weekly magazine to share?  Cause that would be so appreciated.

Creeeepy

I'm the girl who drinks milk straight from the carton. The one who you will find dancing on the tables after a few cocktails, underwear optional.  I believe in the 5 second rule when food hits the deck.  I have even been known to swig beer from a complete stranger in a bar.

Some of you may find this type of behavior gross, unacceptable, or even crossing the line.  I have some advice for you:  lighten up, man!  It's true, I don't have many boundaries.  But I do have some.

You may find this hard to believe, but there are actually a few things in this life that I find repulsive.  Things that seriously creep me out.  In offending order of least to greatest creep factor, they are as follows:

5.  High School Senior guys who totally scam on the incoming Freshman girls.  I realize that we're only talking about a 3-4 year age difference here, but there is something just plain WRONG with this scenario.

Picture this:  14 year old Hope, a sweet, young, fun-loving, naive, and innocent cutie pie, who listens to Taylor Swift and goes to Church every Sunday.  In her free time, she knits scarves and blankets for the homeless.  She believes in world peace and pink nail polish.

Now, enter High School senior, Stud:   a sexually-driven, testosterone oozing, football playing, 18 year old dude, who drives a truck with a FLATBED.  We all know how this story ends.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking right about now...isn't there a 13 year age gap between Tom and myself?  Yes, in fact, as Tom graduated High School, I was exiting Kindergarten.  But this is MY blog, and I make the rules, and there always an exception.  Besides, it's not like Tom was stalking me in Kindergarten...he was too busy scamming on Freshman GIRLS!!!

4.  Clean children creep me out.  I'm talking like squeaky clean.  Like an entire Gymboree ensemble, complete with matching ice-cream cone hair clip, and ruffly socks.  WTF?  My motto is this:  if you are under the age of 12, you should be filthy.  Appear unkempt, with matted hair.  And be riding that fine line of looking as if you live in a trailer down by the river.  Childhood is about having FUN.  Who has time to take a shower?

3.  The offensive tramp stamp comes in next.  Call me a wuss for never taking part in more body modification than a pair of pierced ears, done at age 6.  But we, as a society, NEED to DRAW the LINE somewhere.

And you know what?  That multi-colored butterfly, fairy, Disney character, or Japanese symbol that you get inked into your skin at age 21, sure as shit, doesn't look that way at age 61!

I don't like to see the tramp stamp anywhere.  Period.  It screams out 'dirty girl'.

At the bar, peeking over a pair of thong panties, it's like watching a suffocating butterfly attempting to take flight.  At the beach, where the stamp in its entirety is displayed for the rest of the world to gaze upon.  I don't want to see TINK flying above your crack.

I cover my stretch marks so you don't have to endure those, please show me the same courtesy.


2.  Onto the next creepy thing:  too much 'work' done.  Plastic surgeons can fix ANYthing now.  Got a forehead that hangs down so low, you can't pass the vision test at the DMV while renewing your license?  BOTOX!  Got boobies that resemble wet tube socks that just came out of the washing machine?  AUGMENTATION!  Got a tummy that you must stuff into your grandma panties even though you've lost 100 pounds?  Not referring to anyone in particular here...TUCK IT!

Listen up people.  The whole point of having some body part fixed, lifted, or refreshed, should NOT be obvious to the average onlooker.  That's like saying I can walk into the doc's office looking like Jimeny Cricket, and strut out looking like Hugh Jackman.

MMMMM....Hugh Jackman.


1.  This brings me to the most offensive thing that creeps me out to my very core.  Being close to 40 years old, I welcome an occasional whistle from the passing car.  Don't deny it ladies, you know it makes ya feel sorta hot.

But what's up, when some dude thinks it's his duty to cat call me while I am very obviously PREGNANT?  Creeeepy.  I think it's appropriate to use the same verbiage I scream out to my 4 year old when she is about to run out into oncoming traffic:  NOT OKAY!!!!!!!

The slimy offender, with no moral sense,  is riding in some sort of truck, or raised vehicle, to obviously compensate for his small manhood.  Usually there are garden tools,  paint buckets, or a pit bull riding  shot-gun.

Hey man, I'm just trying to get my four mile waddle in, while keeping the garden hose intact... just be respectful.  I will repeat, this is NOT OKAY!

Except maybe, coming from a High School Senior...

Doctor HOT

Most pregos crave things like, triple layer chocolate brownie fudge cake.  Or Spicy Cheetos.  Or Doritos slathered in Cheez Whiz.  Or iodized salt, right from the shaker.  Not me.

I'm craving beer.  And not just any beer will do.  I want Blue Moon.  It's not fair God dammit.

So I decided to discuss the cruelty of this situation with  my Gynecologist.  Who, by the way, is the cutest little Indian woman that you will ever meet in your life.  She has a receding hairline, and is old enough to be my mom, but speaks to me like an equal.  I am sure that she silently prays that one day, I will find a birth control method that actually works.

Me:  Soooo, Dr.C, I'm really craving beer right now.  I can have one or two, right? (notice how I don't clarify per hour, per day, or per week). 

Dr.C:  One or two a week is okay.  You must be making a man in there. 

Confession:  I have already had a few beers during the course of this pregnancy.  But I wanted Dr.C's blessing.  And before you go casting stones, I gave up EVERYthing during my pregnancy with the twins, and THEY are my kids with learning challenges.  So  I view each pregnancy sort of like a science experiment now.

Me:  I'm painting right now.  That's okay, right?  It's NOT oil based paint.

Dr.C:  Yeah, yeah.  Just wear a mask if the fumes are bothering you.

See, this is what I LOOOOVE about my doctor.  She's just chill.  She doesn't freak out that I'm painting or drinking beer.  In fact, I bet if I told her I wanted to sky dive tomorrow, she would tandem jump with me, "just in case".

A lot of people dis Kaiser, but the truth of the matter is,  finding the right doctor is key.  And believe me, they have a list of like 1.000,000 to choose from.


In addition to seeing Dr.C that morning, I had another appointment scheduled as well.  With a different doctor.  A surgeon.  And man, is he easy on the eyes!  Let's call him Dr.Hawt.  Or Dr.Handsome.  Or HOLY SHIT!  You're MY doctor?!  Hells yes!    

You see, each subsequent pregnancy brings a new gift.  My first pregnancy left stretch marks that spared not one square inch of skin, leaving me looking like The Rainbow Fish.

 The second time around, I developed the "Mask of Pregnancy", which sort of left me looking like I needed to shave a 5 o'clock shadow, even though I am a WOman. 

My last pregnancy left me with my uterus being practically catapulted out of my body if I sneezed.  God forbid, if while writing a check one day for my groceries at Safeway, I cough.  "CLEAN UP AT CHECK STAND 5!  We've got a uterus on the floor!" I'm going to market a uterus hammock for women who have had 3 or more kids, I swear.

This time around, I have been the lucky recipient of yet another, pregnancy induced condition:  varicose veins the size of a Home Depot garden hose.  And Dr.Hottie, who is a vascular surgeon,  just happens to be the same man who took my dad's leg off.  So he agreed to examine my garden hose.

I will never forget the first time my dad introduced my brothers and I to Dr.Hot Stuff.  Up walked this rather tall, confident, but YOUNG man.  Like really YOUNG.  Like, does this guy even have his Driver's Permit yet? YOUNG. 


Really? I thought to myself.  You are a surgeon?!  Cause you look like maybe you just got off your shift from Orange Julius an hour ago. 

Fast forward ten years, and Dr.Anytime is the Right Time, is like extended family now.  He and my dad are buds.  The Silver Fox and my dad even went to Dr.Hottie's wedding.  Dr.Handsome's wife sold my folks house in Campbell.  Like I said, we're sort of like family. 

But I can't help but think sometimes...if I wasn't married...and he wasn't married...and I wasn't pregnant AGAIN with my husband's child...well, just maybe.  Sigh.

After having a rather detailed ultrasound of the garden hose, Dr. "I Think of Hugh Jackman, When I See You",  met with me in his office.

Me, in a frantic tone:  Everything's alright, RIGHT?

Dr.Hot:  Oh yes.  This is not a situation like your dad's was at all.  Do you mind if I take a look at the area?

Me:  Sure.  (mind you, "the area" is basically between my legs,  located just beneath my uterus hammock.  My only thought was, thank God I wore underwear.  But he's a doctor, so it was totally fine...still....)

Dr.Hot:  After you deliver, if you'd like to, I can remove that vein. 

Me:  Sounds good.  What about these?  (I say, referring to a patch of spider veins that have left that bottom part of my calf looking like someone has clubbed me with a bat)

Dr. Hot:  Those veins will most likely dissipate after delivery, but probably won't completely go away.  That is more of a cosmetic situation.

GOD DAMMIT!!!  This was the news I had feared.  In my mind, I was thinking, let's bang this all out at once.  If you're going to remove the garden hose, can't you just take care of those too?  And how about a boob lift and tummy tuck, while we're at it?  I'd also like to get my teeth whitened and a spray on tan.  COME ON!

My visit with Dr.Lovely ended with a hug, and a promise that I would tell my dad to call him soon.

I'll be honest, five hours spent at Kaiser on a spectacular sunny day is NOT my idea of a great time.  But it could of been worse.  Dr. C could have told me that beer is completely off limits.  And Dr.Hot Stuff could have never been born.  I mean, I can't complain. 

But when I do go back to have this garden hose removed, you better believe I'll be rocking a cocktail dress.

* No doctors were injured or hurt in any way during the creation of this blog.  For those of you who know Dr. Hot by his real name, he has politely asked to remain ANONYMOUS.  Hmmm...I wonder why.

My Dad

A dad can be so many things to a little girl growing up:  a fixer of broken things, a soccer coach, a handle bar holding supporter, for your first bike ride, without training wheels.  My dad has been all of those things and so much more. 

I didn't realize until I became an adult, that not all little girls had a daddy as loving, gentle and supportive as mine.  Which makes me appreciate him all the more as I have grown into a woman.  As I watch my husband with our own girls, I am reminded daily of just HOW important that person is in our lives.  So that we can grow up strong, confident, fierce, and sure of ourselves.  Mamas mold their daughters, but daddies do too...in a different way.

Anyone who knows my dad, understands that he is unique.  He's LOUD.  He loves to laugh.  He's bald.  And he just happens to have one leg. 

I never had to "be" someone other than just who I was during childhood, for my dad.  And honestly, growing up being the only girl and baby in the family, SO worked out to my benefit. 

One of my most prominent memories is my dad cheering from the sidelines of my soccer, volleyball, and basketball  games.  He wasn't just yelling for me; he was belting it out for ALL the girls.  My dad understood the importance of feeling validated.  And even if you totally sucked at something, he would find a way to make you feel good about how you tried your best. 

In fact, that is the most important lesson I have learned from my dad:  making mistakes is okay; it's how we grow.  I mean, how can you possibly go wrong with that advice?  I was given permission to screw up to become a better person...cool.

My dad taught me how to ride my first two wheeler: a scarlet, red ride, with a flowered banana seat, called The Prairie Flower.    Although my new bike rocked (remember this was the 70's), I was totally intimidated.  This was uncharted territory in my 6 years on the planet.  My dad, assured me that I would learn how to ride this bike.  It was okay if I fell, or felt nervous.  I would do it.

 See, here's the thing, I wasn't sure I could ride The Prairie Flower, but he WAS.  Did I fall?  Did I crash into a few parked cars?  Did I scrape my knees into bloody open wounds?  I'm sure I did.  But I don't remember that part of the experience. 

Here is what is etched perfectly in my memory: my dad running beside me, and then letting go of my handle bars.  I thought,  I am riding my bike!  No training wheels!  I'm flying!  Oh shit, how do I stop?

About ten years ago, after a long bout with circulatory issues, my dad had a below the knee amputation.  This was not an easy decision.  Nor one that was made lightly.  But my dad understood one thing:  he must go through this, in order to heal, and move on with his life.  My husband and I spent some time with him at the hospital the night before the big surgery, and when a nurse walked into the room, I requested a Sharpie marker. 

On the bottom of his "good" foot, I wrote, "NO!!! Wrong one silly!" And on the bottom of the foot that was to be removed, I wrote, "Na, na, na, na - Na, na, na, na - Hey, Hey, Hey, Good-bye!"  Yes, it was a joke, but I also wanted to ensure the correct leg was removed.  My dad was laughing, and game for this joke the whole time.  He was dying to know what his doctor's reaction to that was going to be on the operating table.

My dad's attitude during the entirety of this situation taught me who he really is.  His faith remained strong, as he not only dealt with the grieving loss of his leg, but the brutal recovery process, as well.  After about 6 months had passed, my dad set his sights on one goal:  to walk unassisted, with his new prosthesis, before the twins took their first steps.  Guess who won?

About 8 years ago, after watching my dad's success on Weight Watchers, I decided to join.  I had just given birth to my third daughter, Emma, and had close to 100 pounds to lose.  Wednesday was my weigh-in day.  And do you know who I called after every single meeting?  My dad.  "Dad, I lost 1.2 lbs this week.  That brings me to 12 pounds."  This was great news and all, but I still had a loooong way to go on this journey.  His response was always supportive, "You GO babe!  You got this!" 

When I got to my goal weight, I called him, practically in tears.  "Dad, I think I want to work for the company."  Dad said, "You should do it babe.  You are so motivating.  Look at how much weight you've lost!  You would be perfect as a leader."  Not much had changed.  Here was dad encouraging me like he did in my childhood, when in reality, I was a grown woman. 

More often than not, I find that I still need that non-judgemental, encouraging type of love, that comes only from a parent's heart.

About 2 years ago, I received a phone call from my mom that was life-changing.  Calmly, she explained that my dad had been bleeding internally, and was in emergency surgery at Kaiser.  I tailspinned.  I lost connection with reality.  I cried uncontrollably.

Shortly after reaching the hospital, dad came out of surgery.  He asked for me.  I went in, solo, shaking.  My dad was laying on the bed, under the blanket.  My hero, was weak, and dazed.  Had he not gotten to the hospital in time, surely the ending would be different.  This was just too close to home.  I had friends who lost their parents, but I just guess I had the naive notion, that mine were immortal.

Not so.  My dad looked up at me.  Holding my hand, he told me how much he loved me.  Trying not to totally lose it, I squeezed back, assuring him through teary eyes, that yes, I loved him too.  More than he could ever imagine.

My dad has since made a full recovery.  And we never end a phone call without saying "I love you."  Things have changed.  Forever.  It is understood, without question, that nothing is promised. 

Is any one's family perfect?  Hardly.  But I am so blessed to have mine. 

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Poochie Woochie

I will never forgot the first time I met my dog.  He wasn't even my dog...yet.  Nor was it my intention for him to EVER be my dog. 

I was a first year teacher, crying pretty much daily, and wondering why the hell I had decided to help mold the youth of America.  This was too hard.  Too tough.  Too much work.  I was crumbling, and it was only October.

The end of the school day had arrived, and I forced myself into the office, to make yet, another set of 33 copies.  As soon as I walked in, the Principal, Mariann, turned to face me with the most adorable, fuzzy, cub bear looking dog, you ever did see.  Well, the FLEAS leaping off of his belly, were the first thing I noticed, really.

"Michelle, look at this guy,"  Mariann gently coaxed.  She was known for her animal rescuing gifts, having taken home 3 stray dogs already,  as well as her kick-ass approach to disciplining kids with raging hormones.  "Just look at him...Michelle, he needs a home."

"No Mariann, look at those fleas.  Gross."  I tried to walk towards the copy machine, dismissing her.  But I swear, it was like a cue from a movie.  As Mariann gently layed him down on the carpet, he wrapped his little cub bear puppy paws around feet, and looked up at me.  I thought to myself, "Oh shit, this dog is so going home with me." 

Did I call my husband, and ask his opinion about bringing a stray dog into our home?  No.  Was I thinking clearly?  Absolutely not.  I think I must have been transported to another time, place, and planet, as I drove my '68 Mustang home, with this little flea bag asleep at my feet.  Little did I know then, how that dog would save me on so many different levels.

Quietly, I snuck into the house, carrying the small, brown bundle under my arm.  As I opened the door to my daughter, Katie's room, I said, "Look what I have!!!!!"  She was 9, and I was like, 29.  But it so didn't matter, because our reactions were exactly the same!  "We have a dooooog, we have a dooooog.  Who cares what Dad says?  We have a dooooog!"

Just then, Tom walked in through the front door.  Deciding to put out the fire, before it really got going, I calmly said, "Honey, guess what?"  In fact, looking back now, those were the same exact words I used just a few months ago, when I shared the "surprise" news of our unplanned baby.

"Look what I got," I said, kind of squinting, with tense arms outstretched, holding flea bag, unsure of what his reaction would be.

"Oh my stars,"  Tom replied.  Now, anyone who knows my husband, knows these are his true words of affirmation.  Of acceptance.  Of giddiness.  Of pure awe.

We decided that Bear was part Chocolate Lab or Chesapeake Bay Retriever, mixed with some Golden.  A perfect mix for a family dog.  After losing several shoes, pieces of furniture, and books to Bear's puppy teeth, he was enrolled in Obedience School. 

Bear came everywhere with us.  The beach.  Our annual Houseboat trip.  The grocery store.  It was official, this dog was part of our family.  Often times, when we would arrive at family functions, people didn't care to give US a hug first.  They were looking for Bear, who would leap out of the car, and come bounding towards the group.

 Bear developed into a very loving, gentle, and mellow soul.  Sure, he jumped off the back of the Houseboat a few times, in the middle of Lake Shasta.  Let me assure you, hauling 80 pounds of wet dog back into the houseboat, was not a pretty sight.  And yeah, he caught a squirrel with his teeth once, and brought it into the house to show me his trophy.  There was even one time when the front gate was left open, and Bear saw an opportunity he just could not pass up:  attacking the mailman.  Poochie then proceeded to get maced by the mailman.  Poor poochie woochie.  The post office refused to deliver mail until Tom went down to the post office and signed an oath that said something like, "Your savage dog will never attack our negligent postal worker ever again."  But with age, he just mellowed.

While in his prime, Bear was a regular fixture on my daily 4 mile walks, as I pushed the triple stroller.  And I swear, every time he saw me with an emerging pregnant belly bump, he thought, "Oh man, here we go again.  More little people to climb all over me."  But he never nipped.  He never growled.  He always remained calm, cool and collected, which is more than I can say about my parenting skills.

How do you say good bye to a family member?  A dog that has been with us for 14 years?  A poochie woochie who once jumped on my chest to lick my face, but now, can't even get up? 

 I layed down next to Bear last night, and whispered to him, "You can go Bear.  You don't have to stay here anymore.  We'll be okay."  I know it may sound crazy, but I wanted to give him permission to die peacefully.  Let him know that he doesn't have to suffer for our sake anymore.

He actually raised his head, and looked deep into my soul.  He understood exactly what I was saying.

Shopping Day

Costco looooves me.  Seriously, they adore me.  When they see me arrive every Monday like clockwork,  the workers yell out to each other, "She's baaaack!  The lady who has that damn gaggle to feed, is baaaack!  And can you believe she's pregnant AGAIN?!  Umhummmmm, she keeps us in business, yes, she do."

You know how there are some people who claim they could never eat that size/portion/amount of food in a week?  NOT the Walsh fam.  We go through it.  Often, when having my receipt checked before I am allowed to go free back into the outside world and beyond, the Costco employee, always wants to make sure s/he has got it right, "TWO breads?  THREE apples?  TWO bananas?  TWO grapes?  FOUR kids?"

I mean, where else in the world can you purchase milk, eggs, enough tampons to last a lifetime, car tires, AND a dogbed?  Make no mistake about it.  Costco is the only way to shop with a brood as big as ours.

My number one rule at Costco is this:  stay focused.  I hear folks all the time say, "If I even go into that place, I drop 500 bucks."  If it ain't on the list, you no buy.  I don't care how cute/fuzzy/useful the item may seem at the time.  Portable air conditioner...is it on the list?  Car mats that come in a variety of colors...are they on the list?  A wooden playground the size of a small country...is it on the list?  That one rule saves me each week, and ensures that I spend within my budget.  Although, sometimes, I will admit, I feel beckoned to the beer/wine/hard alcohol section...just to browse.  Really.

I navigate Costco in a very methodical fashion.  Before I learned my OCD route, I would get stuck behind the Jewelry Specialty section that was  visiting only until Mother's Day.  Or a specialty one-size-fits-all  Sundress area, where small, medium, large and extra-large women flock, like moths to a flame.

Generally, my shopping experience tends to go smoothly, and the mission is completed within 30-45 minutes. 

UNLESS I encounter several assholes in a row who happen to leave their carts in the middle of the fucking aisle.  Seriously?  RIGHT in the middle?  Pick a side...left or right.  But no, these shoppers in particular, are clueless, get distracted by the whizzing blender man, and leave their shit right in the middle of the aisle.  With no forethought whatsoever, to the GIGANTIC obstacle s/he has created for all of the other Costco members.  This selfish act, requires me to leave my 4 year old, unattended, which anyone knows is a dangerous act in and of itself, to move some other member's cart.  Next  time, I'm stealing a purse.  Fuck this, being polite bullshit.

And  what's up with thumping the watermelons?  At first, I believed it was only specific races who thumped.  But I have come to find, that several people believe that thumping will give them the PERFECT melon.  You would think people are searching for a million dollars or the cure to cancer.  I refuse to thump, just because they DO thump.  And you know what?  My melons are pretty close to perfection.  And my watermelon doesn't taste bad, either.

Although, the handy sample snack people located at the end of each aisle, seem like a good idea.  They actually create a bottleneck.  You will find new mothers, bolting away from their infant babies, to grab a sample of a fucking begal bite, like it will be the last time they will ever eat.  I become especially annoyed by the people who take,  like 5 samples at a time.  WTF?  Leave some for the rest of us.  Hold on a minute, aren't  you the asshole who left their cart in the middle of the aisle over in the bread section? 

When I check out, I feel like I should wear my Weight Watchers badge, so the clerk will stop asking me, "Anything from the food court today?"  What I want to say is, "Do you know how many grams of FAT are in your hotdogs?  Do I look like I want a piece of pizza the size of my Costco cart?  I just spent 200 dollars on FOOD, do I look like I need an ice cream coffee latte that comes in a bucket?"

But after surviving the negligent middle-of-aisle-cart-shoppers, the Jewelry Show, and the Thumpers, I reply, "No thank you."  Every. Single. Week.  And they nod and smile, knowing that I will be baaaaaack next Monday.

Kids Keep It Real

You never have to actually ask a kid for the truth:  they just tell it like it is, pretty or not.

 Case in point, my eldest Abby, the other day, pulls me in close and says to me in a hushed tone, "Mom, you're looking kind of O-L-D,"  Trying not to laugh, and gearing up to hear the whole truth, and nothen but the truth, I said, "Abby, what part of me exactly looks O-L-D?"  "Well Mom, you know how young women's boobs are perky and way up here?" she said, motioning to her collarbone.  "Well, your boobs are smooshed and sagging way down here," she finished up her explanation, pointing to her belly button.  I couldn't argue with her.  I mean, it's TRUE.  I just can't WAIT to hear what she will say about my boobs when I'm not pregnant anymore and done nursing....YIKES.

In my mind, I guess I don't equate myself with my age.  I mean, who says a 38 year old can't wear glitter and rock a push up bra?!  I will fight for my right to sparkle and stay perky, god dammit! 

In fact, just the other day while hiking up Harwood, I saw a young girl, with a bounce in her step coming towards me, wearing of ALL things:  a Chico State shirt.  The shirt, in and of itself, immediately bonded us to each other.  Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly bonded to ME. Perhaps, stalked would be a better descriptive verb.  But you know that feeling you get, when a cute young thang is wearing proof of where you spent the best days of your life? 

I blurted out, "You go to Chico?" practically accosting her. She replied, "Yeah."  I still can't believe I had this slip of the tongue, but I said, "I GO to Chico State."  HELLO, Michelle?  You WENT to Chico State... 15 years ago!  But it was such a great, free, and independent time in my life, in my mind, I'm still living in Chico.  Going to the Bear.  Swimming at one mile.  Drinking Coors lite on the porch. 

If you would have told me 15 years ago, at this point in my life, I would have 4 kids and pregnant with my 5th, I would have told you to jump off a bridge, as I took a hit off my bong.

Indeed, my girls, constantly remind me, that I am aging.  Thank goodness, I am confident enough to not the truth totally crush me.  Just this morning at the breakfast table, Bella asked, "Mom, are you getting your hair colored, like soon?"  My other 3 girls, just looked at me, their heads sympathetically nodding sideways, silently agreeing with Bella.  "Why, am I turning gray up here in my temples?" (the first place to show).  "Oh Mom, you're turning gray EVERYwhere!"  I mean, what can I say to that?  It's true!

Summatime, Summatime, Sum, Sum, Summatime!

Sweet, red, ripe watermelon...juicy fingers not wanting to miss one single drop.  Melon the color of honey comb.  Grapes the size of small planets.  And MOJITOS...just the right mix of rum, lime, mint, and more run.  Longer days with no rush to "be" someplace.  Summertime is just upon us.  I can taste it...

Summertime as a kid, meant playing Hide-N-Go-Seek with the neighborhood kids; it got to be really fun AFTER it was dark.  The anxiety of being caught...well, that was just about enough to make me wet my pants.  I guess not much has changed. 

Sweltering days were spent in the  shady creek, behind Meredy-Bell's house, catching polliwogs.  We were little scientists that would watch them transform into frogs, IF we didn't decide to perform some sort or experiment on the poor creatures.  Meredy-Bell and I  also made exquisite "perfume" from the abundance of California State Poppy's that grew nearby...oh yeah, we were ALL that.  We had no idea we were breaking the law, by picking those flowers.  But looking back, it seems fitting that I was lured to the dark side at such a young age.

Popsicles in  every shade of the rainbow that stained my tongue and lips bright red, so I looked like a movie star.  My bare feet on hot cement...I quickly learned to run quickly to the shady spots that would provide temporary relief, before running to the next one.  My blond hair, dyed a deep, dark green from swimming, and Foxy cursing it all, pouring tomato paste, or catchup on my noggin with abundance to remove the chlorine.  Nothing worked, but I didn't dare say so.  Door bell ditching, making prank phone calls, doing drive-by's of boys houses I had crushes on, working at Y-Camp. The summers of my youth rocked.

Summer is like this amazing time that represents renewal, relaxation, and well, more alcohol consumption.  As I've gotten older, I have started my own little traditions with my girls. 

We "camp" at Big Basin in tent cabins.  If you think I'm gonna do my job in the dirt, with no roof of any sort over my head, you're sorely mistaken.  But I'm not a total diva; I refuse to shower.  Brush my teeth? Yes.  Shower?  Hell no!  I like to get that greasy grime between the tooties after hiking all day.  It is a representation of an amazing day spent in nature...AND that it's time for wine. 

As the girls get older, I DO want them to experience REAL camping:  in the dirt, sleeping on the ground under the stars...just as long as mama has an aerobed.   I always felt an intense feeling of survival after I made it out of one of those trips alive.  Especially backpacking.  It never ceased to amaze me that the world continued to turn, while I was out in the wilderness, roughing it, eating trail mix like nobody's business.  Away from any 7-11, Jack in the Box, or I don't know, liquor store.

Beach days are a necessity now.  The twins just got wetsuits this last summer, and I can't keep them out of the water.  I, on the other hand, have no problem observing them from the beach.  Normally, Daddy will get in the ocean with them.  But during the week when Tom is working, we go to Crow's Nest Beach with folks from Booksin.  My friend, Matt Beasley, who is an at-home mom/dad,  gets in that freezing ass cold water with the kids.  You are a bigger woman than I, Matt.  I must remain focused on the really important stuff: my tan.

Summer concerts in downtown Willow Glen are always a kick-ass outing.  By the time it's over, 4 bottles of wine have been polished off between  friends, and it is in that moment, we decide collectively, THE PARTY MUST GO ON!  And so 2 or 3 families rally, and end up at some one's house, where kids watch a show and pass out on a couch.  And the adults...well, the adults end up WALKING home.

The summer would not be complete without a trip to "Uncle Ron's" cabin in Arnold.  Since his passing, the cabin actually now belongs to my cousin, Angela, who is cool enough to let us visit now and again.  Day trips to Lake Alpine, Big Trees State Park, and Colombia eagerly await us.  We pack in a lunch, make a day out of wherever we're going, come home happily exhausted,  to eat dinner and shower.  What follows is my  favorite time of day:  cocktail hour(s)!  We poor ourselves a frosty, cold tumbler, and proceed to make the 2 mile walk around the golf course.  Screaming at the kids, who are on scooters, the entire time, "STAY TO YOUR RIGHT!"  By the time we get back to the cabin, it's beddy-bye for the kiddos, and party time for the big kiddos.  Playing cards late into the night, screaming obscenities at each other.  Ahhh, good times.

I love summer.  I am convinced that the reason I appreciate it so much, is because it only happens one season a year.  Only 3 months, and then, just as quickly as it came upon us, it fades into fall.  Summer never disappoints.  And it always leaves me wanting just a little bit more...With my anti-gravity chair in tow, I'm feeling like it may be the best one yet!

Mama Bear Anger

My dad taught me a lot of important lessons growing up.  But there is one that I have gone back to, time and time again, throughout my life.  This advice has never changed.  It has always remained constant.  It is  my truth. 

My dad, a man that I admire greatly,  knelt down, took my shoulders in his hands, looked straight into my 7 year old eyes, and said these prolific words, "Michelle, if someone ever pushes you around, ever lays a hand on you, take them out.  As long as they touch you first, you stand up for yourself."   I could hear my mom in the background, yelling out, "Toooom, don't teach her thaaaat!"

See, my older brothers had gotten the same talk from my dad.  And on more than one occasion, one brother, (who shall remain nameless, but who's initials are P.F.), had been expelled from school for this "lesson".

I vividly remember the first time I really stood up for someone.  I was 8 years old, and I played on a soccer team with my best friend, Margie.  Before going on, you need to understand one thing about my friend Margie:  she is the sweetest, most loving person on the planet.  She would never hurt ANYone.

Imagine my duress, when during a game one day, I noticed she was crying.  "Marge, what's wrong?"  She wept,  "It's that girl on the other team, she is being too rough.  She's pushing me around."  That was all I needed to hear, and it was SO on. 

The next time that little bully worked her way down the field, I straight slide tackled her from behind.  She didn't even have the ball.  It didn't matter.  My message was clear:  you mess with my sweet and sensitive friend, you will get my wrath.

Throughout my childhood, I tried my hand at all kinds of sports:  soccer, swimming, basketball, softball, volleyball,  and karate.  But what I found out in almost every single case was the same:  I excelled in sports that involved contact.  Body on body.  Moving people around.  I loved it!  And standing at 5'11, most times, it worked out to my benefit.

The first time my husband ever saw me play ANY sport, was at the Hoop It Up, 3 on 3 basketball tournament in downtown San Jose.  Street ball at its best.  Black concrete and no refs.  No refs meant the other team called your fouls.  Or not.  If you were matched with women who wanted to PLAY, and weren't worried about breaking a damn nail, things got physical, and quick. 

 I was playing with my girls from De Anza: Trish, standing solid at 6 foot 3.  Tamie, our guard, who was just as fierce as she was feisty.  And little ol' me. 

Right from the start, there kind of has to be a mutual understanding with the person you are matched up defending from the other team.  "Let me play my game, and I'll let you play yours.  Don't call me on all of my fouls, and I won't call you on yours." 

However, there was no mutual understanding in that first game.  It was just plain ugly, sloppy and violent.  So having taken JUST about ENOUGH from this woman on the other team, I was forced to make a decision:  let her elbows continue to fly, or put a screeching and abrupt halt to it.  I chose the later, and basically, threw her down on the concrete. 

Tom sat there, watching, mouth open, not believing what he was taking in. You could almost hear him thinking out loud, "But aren't girls sugar and spice and everything nice?"  No, we're not.  Welcome to my world.

I quickly learned, if need be,  I could defend myself without a problem.  Without becoming emotional about it.  I just took care of business. 

But when it came to OTHER people..."underdogs" being picked on by a bully, I just plain saw RED.  When my Mama Bear instinct kicks in, it IS emotional.  And that's not always a good thing for all concerned.

I was at a concert with my step-daughter, Katie, when I woman touched the top of my head, and yelled, "Sit down, you tall ass bitch."  Without going into specifics, let just say I handled myself...without being kicked out.  I don't even want to THINK about what could have happened if she would have put her hands on Katie.  One thing is for certain:  I would have gone to jail for homicide.  Is it normal to feel that much RAGE?! 

After school one day, my daughter, Bella, was explaining to me that she was being bullied by a much bigger classmate.  For reader purposes, I will call this girl bully, Satan.  I felt myself burning with anger.  "Bella, you have to stand up for yourself."  I found myself giving my daughter the SAME speech my dad gave me!  "If she EVER touches you, if she EVER lays a hand on you, or ANY of your sisters, take her down."  Bella, looking worried, said, "But hoooow Mom?  How do I act mean?" 

Hmmmm, good question.  This can't be taught.  Aggression comes from deep within.  I should know. 

The next time I went to school to volunteer in Bella's class, I asked another student, "Where does Satan sit?"  He answered, "Right here, at my group."  Satan had heard her name, and looked up.  She was huge, almost as big as me.  Satan looked old enough to drive her own self to school.

 I looked Satan square in her little beady eyes, sending my message, without saying a word.  "I know what you're doing to my daughter you little bitch.  It better stop NOW.  That's right, Satan, I'm watching you."

Once again, I'm questioning, is this amount of anger normal?  Please don't be scared of me.  Just remember one thing:  you want me on YOUR team!

For All The Motha's

Mother's Day, by far, is one of the most significant days of the year for me.  My birthday...yeah, it's alright.  Anniversary's, yes, an important milestone. 

But there is something different about Mother's Day.  It's like mothers all around the world are sharing in this one day of appreciation for what we have done, and what we have yet to do.

I had NO IDEA of what my mom did for me until the time I turned 23 years old:   the same year I met my husband, and became a step-mom.  As I would go about my day to day business with a 9 and 11 year old in the house, I kept having these "a-ha" moments.  Parenting was like this Cirque de Soleil balancing act on a high wire, while riding a unicycle, without a net.  I fumbled to discipline the kids / be a good listener / make sure the homework was done / keep the house clean / make lunches each day and dinner every night / stock a refrigerator / and recognize each child for their unique differences.  I mean, where's the book on how to do that?  Where's the damn manual?  There isn't one. 

I learned quickly that parenting, good parenting, is hard.  It is a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice, and exhausts you in ways that are inexpressible in words.

I'm still in awe that my mom let me live past my teen years.  I'm not sure that anything my brothers did which  preceded me, could really prepare her for my teenage angst.  Thinking about it makes me cringe.  But I appreciate that she loved me enough, (not to be confused with like), to not kick me out of the house.  'Cause I'm thinking that idea crossed her mind more than once.

On Mother's Day, I feel like I'm part of a very unique sorority of sisters.  Sisters of Survival.  We have each shared the birth experience, the toddler years, and school age years.  I look up to moms who have teenagers and college kids, as my mentors. 

And the really good moms, the ones who are confident but humble, they don't tell me how hard it will be in the future.  The really good moms just let me vent, while nodding their heads patiently, as I refill their wine glass.  The really good moms understand, that no matter what they tell me,  it won't really prepare me for what it will be like with MY girls as they get older.  Because that experience is unique to each of us. 

I appreciate all mama's out there.  The Silver Fox, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-laws, aunts who have been like moms to me, (one who has even been present at the birth of all my babies), my justice league of MILFS, and especially,  the moms-to-be, and brand new mama's, who are excited, but also scared. 

All of us other moms are here to tell you the same thing:  it will be okay.  The future is uncertain, but it will be okay.  Because we are here in the trenches with you, and we understand.    And yes, being a mom is really hard, and more exhausting than you ever imagined. 

But see, you're part of this new sorority now where strength and love comes in numbers.   You are embarking on the greatest, but scariest field trip of your life.  But, you know what?   Everything really will be okay, because you will never be alone on this journey.  You're one of us now.  And we're so glad you're here.

My Anti-Gravity Chair

I made one of the best decisions in my life last week.  I mean, it's right up there with deciding where to go to college:  Chico State, baby! And who to marry:  Tom Walsh, Super Genius, of course.  I'm talking THAT big, people.  Life changing stuff.  I purchased an anti-gravity chair from Costco.  When these contraptions first came out several years ago, they were an outrageous amount of money...like $200 bucks.  I got mine for $39.99...I likey.

Looking ahead to what the summer will bring me...four high energy kids, hot and sticky weather, the belly the size of a  patio table, and lower back pain that will most likely drive me to my knees, it seemed like a no-brainer.  Anti-gravity chair, YOU are the answer to all of my problems.

Just this morning, Midnight, our girl bunny got out.  No big deal.  UNTIL I found the ginormous burrow she had dug under our fence leading to the sewers of Willow Glen.  "Oh shit," I thought to myself, "How am I going to break this horrific news to my 7 year old?" 

As fear and panic started to fill my body, I looked across the yard. There I saw a sight to behold...did I locate the lost bunny, you ask?  No, nothing like that.  BETTER.   There resting in the most sunny spot in my yard,  stood my anti-gravity chair.  Calming me, soothing me, beckoning me to come, sit down awhile. 

I was catapulted back into reality when my 4 year old belted out,  "MIIIIIIDIIIIGHT...where are YOU?  Did you get eaten by a HAWK?  If you don't come out and are hiding from mommy, she's going to make Bunny STEW out of YOU."  I don't know where she comes up with these things.  Really.  Okay, maybe I have somewhat of an idea.

Anyhoo, here's my point.  Simple things make me happy.  I have found solace in my anti-gravity chair.  I'm not even sure words can quite express how happy it makes me feel.  I invite you then, to come and experience the magic of my chair for yourself.  Just understand one thing:  there's a 5 second rule, and then you have to get up, so I can have it back.  What do you mean that is selfish?!  That's my version of "sharing".

By the way, for those of you "animal lovers" out there, Midnight finally showed up.  But I'm pretty sure she was out scouting Lincoln Avenue.  I'm sure she made a stop at Starbucks for a  Carmel latte, and then hopped down to Powells Candy Shop for a Charleston Chew.  On her way home, I'm willing to bet she had the nerve to stop at Aqui's for an "Industrial Strength Margarita", that little tramp.  She nearly gave me a heart attack. 

And so I would like to take this opportunity to thank the one thing that kept my sanity for me:   anti-gravity chair, I love you.  Thank you for keeping it real.

Midnight, you are SO on my shit list, right now.