Gratitude

Last night as I drifted off to sleep I held my CurlyGirl's perfect pudgy little hand in the clamshell of my palms. So sweet, so small, so peaceful in her slumber. An angel sent from God. As I lay there enjoying the quiet of the evening, and the closeness of my daughter, I listened to each of her slow even breaths and paced my own to match. A prayer perched upon my lips...

My Dear Merciful and Loving God,

THANK YOU.

I am going to be Okay. You have sent me so many angels. You are with me each moment of every day, I feel you here with me. You have given me my family, my friends who are a second family, my beautiful, amazing children and so many blessings.

This year has been long and hard and I am glad to put it to rest, but I value each heart wrenching day that I have survived. I am a stronger, smarter, happier person. I am a better mother. I value all of the relationships in my life more than ever. I know who my friends are, and who they are not. I know what is important to me, and I know what things I can let go of.

I still cry, but I also laugh. I vowed that I would find Joy, and I have. I find joy, look for it , search for it. It is an active pursuit. Joy is a decision that I make each day. I am proud of myself. I never wanted to be a single mother. I never wanted this life. This was not part of my plan, but life doesn't always go along according to our plans. Separation, divorce - these are not part of my value system, but marriage requires two. I am but one, and so each day I try my best, and when I lay down to sleep at night I am grateful to have made it through another day.

I am so full of gratitude. First to God, who provides all things for me.

Next, for my children. My sweet cherubs who give purpose to my day. They are always by my side to make me laugh, to give me hugs, and to redirect my focus from my needs to theirs.

My sisters, who have been here for me in so many ways, to sit with me and cry, to make me laugh, help me keep perspective, to brainstorm idealistic revenge plots and to watch my kids. My niece, who is like another sister, and who has taken on all of the sister duties listed above, as well as several late night (early morning) desperate phone calls, sinks full of dirty dishes and sticky children in the midst of complete temper tantrums. Also, her extremely patient husband.

My brothers and BIL and nephews, who sit and stew in quiet contemplation ready to pounce to my defense, to pick up the slack and who long to find a way out of the helplessness that traps them.

My aunts and cousins who send cards and e-mails and offer prayers.

There are my in-laws, who are in a very precarious position. They love their son of course, and this I understand only because I too am a mother, but they are heartbroken because of his actions. They are so good to me. My mother in law is here almost every day, helping with the kids, bringing groceries, sweeping the floor. She builds me up and reassures me each day that I am a good Mom, that I am doing a good job. I do not honestly know what I would do without her - how crazy that the great chasm between myself and my husband has brought me closer to my mother in law, but again that is life for you.

I have Sister Patty. I meet with her each week and she knows just what to say to help me see the "God" in all of this.

I have my friends. Wonderful friends who call me, e-mail me and drop by to see how I am doing. Exceptional women who are always here and always seem to know just what to say. Friends who bring me dinner, bring me books and ice cream and statues of Indian gods. Friends who bring me hope. Friends are pulling me through this darkest night. They have swept my floor, watched my children, invited me to dinner, brought me chai and most importantly listened to me for hours and hours on end. My girls, you know who you are and I love every one of you.

I cherish all of these angels. My life is good, different, but good. I am blessed and I am ready for the New Year. Thank you, Lord.

A dream denied

Life is not fair. It's not. Life is not fair.

Tell me something I don't already know.

Today is my birthday. The anniversary of the day my mother so gracefully brought me into this world. For a long time, this day was the one I have most anticipated, celebrating as if it were a sort of unofficial holiday. Then I became a mother. Now my most favorite days are my children's birthdays. All four of them. I guess when you have a child they automatically become more important, more amazing than you are, even in your own mind. Since I have become a mom I have come to think of birthdays as being as much a celebration of the mother who did the birthing as it is of the child who was born. For the last 28 birthdays, I have had to celebrate without my mother.

When I was six years old my mother died. She was sick. A lot of my memories are of her being sickly. In and out of the hospital. Having to be careful and cautious. I remember wanting so badly for her to be able to come upstairs and tuck me in to bed, and my Dad being upset if she did. She needed to "take it easy". Then, one spring day when I was six years old my world changed forever. I was in first grade and I had been sitting with her reading Sally, Dick & Jane. Suddenly she didn't feel right, she needed to go into the bathroom. Next, she was asking me to wet a cool washcloth for her, and go wake up Daddy. Not long after, I watched her wave to me for the last time from the passenger seat of our car as it pulled out of the driveway and my Dad rushed her off to the hospital.

I am 34 years old today and the memories of my Mom leaving that day still bring me to my knees.

My sister and I went "across the street" to our neighbors and friends and played Atari. Later that night we returned home, and I went to bed. I could hear downstairs that other people were there, and the Stanley Cup hockey was on. I already felt so lonely and scared. I pooled all of the blankets around me in a circle, creating a sacred private space for myself to try to feel safe, but I fell asleep feeling very scared. In the morning it was my aunt, my mother's sister, who came upstairs to tell me that there was "no more Mommy".

No child should have to hear those words, or words like them, but they have rattled in my brain ever since. Life isn't fair.

As you might imagine, from that day on I was changed. Just as a mother is defined in the moment her child takes her first breath, I was defined when my mother breathed her last. I was formed into the mother I am today so many years ago when I became a motherless daughter.

Although it means different things for all of us, we all want better for our children than we had for ourselves. I wanted "normal". I wanted the sitcom family a la "The Cosby Show", "Growing Pains" or "Family Ties". I wanted a family. I wanted family dinners with lots of siblings around the table sharing stories about the day. I wanted drawers full of clean clothes, lunchboxes full of carrot sticks and sandwiches. Milk and cookies and Mom waiting after school to help with the homework. I wanted fresh Christmas trees, Sunday church and pot roast. I wanted a Mom and a Dad.

This year when the anniversary of my mother's death approached it was particularly poignant for me. My FirstSon was six years old. It struck me hard to realize that in his short life he had already lived more time with his Mom by his side than I ever did with mine. I also realized that while the past six years have created rich memories for me, have been in fact the greatest time of my life, FirstSon will probably not remember much of it himself. Basically, it hit me this past spring that if I were to die (and as irrational as I know it is, I am always afraid that I am going to die), this whole time would boil down to very little in the memory of my precious children. It made me sad to think of it.

Now of course, I didn't die. No one has. Not really. My marriage. My dreams, maybe. My children can't possibly comprehend what they have lost. They will live a new "normal", and it will be okay, but I will remember. I will remember the time when we were a family, when we were everything I ever wanted.

I wanted so much more for my children. I tried so hard. I thought I had it all. I did have it all. Something, no, someone changed somewhere and now it is gone. Everything that I didn't want for my children to experience is happening, and it is out of my control. IT SUCKS. It sucks to realize that you cannot control what happens to your children, that you can't always protect them from getting hurt. Right now the best I can do is hold them in my arms, kiss away their tears and love them. Life is not fair, but they have their mother.

I Will Find Joy

This has been my mantra of late. I don't know where it came from, but it has been playing over and over in my head. It is true, my life right now is nothing that I ever thought it would be. It is nothing short of a nightmare. In a million years I never thought I would be googling "divorce mediation". I never pictured myself packing an overnight bag for my kids to spend the night with their father. I am living in bizarro world. It's weird, uncomfortable and I don't like it. It is a work in progress though, and while there are a lot of bad days, lately there are some good days too, and for that I am grateful.

Have I mentioned that I have the four most amazing cherubs? They bring so much light to my world, to my life. Every night at least one of them crawls into my bed and shnuggles up close to me. In the past I would have been diligent about shuffling them back to their own beds, but lately I am way too tired, and besides, I like having them there. In the morning we hug and shnuggle, we giggle and talk. They are absolutely delicious, better than cinnamon rolls oozing with sweet gooey frosting. They are my reason for being, they are the ones who make me smile, even make me laugh. My children are my greatest blessing, and in them I will find joy.

I Don't want a Strap-on

There's another thing that happens when I am having a bad day. (such as today) I start missing my husband with a terrible ache. I imagine a patient who has lost a limb in some terrible trauma waking from a coma to find that their life, their very selves are irrevocably changed. The arm is gone, they scream, they cry, they get angry, they grieve. After a while they accept, a prosthesis is created, a strap on, semblance of what used to be. Skills are re-learned and eventually life goes on. They learn to live this new one armed existence, but, each morning when they first awaken- reality stings. They expect their arm to be there, reaching to shut the blaring alarm, but nothing it seems is where it is supposed to be.

I want to call my husband, text him, e-mail him. I want to say:

I love you.

I am sorry.

So sorry.

Please come home. Please let's fix this.

Please, I love you.

I want to wrap my arms around him, I want to burrow my head in his chest. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to wake up with two arms, damn it!

Today is a cold rainy day. It reminds me of a day we shared thirteen years ago when we were young, in love and relatively unencumbered by responsibility. We were in college. Separate colleges, but mine was on the way to his and so he would drive me. On this particular morning we got ready for school and climbed into his cold ugly gold mazda pick-up truck and headed on our way. Well, we only got to the first exit on the parkway before we decided that it would be a much better idea to turn around and go back home to cuddle under the covers - just skip school altogether and spend the day instead wrapped in the warmth of each other's arms. That was the day that a family tradition was born..the "shnuggle". An early morning, still under the covers, warm and cuddly hug that lasts half a day or more. Our children love to shnuggle.

Today is a day like that. Only, I have woken up once again to find that my arm is missing. I must start the process all over.

I have said it all. I have begged. I have pleaded, I have bargained. I have said I love you through tears, and with calm, steely resolve. I am gifted with words, and I have used them. Every combination I can think of. I keep thinking that there must be some way to get through to him. If I could just figure out the riddle, unlock the code. Sometimes I get discouraged. I feel like I have tried everything, and I am exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. Physically exhausted. Bent. Broken.

It is frustrating, but the truth is that there is nothing I can say. He has to want to be here, and right now he doesn't.

I love you. I miss you. I want to make things right. I want to fix our family. Please. Come home. It is a cold, rainy day. Let's go back to bed

It must be nice

Yesterday I made an apple pie. I gave Dexter a haircut and a bath. I sat outside and chatted with a neighbor while I watched my kids ride bikes "in the street". I am trying to get on with my life. Yesterday was pretty good. I didn't even take a Xanax. I made some spaghetti for dinner (a team favorite), and then left my sister with the cherubs while I went to see my therapist. My therapist thinks I am doing great. I admit, some days are okay.

Some days are not so good. Some days I just can't shut my mind off. Some days I start thinking about him. I start thinking "It must be nice". You know, like:

It must be nice, to come home at the end of each day and not have to worry about taking care of anyone but yourself.

It must be nice to be able to go off to whatever appointments you have made for yourself, and not have to give a thought about who will be taking care of your four little children.

It must be nice to be able to decide what to have for dinner, and not have to worry about who is going to complain that they don't like it, who is going to throw it on the floor or wear it in their hair.

It must be nice to have several hours to yourself in the evening to do whatever you want, and not have to referee sibling squabbles, oversee a reluctant kindergartner's homework, or convince a toddler to stop climbing into his baby brother's crib and jumping on his head while he is trying to sleep.

It must be nice not to realize just minutes after the last cherub has finally fallen asleep that you are actually out of diapers, milk or bread.

It must be nice to be able to watch TV, or go to the movies, or the mall whenever you want.

It must be nice to be able to leave your children on the ONE night that they are your responsibility and go sit on a bar stool in the local pub - since you live in your mother's house and she can just watch the kids!
It must be nice.

I have already heard all about how nice it is to be able to go to the beach and spend a few hours surfing and not have to worry about anyone but yourself. SO NICE.


It must be nice to be able to take your kids to the park and feed the ducks and play kickball and then finish off the evening with a trip to the local pizzeria.
It must be nice to be the great hero, the fun parent.
It must be nice to not have to worry about keeping it all together, not have to worry about plastering a fake smile on your face and pretending everything is just fine.
It must be nice not to have to listen to your children crying themselves to sleep at night.

How though?

After I start thinking about how it "must be nice", I start thinking about how totally unbelievable that is. HOW can it be nice? How can you rather be anywhere else but here, with your kids, in your house? How can it be better? How can it be nice to be sitting in your mother's basement, sleeping in a bed that, while I am sure is nice - cannot possibly compare to the $3000 King Koil that we just bought? How can it be nice to sit on an old recliner watching a boob tube instead of sitting in your own living room watching the brand new flat screen that you spent two weeks shopping for? How can it be nice to not be with your children? How can you go even one day without hearing Dexter laugh, or Paddy sing or even Firstson and Curly fight? How? I cannot understand it.

If I am being completely honest, it was nice around here too, for a little while. It was nice not to have to share the remote, or to have to answer to anyone when I burned a pot on the stove because I always turn the burners on too high. It was nice to leave my popcorn bowl on the table and not have to worry about who I was annoying by leaving it there. It was even a little bit nice to have an evening to myself to have dinner with friends or go to the bookstore because it was his turn to put the kids to bed. The novelty is wearing off. It is wearing thin. I miss my husband. I miss my friend. I want my life back. I want my family healed.

Here's the thing. Neither of us is innocent. My husband left because he is hurt, has been hurt in the past and just can not stand to be hurt anymore. I am responsible for a lot of that hurt. Some of it I know, and take responsibility for, some of it I need to gain a better understanding of. I never set out to intentionally hurt anyone. I love my husband. I am not a perfect person. I can be a better wife. I have been hurt too. Really, really hurt.

Our life is overwhelming right now. We have four little kids. We had two babies back to back, on top of the two we already had. When I look back over this last year, I realize that it was impossibly hard. Most people I know would have cracked. I didn't. Or, maybe I did. Having these four children, while a blessing for sure, it hasn't always brought out my best. I acknowledge that. I own it. There are too many times when I have taken my husband for granted. Too little time spent focusing on what was happening in my home and marriage, and too much time spent out. PTA, catechesis, book club, family, friends. Did I make these things more important than my marriage? I didn't think so at the time. I am so not perfect. I have work to do, Lord.

Apparently my previous post upset my husband. It's funny, because as one friend who knows way more about the situation than I would ever publish here said, "Really? I thought you were being very polite". Anyway, I guess he didn't understand why I feel the need to tell the world what is happening, and isn't it a very one sided view? Well, Hubby, you do not need to understand why I choose to write. Writing is "my thing". You go to the beach, I go to the keyboard. Second, YES -it is a one sided view - it's a blog! Want one? They're free! At one point Hubby asked if I would like him to respond to my post with a list of his grievances as he had done a few weeks ago in an e-mail to a third party who was trying to help. Perhaps this would embarrass me? Well, surely I do not want to air all of my dirty laundry, but, yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Your feelings are real and they are valid. I do not dispute your unhappiness. I do not think that you should just come back and accept your life. I believe that you can make your life what you want it to be. I believe that we can do it together. I believe that we are so much better than this. Our family is worth so much more than this.

I want to be a better wife. I want to have a better husband. I want us to be a family. I want people to see us and think to themselves "Look at that family, Look at that couple. It must be nice."

Breathless

You are right. I must start writing again.

I feel like I have started writing this post a hundred times in my head. I just can't settle on an angle. It is so heavy, so laden with gut wrenching emotion, and I fear whether or not I will even be able to finish typing the words without short circuiting my laptop with torrential tears. There is so much going on, and I really should be writing about it, if only for therapy (though I kind of loathe the self-therapizing blogs that are out there and shudder to think that mine may become one. And, yes, I do realize that "therapy" is not a verb, thank you very much.) On the other hand I know there are many of you who are thinking about me, worrying about me and let's face it, miss reading my blog. So here I am. I am back. I must warn you though, it may not be pretty.

I do not know where to begin. I don't know how to sugar coat it, or make it humorous (though I am sure on the latter, I will find a way). My life has fallen apart. I feel like I am living a nightmare. I have never cried so much or prayed so hard - and believe me, I have cried and I have prayed before. My heart is broken. Shattered. I am changed forever.

A little over ten years ago, actually ten years and two weeks ago to be exact, I put on an exquisite white gown, elbow length gloves and a glittery tiara. My father walked me down the aisle in the most beautiful church named after our Blessed Mother, and gave me away to be married to my best friend. My husband and I took vows. We promised to be true to each other no matter what. In good times and bad. We walked out of that church hand in hand to start a new life together. I thanked my Lord God for sending this wonderful man to me, for I truly believed that he was the answer to a prayer. A gift from God, my husband.

Twenty days ago my husband left.

My husband packed a suitcase and went to go live in his mother's basement. We have four children. Four. Small. Children. He broke my heart, he broke their hearts. He broke his mother's heart and his father's heart. My sisters cry with me. My neighbors cry with me. Moms in the carpool lane and at the PTA meetings, they cry with me. My friends call me and text me and come over and sweep my kitchen floor for me. My niece has been here almost everyday it seems. There are angels watching over me, crying with me.

It is like someone died, only he didn't. He walked away. (WTF?)

I... can... not... breathe.



Here's the thing. I don't have that option. I can't crawl under the covers and pretend it is not happening. I can't decide that this life of mine just isn't what I thought I had signed up for and go run off and start over. I am not a coward. I am strong and I am courageous. I am a woman and, I am a MOTHER.

The English language is so inadequate. There are no words that can fully convey what I am or how I feel (I can think of a few that describe him though - see? it's coming back). I am angry. SO ANGRY. I am sad. Lonely. Frustrated. Resentful. Fragile. I feel helpless. I feel like a failure. I feel like an idiot. I feel like I am being called on to be super-human right now. Sometimes it is all just too much. I also feel grateful. I feel loved. I have so many friends and my great big family. I have my Lord and Savior, without whom I literally would not be able to pull myself out of bed in the morning.

I am bewildered. Devastated. I just do not understand. I can't grasp what is happening to me, to my family. We had a life. A family. I do not understand how you decide to throw that away. Our marriage was never perfect.(what is perfect?) It was also never hopeless. I can not "respect your decision" - because it is not respectable. I have values, we had values - and this goes against all of them.

I am not hopeless, that is, I have hope. I have faith. Thank God Almighty, I have help. There are tremendous betrayals that have been perpetrated, and yet I have hope and faith that trust can one day be restored. I do not believe in divorce. I will sign nothing. Ten years and two weeks ago I took vows, and I took them seriously. I am not giving up. Let me put that out there for all the world to hear and see: I AM NOT GIVING UP.

So, anyway, here I am. I am back in the "blogosphere". I am battered and I am bruised. You told me to write, if you think you can handle it, I'd love to have you read it. and, please, leave a comment. Thanks.

A lesson in sorrow

It's weird. Today feels so weird. It feels like a normal day. I made lunches, and breakfast, the kids got on the bus. I made some phone calls. Changed the baby. We have a trip to the library planned, and we may go print some First Day of School pictures. First son has soccer practice. I need to decide what to make for dinner. A normal day. Except....

It is not a normal day. I got the kids up and dressed everyone in their best red, white and blue and pinned an American Flag on First Son's shirt. I told my Curly Girl that today is a very important day to be proud of being an American. First Son asked again why it matters that today is September 11th. I told him the same, that we need to be proud of our nation, and we need to be grateful for all we have. I gently reminded him about the story I told him last year about the awful day eight years ago when so many people died.

I hate that today is so "normal". Life goes on it's true, but if feels wrong. It feels weird. It feels like we're forgetting, not that I think anyone who lived through that awful September morning and the days and weeks that followed could ever, ever forget.

This morning, as I write this I am watching on the television as they read the names at ground zero. In the background there are cranes and building equipment. Construction has officially begun. I listen to the names for as long as I can, but I cry, and a mommy who sits and cries is not what my 1 and 2 year old children need right now. Still, I feel an obligation to watch for a least a little while. I cannot forget. We must never forget.

My sister is on a cruise ship headed to Venice, Italy today. She is on the trip of a lifetime. Before she left she realized that she would be out of the country on this important and poignant anniversary. She bought some 9-11 t-shirts for herself and her traveling companions, making a point to not forget. She bought one for me too. It has a picture of the NY skyline with the Twin Towers and the text reads "When Giants Walked the Earth". I am not sure that I love it, but I will wear it anyway. I will wear it to the library today. I will wear it to the giant warehouse store, and to soccer practice. Someone will see me, and I know that they will remember.

I think often about how we as a generation will teach our children about this day. As I watch on the television, a Firefighter just spoke of his lost brother in law, of our need to continue to support the scholarships and foundations, and he may have summed up what it is I have been searching for, today is "A lesson in sorrow, but also in humanity."

How true. Never Forget.

"out there"

It's tricky. This blog thing. It is a challenge to write from the heart and to talk freely about the emotions of my daily life, to self-edit without censoring. My writing can conjure up some strong reactions from readers. I have an effect on other people. I know this because they literally stop me on the street, call me on the phone or seek me out at parties to tell me so. Occasionally they even leave a comment here. I am always so flattered when I find out that someone is reading this here blog, and when I find out that they like it - whoa. I didn't start this blog with the idea that anyone would read it, really. It was sort of just an experiment, something to do, and I really didn't think about the implications of having readers.

The last post "It's MY Turn!" - generated a big response from readers. I guess it hit home with a lot of people. One reader went so far as to suggest that every mother of every age should read it, because it was so relatable. I believe that my writing was real and true and I think that what I had to say was important. I really do feel that I expressed my feelings in an open and honest way, and made myself vulnerable, and I am honored that so many of you connected with what I had to say.

My last post, well it left me shook. Although I try to be cryptic and protect the identities of my cohorts, it is not a fail proof system, and so sometimes, feelings get hurt. Man that sucks. I wrote the last post without thinking of the implications it would have on one reader in particular, "Q". In my post I labelled the actions of this family member as "passive aggressive". After some time and review I am left to wonder whether this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black? Is this blog a tool I use for my own passive aggression? I hope not, but, maybe.


It was never my intention to hurt any one's feelings, yet I should have realized that it was a possibility. I know that "Q" reads this blog. While my post wasn't so much about the transgressions of "Q", it wasn't not about them either. I can't go back and take away the words I wrote. I don't want to. As I said, they were real and they were true, and while they were not meant to hurt anyone -they did. They also did a lot of good though. I know this because you, my readers have told me so.


I haven't posted in a while because I am torn. I do not want my words to hurt the people I love, but I will not censor myself. I haven't taken a single journalism or writing class that would perhaps have taught me how to deal with the "you're never going to please everyone" issue that comes up in writing a "column" such as this.


I have apologized to "Q". I have explained how my intention was not to cause pain, and I have taken responsibility for not thinking through the possible outcomes of hitting the "publish" button on the bottom of the screen. I could have made a phone call, given a warning maybe.

I want to be writing. I want to write with reckless abandon, but ...it is hard. It is hard to put myself "out there". I am not a professional writer. I dabble. I am a dabbler.

As much as I do not want to offend or hurt anyone, I do not want to walk or write "on eggshells". I can't guarantee the "truthful and real" part that so many readers appreciate when I have to temper it with "be careful not to offend".

I have thought a lot lately about taking this blog to the next level, making it legit. I have thought about working on it, posting daily, increasing my readership, soliciting ads. There are people who believe in me. I guess the question is...am I one of them? Do I think I have what it takes? Do I have "the balls" to write and take no prisoners? Am I willing to put myself "out there"? At what cost?

Clearly I have some things to figure out.

It's MY turn!

There is a certain person in the family, "Q", who, shall we say, knows exactly how to "press my buttons". We are two very different people, who, if not for the fact that we love the same people, would never seek one another out as friends. We do our best to get along. And truth be told, in spite of our differences of opinion, we actually love each other too. That said, "Q" irks the "be-jaysus" out of me from time to time. I try not to dwell on it, I try not blog about it, but sometimes, like today, the steam pressure under my cap is just so tremendous that if I don't let some off I feel like I truly might lose my head.

This story however, is not so much about what "Q" said or did (it's almost always "said") to piss me off today. The story is about the great epiphany I had about the whole situation - because heaven knows, today was not the first time I have been pushed to the brink by "Q", and it certainly won't be the last.


There has been a particularly virulent strain of pestilence running through our estate this week. It's the flu...and no, so do not even say it or I may scream, it is not the swine flu. (do you think I would neglect to mention that I have the freaking swine flu?, really?) Anyway it hit me, it hit First Son and Paddy and it very sadly hit my sweet Curly Girl the hardest of all. She ran a fever of 104' for two days straight, and then followed it up with a day and a half of 102'. For three whole days she barely came out of her bedroom. She couldn't eat, she couldn't walk. She missed her last days of preschool, and we have had to postpone the sprinkler party playdate that we had planned for the whole class. Very sad right? I know. Now during this time, I have been recuperating myself from a bout with the same flu as well as an upper respiratory infection. I have also been taking care of my three other children who have all been touched by the illness, including one very active 2 1/2 year old asthmatic whom I have been feeding steroids in order to build up and heal his lungs. Do you know what a 2 1/2 year old on steroids is like? Good, now imagine that is what he is like all the time, and then give him steroids. Oingo Boingo...off the walls, and I can't leave the house. I am dealing with it as best I can. We manage, we have been through much worse, and "this too shall pass".

So, today comes and I can no longer put it off. I must go to the store. Supplies are running low. Sure, I probably could have made it through a few more days before I had to replenish the Cheerios (on second thought, they are a staple of Dexter's diet, so maybe not) but I absolutely positively could not go another hour without purchasing....diapers! Seriously. All clean nappies in our possession were secured to heineys. I had to go to the store. Also, I think there are serious health benefits in getting up, getting dressed and getting out. Sometimes mental health is quite neglected in the name of physical health. Curly's temp was only 100' this morning and she quickly perked up after a dose of Tylenol. She was happy to get dressed and excited to get out of the house. Steroid boy needed a change of atmosphere, and Dexter loves to see the sights.


We all got washed and dressed and so, to Costco we were headed! Then...the phone rang. I had purposely not called "Q" this morning because I knew that no good would come of it. The ringing persisted, so I picked up the phone and dutifully gave "Q" the rundown. Updated on all the symptoms, etc. I had no choice but to mention our outing, though I did so reluctantly. As expected, "Q" made all of the usual passive aggressive comments alluding to my parenting skills and I did my best not to be too snarky in return, but rather tried to coolly change the subject and quickly end the call. (I tried not to be too snarky - I didn't say I was a model of diplomacy)



In general, I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks of me. I am notoriously independent and sure of myself. However, you touch a nerve when you imply that I do not know what I am doing as a mother. When I feel that I need to defend myself for going out to buy diapers, (diapers people, not crack cocaine) when you try to make me feel like the decisions I make are at the expense of my children's well-being, I become slightly "on edge". Actually, I fly into a rage. I called dear Hubby and warned him that I needed to vent about "Q". I lit into the whole story, yelling and screaming at poor, innocent and extremely understanding Hubby. A few minutes later Aunt Tay called, and I told her the whole story with equal verve. My blood was boiling.


Nothing I could do about it, I needed diapers post -haste. We got in the car and headed off to procure the necessary items, and I continued re-hashing the whole thing over and over in my mind. Outwardly I was trying to calm down, but inside I kept replaying the entire episode in my head. I must say it irks me that I am so easily irked.


Now my sweet, precocious Curly Girl is quite concerned with her future as a mother and wife. (bear with me) She often starts sentences like this "When I am the Mom...." as in: "When I am the Mom I am going to let my kids watch SpongeBob, and I will watch it with them" or "When I am the Mom I will drive a mid-size car when I have just two babies, or one". It is cute and funny and endearing to listen to her. She doesn't know it, but she is figuring out her values, and she is forging a healthy separation from me. I love hearing her talk about when she is a grown up (even though I am still trying to broker a deal with the devil himself to keep her little).

Today as we were driving to Costco, my mind all a whir because of my earlier aggravating phone conversation, she started in on one of these tangents. I started thinking quite innocently that all kids at one time or another must make similar declarations, dreaming of the day to come when they get to make the rules. I know that First Son has declared that when he is the Dad he is going to let his kids buy any kind of sugar cereal they want and take them to Disney every single vacation, and I am fairly certain that Paddy boy is hatching some type of plan that involves all lollipops, all the time. Many of us adults, saddled with the realities of responsibility have lost touch with our idealist former child selves. We enforce sensible rules and probably never eat ice cream for dinner. We are...grown-ups. In thinking about this sad fact I tried hard to remember what types of things I was determined to do so well when I finally got to be the grown-up, and if I could remember something, anything, I was going to do it with my children just because I can, because I am after all, "the Mom".

That is when it hit me. I am "the Mom." That's it. It is my turn. Everybody else has either had their shot, will get their shot or is maybe in the middle of their shot right now, and so should leave me the heck alone and take care of their own business. It's true that one day my cherubs will get to be the grown-ups, and make their own rules, either for their kids or for themselves. Today is not their day, it is mine. Today is not "Q"'s day either, that was yesterday. Everybody gets their turn to make the rules, decide what is best. Today is my day, I earned it. I dreamed about it and planned for it since I was a little kid. When I was small and thought of the day I would get to be the grownup, the thing I wanted most was to get to be the grown-up, to be the Mom, and now my day is here. I am not going to let "Q" or anyone else make me feel like less of a mother just because I decide to go get diapers. I am the Mom, thank you very much. As "the Mom" I declare that when the diaper baskets run out of diapers, I will go get more. It is my prerogative to make that rule and no one else's.

It's my turn. You had your turn. Go home. I am too busy scooping the ice cream we are eating for dinner to talk to you anyway.

The hardest thing

So? What' s the hardest thing about having a "big" family? Maybe this:

The never ending pile of clothes? I swear, I would consider joining a nudist colony if I thought any of them would take my ugly butt. I need to hire full time help just for the clothes. Do you think I could pay them in meatballs? It's all I've got.

Actually, I don't make very good meatballs. I don't have time what with all the laundry.

Actually, it's not just a matter of clean and dirty clothes.

Although, believe me, these people I live with manage to make a lot of clean clothes very dirty.

It's the constant revolving seasons and sizes. The sorting and making of piles. The trying on. The bags of goodwill that come to us, the bags of goodwill we need to send out. The tubs and tubs of clothes that I kept from each child. I barely get a chance to put any of Paddy's clothes away before I am pulling them out for Dexter. There is a bigger gap in size between First Son and Paddy, so I need to put First Son's clothes away in one tub and then pull out another tub to get new clothes for Paddy. We are SO fortunate and SO blessed that there are a few local families and friends who always pass us the items they have outgrown. Still, this is work - again, the sorting and making piles. I must say it is nice though that even though poor Dexter will be wearing hand me-downs, at least they were worn by someone else's brother, not his.

And how about the fact that I am the only person in the family capable of this task? Dear Hubby helps A LOT. I have to give him credit. He washes and dries great! He doesn't quite understand the art of folding and I think he refuses to learn out of spite. He thinks I am nuts. (so what if I am?) He slaps everything together any which way, despite my pleading and demonstrating that neat folding means neat drawers, and neat drawers mean neat rooms, and that neat rooms mean a happy Mommy and that a happy Mommy means a Happy Hubby. Ugh. He also has been known to commit such faux pas as putting my underwear in Curly's drawer (she was wondering out loud how they got so...big!) Putting Dexter's shorts in First Son's drawer, etc. It can be very frustrating, and I know that I need to be grateful that he does any of this at all. I am. Truly. But please, could you just once make sure a pair of socks is actually a pair before you ball it up and throw it into my sock bucket....only for me to be in a tremendous rush (as always), pull it out and realize that I have one sock for my size 7 1/2 size foot and one for Paddy's size 10 Toddler foot? Late again. (not my fault though)

Last year I declared Mondays to be "Laundry Monday" - all laundry for the entire week was washed and folded on Monday. Yes, this took ALL DAY and much of the night. I figured however that at least it was done in one shot and I never had to think about it again for the rest of the week, plus I caught up on all my DVR shows. Everyone around me, including some with equally "large" families thought I was crazy. Well, it worked well unless...something came up. Something always comes up you know. If there was any glitch in my plans and something didn't get put away right away, or for some reason a load stayed in the dryer...forget it. Mayhem. Clothes everywhere.

I must come up with a better plan. I am thinking Laundry everyday. I just need to get caught up now on the Spring/Summer switch, all the new Birthday goods, and the delay caused by the pestilence that recently ran rampant through our house.

Well, I must go now. I have about 80lbs of clothes to find homes for. Did I mention that I will be potty training Paddy this summer? You know how much laundry potty training creates? Yeah me.

Happy Birthday Sweet 16

Last night we had the pleasure, and honor, of attending the super sweet sixteen. Our dear babysitter (who we don't employ nearly as often as we wish we could) had a fabulous party. She has been helping us out with the kids since she was eleven and now she's sweet sixteen. Where does the time go? It was a great party, not over the top, just enough for a girl who deserves it way more than any of those spoiled rich kids on MTV! Sam is a girl who has her stuff together. She is smart, beautiful, talented, nurturing, eloquent, confident and basically everything I want to be when I grow up. Her parents are awesome people and great friends. Cara and TP, cheers to you!
It was a fun party. All of our friends were there, there was dancing and laughing and, oh yeah, drinking. There was also some crying. Happy tears. The DJ played a video montage of the last 16 years from hospital pictures right through the present day. It is ridiculous how fast 16 years go by, but when you see it in pictures it really hits home. I couldn't help but think about my own cherubs as I watched the video, and how I will blink my eyes and they will be all grown up. Then there was the father daughter dance, which gets me every time. It makes me think of my Dad, how we danced at my own sweet 16 party, and when we danced together for the last time, on my wedding day just six months before he died. It also makes me think of my Sweet Curly girl, and I think to the future, and see her all grown up dancing with Hubby - I don't know how I will keep it all together. Finally, there was the candle lighting ceremony. Wow. Talk about a great kid. Sam had chosen special people to come up and help her light each of the 17 candles on her special cake, and she said a few words about each person. She thanked her Mom & Dad for being great parents, adding that she hopes to be as great a woman as her Mom, and to find as perfect a man as her Dad. She professed her love for her younger brothers, all of her grandparents, and her very best friend.
The party last night had me reminiscing quite a bit. For as much as it made me realize how quickly my kids will grow up, I also realized that my own life has passed by just that quickly. I had a sweet 16 party, though it wasn't as fabulous as Sam's Super Sweet 16, it came from exactly the same place, a place of love. It was thrown by my brothers and sisters, and it was in a VFW hall, and there was no DJ, just a bunch of party tapes that we continuously flipped. Still, we danced and we laughed and yes, we lighted candles. I think now about the people who I had lighting the candles on my cake that night. They were so important to me then. Now, I don't talk to most of them, except for family. There was no fight, no great "falling out", just "growing up". We all went in different directions. Still, my friends are plentiful. They are people who are in the same place I am. They complement (and sometimes even compliment - but never falsely) me. If I had to put together an elaborate ceremony for the candles on my next cake, well, let's just say I would set the roof aflame. I am so blessed by the people in my life. Some of them may or may not still be here in another 16 years (okay, my sweet 16 was 17 years ago - you got me. OK, Ok. 17 1/2. Fine 17 3/4 - but that's it!) and that is okay. The important thing is that they are here now. And they were there last night. And we had just as much fun as any group of 16 year olds!
Anyway, Happy Birthday Sam. Congrats to TP and Cara. I truly do love you guys.

It begins today

I don't really do diets. I abhor diet food. I do not consume fake sugar. I would love to be a health food freak, or even a vegetarian, except that I can't. I love a good rib eye washed down with a 2 lb over loaded baked potato followed by a hot fudge sundae way too much.

One of the reasons I refuse to "diet" is because I do not want to set an example for my children, especially my daughter who at 5 already gets a lot of attention based purely on her looks, that what you look like is all that important. I always tell them that pretty comes from the inside. I am so careful not to complain about my fat self around them. I remember once having a play date with one of First Son's then 3 yr old girl friends, and she proclaimed to me that "only skinny girls can wear bikinis". Certainly a 3 yr old did not come up with that one on her own. I want to set an example for my children of having a good body image, even though they will never, ever see me in a bikini. Ever.

I make sure that my children have a pretty healthy diet. Cheerios are just about the only cereal I ever buy (plain cheerios, not even honey nut) - with the exception of birthdays and vacations when they can choose any sugar cereal they want to. We eat whole wheat bread almost exclusively. At 6 1/2 I still water down First Son's juice. Skim milk is the only beverage approved for dinnertime. Dessert is limited to 2 specific days a week and is often fruit based. I try to keep fresh fruit around, and occasionally cut up vegetables for an after school snack. Of course, at parties just about anything goes, chips, cookies even a soda for the big kids. It is okay to indulge once in a while.

The thing is, I don' set a very good example for my kids really. I talk the talk, but I do NOT walk the walk. I drink soda and other sugary sweet beverages right in front of them almost daily, while I tell them that they can't have them because they aren't healthy. I sneak candy and other sweets. I gorge on ginormous bowls of ice cream. On family movie nights, I pop two bags of popcorn. One for them to share and one for me to pig out on.

A few months ago I started doing Weight Watchers online. I have had success with WW meetings in the past, but I just can't fit another meeting into my schedule. I was doing pretty well, lost about 10 pounds and I definitely saw my tummy slimming and physically I was feeling really good. My goal was to lose about 20 lbs before Dexter's party. Well, we had a party for my MIL, for which I made lots of yummy treats. I let myself indulge. That week when I weighed in I gained about two pounds. That was it. I was so discouraged I threw in the towel.

Since then there have been several times when I have said okay, "tomorrow is the day". Something always comes up though, and I continue my bad habits. This past weekend we had Dexter's party, and boy did reality hit me. I picked up a cute little outfit for myself (without trying it on - I never try clothes on) and when I got it on, I looked like a three tier cake. (not ace of cakes cake - sloppy mud pie cake) There were bulges on top of bulges. I refuse, refuse, refuse to buy a bigger size.
I do not look healthy, I do not have healthy habits, or a good body image, and I am not setting a good example for my kids.
So, that's it. It begins today. I must get myself back on the wagon, so to speak. No more excuses. It doesn't matter what parties are coming up - I am a social person, there is always a party. I can't put it off anymore. I need to take care of myself, for the sake of my children, I need to be healthier. So, from today it's water or skim milk to drink. One cup of tea in the morning with just 1 tbsp of sugar, measured. Cheerios for breakfast within an hour of waking, and air popped popcorn only. The trays and bowls of mayonnaise laden deliciousness in my fridge leftover from the party will have to take up residence on someone else's hips via someone else's lips. I am having a salad.
Please, don't wish me luck, wish me willpower!

Party Prayer

About a week or so before their birthdays I start regaling my children with stories that begin " 6 years ago today ( or 5, or 2 , or ...1) my belly was SO fat." The older ones are used to it by now, in fact, I dare say they look forward to my silly stories about the creature kicking me from inside, reveling in the fact that I am talking about them. Then we talk about how the doctor made a little cut in my belly and pulled the baby out, announcing with joy "It's a Boy/Girl!" and then how, the baby cried, and Mommy cried, and even Daddy cried, because we were all so happy to finally meet each other. We talk about LOVE. We share hugs and kisses, and lots of shnuggles.

Birthdays are such a happy time in our house. We plan months in advance, and we celebrate much more than just a day. We always start at the beginning, with breakfast. Usually, pancakes with a candle. (this year Curly announced days before her fete that she was "sick of pancakes" [we do eat a lot of pancakes] , and so she blew out a candle on a cinnamon muffin, but otherwise it's pancakes). Sometimes there is a special birthday outfit, and balloons. There are usually about 3 "parties", maybe four if you count the cupcakes I send in to school. There's the day of your birth, which mandates dinner, cake and presents; and then we have your friends over for a playdate/party extravaganza, and then finally the whole dam fam comes over to celebrate on the weekend.

I vow that no matter how old I get, no matter how wrinkled and saggy and "decrepit", I will always, always be joyful on my birthday.

This month (okay, the month that just passed) we celebrated two fabulous birthdays in our house. I am exhausted. First, my sweet Curly Girl turned 5 on 5-5. Margarita anyone? Well yes, but not until we've had a proper tea. Curly had 6 of her best buddies and their favorite Dollies over for a tea party. And I do mean a proper tea. Crazy party mama - that's me, btw - rented table and chairs, china and linen. We decorated with tulle and silks and set to brewing blueberry tea and pink lemonade. There was musical chairs, and ring around the rosy, and hot "teapot" - our own version of hot potato. We ate cucumber tea sandwiches and scones with cream, and finished off with pink creampuffs. Curly was gifted with her very first American Girl doll ( I don't know who is more excited, she or I?!)
Just ten days later the milestone of milestones...Dexter, my baby - turned one. To quote First son - "that was fast". We celebrated this weekend with a grand fete. We decorated with bright colors, cooked up a storm and invited anyone and everyone to join in our glee. It was a great day. Dexter's Godmom arrived from Philfadelphia and helped with all the details, the weather cooperated and I only lost one balloon in the parking lot of Party City. Almost everyone who said they were coming showed up, and most even stayed long enough to see the cake cut. I had lots of cheerful help from friends, family and neighbors, and we had a lot of fun. It was a great day.

I love my children's birthdays. I look forward to them so much. It isn't just because I love to plan a party, although I truly do. Their birthdays mark a day in my life, when life became so much richer, the day they were each born, I was reborn. For me, my child's birthday is a day of thanksgiving. I am just so grateful that God has gifted me with each of these beautiful creatures, I overflow with joy. Who am I that I deserve these blessings? I am not worthy, but I am so grateful - I need to celebrate. Can a party be a prayer? I must say, if I am the one throwing it, it sure can be.

holy moley. I haven't posted at all the whole month of May! Hold on...it's coming.

A Holiday

Seven years ago (really? - seven years?) I was sporting my new spring maternity clothes (so ugly!) and showing off my burgeoning belly. I spent my days and my nights dreaming of motherhood, of the baby growing under and inside my heart. For the past seven and a half years it has been a classic love story, mother and son. My sweet, sweet, First Son. Then, almost two years ago I turned him over, quite reluctantly to the big yellow taxi.

Tomorrow, I am taking him back! Well, for the day anyway, and he doesn't even know it. When he wakes up in the morning I will break the news - no school today! I am proclaiming a holiday. First Son & Mommy Day. It will become an annual tradition. First Son will play hooky from school, and we will climb aboard a train and head into the Big Apple! I am so excited! Just he and I, no little brothers or sisters, no pesky teachers, no phone calls, laundry or spilled milk (well, we might spill our milk, but we will make someone else clean it up for sure!) We are going to see a show, and climb the Empire State Building and eat a Gray's Papaya (that's a hot dog, not a tropical fruit).

Seven years ago I couldn't have pictured my life the way it is today. It is busy and it is wonderful, my life is full. I have so much more than just that one baby I was dreaming of, I have four beautiful children. I have a house. I have PTA committees, and catechist responsibilities, I have everything I ever wanted and more. If there is anything at all that I wish I could have more of, it is the ever elusive time. My baby, my babies, are growing up quickly. It is up to me to put my pointer fingers together and stop time. It is up to me to make memories, to teach my kids to stop and smell the roses, or in our case tomorrow, the subways. There will always be a sink full of dishes, and an overgrown garden to tend to, but my children will grow and change before my very eyes and if I don't stop once and awhile I might miss it.

For just a day I will rewind the clock to when it was just me and First Son. I will try to see the world through his eyes. Maybe we will learn something new about each other. For sure we will chat the day away. He will ask me a million questions, and make incredibly keen observations, and probably tug at my heartstrings a bit. Memories will be made.

Spring Cleaning

As I went about my day yesterday: doing laundry, cleaning the boys' room, feeding the cherubs (every 5 minutes) - I was looking forward to sitting down at the end of the day to write a post all about how much I love Spring. This is not a post about how much I love Spring.
Yesterday was a beautiful Spring day. I was working hard all day in my losing battle against dirt. I have to be vigilant, and never let down my guard. It is a challenge to keep anything clean for any length of time when I am outnumbered by small people whose purpose in life seems to be creating a mess. Yesterday though I was doing pretty good, helped by the fact that Curly Girl and Paddy Boy were both playing so nicely outside. I thought to myself, "Wow. Spring Rocks! I forgot about sending the kids outside to play - I can get so much done!" Perhaps I had discovered the basis of "spring cleaning"? So anyway there I was, scrubbing stairs, chasing dust bunnies, folding laundry and even making beds. Suddenly Curly Girl was standing in the doorway to her brothers' room, asking if she could take a shower. Huh? Then I remembered...Springtime = playing in the sandbox = sand in the hair! Ugh. Of course she was followed up the stairs by her little brother, Mr. Muddy Shoes. So much for my stair scrubbing. As for Curly and the sand - have I mentioned that she has curly hair? Not wavy, corkscrew curly. The perfect place for sand to hide and not come out. It took me a good half of an hour of hair washing, with the shower head turned to a strong steady stream and lots of conditioner and fine toothed combing before I felt confident that she was clean. Of course, just like my kitchen floors, kids don't stay clean very long either - two minutes after she was dressed and combed she was out the back door. Oh well, welcome Spring, welcome dirt. It seems like you never left at all.

Belated Blog-iversary

Holy Crap. You know things are busy when I miss an opportunity to celebrate myself!! Yesterday was my blog-iversary and I let it pass with nary a wink. Well - 2 years in cyber space. It's been a lovely ride, thank you my loyal readers for enjoying it with me! I hope this year is even better than the last two, full of juicy posts, cool pics and witty prose! Here's to trying!

My Curly Girl

I didn't think I would be this sad. To tell the truth, I had taken to joking that when the time came, I would send Curly out the door with a swift kick to her behind and a wave "bu-bye". Today is a big day. I am taking my Curly girl to "Kindergarten Orientation", and while I must say that I am much more well adjusted this time around than I was two years ago when it was First Son's turn and I practically needed to be hospitalized for emotional incompetence, I am still quite melancholy about the whole thing.

I sat on the edge of her bed last night watching her sleep and stroking her sweet little face (so familiar, it's like looking in a mirror), thinking about how quickly my little baby has become a little girl. She has always been fiercely independent, even as a baby she preferred to fall asleep in her crib rather than in your arms. She marches to the beat of her own drummer for sure. She is an amazing personality: so kind, and nurturing - she takes care of everyone; she is generous and easy going - often willing to give in to her big brother rather than fight, but by no means a push-over (she will kick your a-- and not look back if you wrong her); she is smart as a whip, but uninterested in being outwardly academic; Curly loves to play teacher but is wary of anyone who tries to teach her; she worries about who she will someday marry and whether she will be a good Mom - I tell her that she will be an amazing Mom. She crawls into bed with me in the mornings after her Dad has left for the day and she swings her little arm over my shoulders. We play "baby animals" - a game of our own creation where everybody, even the mammals, hatch from an egg made of blankets. She lets me brush her hair. She loves cooking shows, Rachael Ray is her favorite, but she'll watch the Barefoot Contessa too, because it's my favorite. She helps me in the kitchen - an expert at egg cracking and floor scrubbing. My Curly Girl loves intensely. She gives her whole self. She loves Jesus, and she loves Mary. She gives glory to God for all things. She falls asleep each and every night with a book in her arms, yet claims ignorance of the alphabet. She sings songs -her own compositions, loud and out of key. She is polite; and she loves to clean the bathroom sink. She has a smile that could melt an iceberg, and a deadly stare that will bore holes through a steel fortress. She is my scrumptious Curly Girl, my pride and joy.

Next year the big yellow taxi will come and take two of my loves away. When First Son was a baby and made the big move from bedside bassinet to bedroom baby crib Hubby lamented that he was "leaving for college", I thought it was silly at the time, but now I think I know what he meant. Our precious children are ours for such a short time.

I am happy for my Curly Girl. She is going to adore school. She will make tons of friends, and she will learn to read. She will continue blazing her own trail, and at the end of each day I will meet her at the corner and we will hold hands and talk about all of her adventures.

My little baby...such a big girl, I hope she always knows how much I adore her.

It's working

I don't know what it is, but it is working. My children love each other. Sure they squabble, as all siblings do, but when it comes down to it, they love each other. It is my greatest pride.

Yesterday we took a trip to the evil baby mega-store to purchase a new car seat for Paddy-boy, who will soon be gifting his current seat to his lil' bro. On the way out of the store they have some of those coin operated ride on toys. We always stop on the way out to drive Kermit's convertible, or give Mickey a lift to the Fire Dept. Of course, we power the toys with "imagination", rather than coins, but more on my frugal parenting in another post. Anyway, after a few minutes it was time to go, only Paddy boy doesn't roll with any one's rules but his own, and so refused to leave. After several minutes of pleading, I decided to act as though I were just leaving, and walked out of the double doors waving "bye" - figuring that Paddy would realize quickly that he didn't want to be left alone and follow us out. (note to CPS - I had my eye on him through the glass the whole time) Curly girl was a little reluctant to follow, which I read as her being upset with the idea that her little brother was still playing while she had to follow Mommy. After a few times of me telling her to "let's go!" - and leave her baby brother in the store, I was starting to get a little annoyed. The longer she lingered in the doorway, the less effective my abandonment parenting tactic. I took a few more steps with my shopping cart and told her to "come on" - at which point she turned on her true "Curly self", hands on hips, scrunched up nose and declared "NO! I am not leaving my brudder!"
Suddenly my annoyance melted away and was replaced with pride, with love and with peace. No matter what, my kids have each other, love each other and always will. I truly believe that the greatest gift that I can give to my children is the gift of each other. I know that my four siblings are all a gift to me, each in their own way, and to God and my parents I am grateful for them. I praise God that I am able to give my children a similar legacy, and I consider it one of my great responsibilities to teach my children always to love and respect one another. So far, it's working.

More than your Mom and Dad...combined

Does your family have their own vocabulary? One of First Son's spelling words last week was "cuddle". As part of his homework he needs to write sentences using the words. He was having a little trouble with cuddle and asked me what it means. Doesn't know what "cuddle" means? What kind of child grows up not knowing what it means to cuddle?? Well, I assure you, my sweet First Son knows all about warm delicious hugs; sweet strokes of the hair; and cozy Eskimo kisses. In our tribe we call it "shnuggling". I simply told First Son that "cuddle" means the same thing as "shnuggle", and he quickly had his sentence written. "My Mom cuddles me". And I do.
First Son and I are madly in love with each other. Each morning since he was a baby he has come into bed with me and we have shnuggled. Now, with school and other early morning obligations it has become more difficult to find the time to shnuggle, so when we can fit it in we savor it.
The other night we were lying together in my bed enjoying a hard-earned shnuggle after a long weekend that was preceded by an even longer week. Soon we began our usual "I love you " contest, which usually takes us on a trip to Pluto and back as we exclaim just how to measure the love we have for each other. I started with " I love you more than ice cream". Well, First Son must have been really tired, because he cut right to the chase and shot back with "I love you more than...your Mom & your Dad love you...combined". I am not sure who won the "love contest" that night, but there were no losers.

On the Wagon

I drank too much. I did. I have no one but me to blame for my shaky nerves, blurry vision, nausea and general malaise. I should have known better than to keep going for one more, but then, I have been under a lot of stress lately. I needed something to help get me through it, and I thought this was the answer. I am Irish, so I guess I am predisposed to this kind of thing. I had one when I woke up, then two more at breakfast with friends. In the afternoon I hit a low, so I tried something a little stronger, and had two. Now, I don't feel so good, and it's my own fault. I wish I knew the antidote, because I still have so much to get done.
Tomorrow is another day, and I will definitely lay off the....... TEA.

What did you think I was talking about???

I heart Snowdays

I don't love snow. Sure it makes everything look pretty, all fresh and new and white, that is, until the plow comes along and sloshes up all the dirty black sludge all over the place. Then there's the sloppy wet boots leaving trails of mess all over my floors. And don't forget driving and wondering "will my brakes actually work?" - but I digress...

I LOVE Snow days! Snow days are unexpected, totally unplanned for days off! A day to spend in our jammies, a fire in the fireplace, shnuggling on the couch flipping back and forth between Food Network and the Travel Channel, baking cookies and reading e-mails. No matter what my to-do list had on it, it all gets pushed aside - it's a snow day! 700 errands to run? Can't do it - it's a snow day. First Son home from school, Hubby home from work, hot chocolate, cold noses, lots of hugs.

Even though tomorrow will be a super-crazy day now, I am enjoying the nothingness that has been imposed on us today. A day like today is the reason that you will always find plenty of brown sugar, vanilla & chocolate chips in my pantry.

Stay Little

It started with a pair of pink converse all-stars. A cute, little pair of sneakers adorning a tiny pair of feet attached to an adorable little girl about two years old. She reminded me so much of my Curly girl, even though she had straight black hair, olive skin and would certainly grow up to be bilingual. It was the outfit. She had on these little cargo pants with a satin lined belt and a pink calico print shirt with a ruched top. She finished it off with the pink converse and an infectious smile. Well, it was the outfit and I think also the way you could tell just by looking at her that she was so....loved. Anyway, it touched my heart.

It may have also had something to do with the pediatrician mentioning that Curly's upcoming physical will also be her Kindergarten physical.

It was well documented here that I had a very hard time sending First Son off to school. And to be honest, even though his school experience has been nothing short of spectacular, I still regard the big yellow taxi with a bit of resentment. Still, I thought that sending Curly off to school would be no big deal. I even joked about it, that when it came to be her turn to get on the bus I would wave with a big fat smile.

Why then, did I cry myself to sleep last night? I don't want to send her off. I want to keep her! Why can't they just stay little??? She's my only girl, I am going to miss her terribly. 5 years is just not enough time!!! I want to soak her up, bathe in her sweet innocence, and not share her for 6 hours a day with anyone! I want to dress her up in cute pink converse sneakers and bounce her on my knee.

Now, my good friends JD and JT assure me that "The Secret of Life is Enjoying the Passage of Time" ....I try, but I don't know.....

It's going to be another long summer.

Life is too short...

And I refuse to waste a minute of it. You know those people who walk down the street swinging their shopping bag and clicking their heels while whistling a happy tune? Those people don't exist, right? Today I was those people. I am that person. (except that I whistle out of tune...it's part of my charm).

Hubby found out a few weeks ago that he was going to have to be out of town this weekend. I decided that rather than sit at home waiting for catastrophe (there is always, a major problem when hubby is OOT), I would buy a ticket and join him on the journey...sans offspring. So here I am, in St. Augustine, FL having the time of my life. Hubby is gone most of the day because...this IS a business trip after all. I like being alone sometimes. It is liberating. It so rarely happens, and I am savoring it. It is good to have this time to recharge my batteries, reconnect with "me". I am sure that when I return to NY in a few days I will be a better mother, wife and friend for it.

Today I took a trolley ride all around the city, toured some very old houses, sat at the bar and ate my lunch with a beer, then shopped till I nearly dropped (but those who know me, know that it would take A LOT of shopping before I would drop). I sipped a vanilla chai latte and took tons of cool pictures. At the end of the day I knelt in prayer inside our nation's oldest cathedral - a mini basilica, actually. ( incidentally - that means that the Pope can stay there, though with the cold hard marble floors, I'd advise that the Hampton Inn is the better choice). I said a prayer of thanksgiving - for my wonderful husband, our amazing children, all of the people back home who are taking care of our children; for our safe journey; and for this wonderful break that is helping me to appreciate it all so much.

Parched

Two weeks ago I was in St. Louis. By myself. Well, not actually by myself, but I was without any of the children who call me Mommy! For three whole days I poured not one single cup of apple juice, and swept nary a Cheerio off the kitchen floor. It was a blissful break. I slept as long as I wanted, I took showers with the bathroom door closed. It is amazing what three days of no cleaning, cooking or diaper changing will do for your skin.

Now that I am home, the combination of 4 small, dirty, hungry children and the dry winter air have taken their toll. My hands have been spontaneously bleeding in three different spots over the last week. I try to moisturize, but literally minutes later I am washing my hands again because I have either just changed a diaper, or I am getting somebody a snack, or I just cleaned some dirty mess. Moisturizer. Some women dream of massages and facials, spa weekends as a chance to pamper themselves. I'll settle for a bottle of Aveeno Daily Moisturizing Lotion.

R. I. P.

Well, I knew that this day would come. I have dreaded it, but I knew it was inevitable. Today the first of our "Princess Fish" has croaked. So much for kissing a frog.
I changed the water in their tank this morning and very shortly after one of the fish started acting really zany. Zipping around more than usual, and upon closer inspection, swimming...upside down. Then it would swim to the top of the tank and sink back down. It did this a few times. Finally it stopped moving and just lay there belly up. Poor fish.
I dreaded telling my Curly girl, but it had to be done. I sat her on my lap and asked her if she knew about heaven, she said "oh, yeah." Then I told her that one of her fish had gone to heaven. She did her best Sarah Bernhart impression, but she was faking it big time ( I have seen more sincere tears spew from those eyes when she doesn't like her dinner). Still, she was genuinely concerned. We scooped the body out of the tank, headed to the bathroom, said a few nice words about our precious Princess Fish and then finished her off with a royal flush.

Later in the day Grandma was here, and Curly Girl decided to break the news. "Grandma, one of my fish went to heaven today." (G-ma was forewarned) Grandma was very sympathetic, so much so that Curly felt the need to cheer her up. "it's okay Grandma, we will get to see her again, when we go to heaven!....But you first."

My sweet, tell it like it is, Curly Girl. Well, I am off to the pet store now.

What's in a name?

A quick lesson in etiquette, only because this very subject has come up twice this weekend and I feel the need to educate.

A married woman is : Mrs. Husband Smith....always!!
unless she is divorced, then she becomes:

Mrs. Herownname Smith

Even when widowed, she is still Mrs. Husband Smith.

There is no such person as Mrs. Patricia (My last name).

Now then, feminists, I am sure that you will have something to say about this..but please, think it through.

I married him!! I took HIS name. I gave it to my children.

Please people, I know that Emily Post is dead and all, but let's not disturb her grave.

A rose by any other name...

So, as you can see I have been doing some re-decorating. What do you think??
I like it. However, since in creating this new face-lift I had to type the name of my blog about 15 times I started to really think about it and...I don't love it. For one thing, the original three are now four. Secondly, my blog isn't just about my role as a mother although it may sometimes seem like that. I don't know that this title is entirely appropriate anymore. What else could I call this blog? Hmmm...how about:
?

?

?

Any suggestions? I am stumped.

on writing

I am hiding. Well, sort of. It is Saturday morning and I am sitting in my bed with the door closed. I have not emerged yet even for a cup of tea. I have begged my dear hubby to let me sleep this morning (because my goodness, I need some sleep), and he is so good to me. I felt a little guilty, once I started waking up. I felt this panic that I must get downstairs and help out, do something. What kind of mother lays in bed? But then I thought...everything is quiet (ish), nobody is fighting, or, from what I can hear, bleeding. So what if they are camped out in front of the TV - and eating junk food in the playroom? It is Saturday morning, and truthfully they work hard during the week too, they deserve a little down time. Then I got to thinking - what kind of blogger leaves her blog ugly green and red with Aretha Franklin blaring Christmas tunes into the end of January? A very busy one sure, but it is neglectful. If anybody still even bothers to check this here blog I must thank you for your persistence.

This morning I have given in to the guilt. No, not the guilt of having left my family to fend for themselves in the capable hands of their father, but of having left my loyal readers with nary a morsel for more than a month. I decided to stay quiet up here in my bedroom suite just a little longer and pick up the old 'puter - so here I am - happy?

I am recently returned from a trip to St. Louis where I was visiting with one of my favorite aunts and the cousins who come along with her. It was a lovely trip full of delicious home cooked meals (my weight watchers points went out the window) and old fashioned "visiting". I had planned the trip with the intention of capturing lots of old stories. I brought along a voice recorder, and my laptop. We sat for long hours drinking strong cups of tea and even stronger 7&7s and talking. I did get lots of stories and I gained lots of insight.

We looked at lots of old pictures - some really old. We took a trip to Walgreens and had them all scanned onto a disc for posterity. I am going to print and frame the one of my great grandparents, and the original source of Paddy Boy's namesake.

The really amazing thing, and the thing that has thus far made the most impact on me from this little trip - were the letters. My amazing auntie has saved in a book a ton of personal letters she received over the years. I feel so blessed that she allowed me to look at them and read them. What a gift. More than any picture or secondhand story can tell you about a person are their own words. Words are so powerful. SO beautiful. Writing is so important.

I read a beautiful letter that my grandfather had written to my aunt, his daughter, when she left Ireland for America. She claims it is one of her most treasured possessions. Of course it is. Often when we take pen to paper, or keyboard in hand, we express the things that we just could never bring ourselves to communicate face to face. Love. Hope. Pride. Sometimes fear or anguish. We can lay our inhibitions to the wayside, reveal our true selves in a way that the everyday sometimes prevents.

I read another letter written from one sister to another. My aunt "S" who is over 80 years old now, who has grandchildren graduating from universities, writing about the everyday realities of her life with (at the time) four children. I laughed so hard to realize how very similar our lives are, even lived so many generations apart. She wrote of the children being on "holiday" from school, and that it was hard to keep the peace when there are just "so many of them". Sing it sister, I hear you!! She also wrote with advice to her younger sister far off in the mid-west of America on how to get her children potty trained already. "After breakfast, sit her on the pot. Have a whole cut out of the chair, put the pot under it and have her sit there till she's done." She wrote about my cousins now in or approaching their "fifties" being out of "nappies", wetting the bed, and throwing temper tantrums. She also wrote of the simple everyday things, what they ate for dinner last night, what color she was having the kids bedrooms painted, and who had died recently. Basically all of the very same things that I chatter on about on the telephone with my own sisters or niece. The difference of course, is that my telephone conversations are gone once the words leave my lips and the receiver is placed back on the rung. These letters are there now for ever and always.

Which brings me back to my blog, quite literally. I have been away for a while because sometimes I just can't find the time or energy to write (and, why ever not?) - and other times I beat myself down thinking that what I have to say just isn't good enough. Now, I will try to think back to auntie's letters, and remember that words are a legacy. I need to remember also why I started this blog in the first place. Which is, because I like to write. Because I like to read what I write. I do not have to be the most prolific writer of my blogosphere generation, and I need to not put that kind of counterproductive pressure on myself. I write because it is fun. I am glad when you like it. I hope that someday my granddaughter or great niece will stumble upon these files and get a glimpse of me...hopefully what I write makes a better picture of who I am than that last photograph Curly girl took of me in my bathrobe! And so, my blog is important and I need to not feel guilty about taking some time to work on it. Yeah me...yeah you too!