Sunday Morning

               It’s Sunday morning, and I’m eating breakfast at the dining room table of my parents’ house. I’m surfing through facebook, my mom is sitting next to me. I get a message on my phone. Mom says, “That’s from me.” I open it to find a picture of her, looking radiant and beautiful. I look up at her, and she says, “That’s for this. It’s the last one of me where I have hair,” while pointing to the obituary section of the local newspaper. I have instant tears. 

                I’ve been here all weekend, caring for my mother who is struggling through her last attempt at chemo. My father is in the hospital, dealing with his own health issues. My husband is at home, tending to our three young daughters, one of which has the flu. This weekend seems so surreal. Every once and a while, a surge of reality hits, and I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is my life right now.

                My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, stage 2, on December 15^th, 2011. I will never forget her phone call. I was pregnant, working full time, preparing for Christmas with my one and three year olds. “I have breast cancer.” She said amongst tears. I had no idea what that meant, but I knew I would never be the same. I hung up the phone and stared blankly at my husband, trying to comprehend cancer.

                She fought like hell for the next two years, undergoing a series of chemo, radiation, and two surgeries. February 2013 was her last Herceptin dose. She remained in remission until July 11^th, 2014, when the doctor told us it was back, with a vengeance. Her liver was full of tumors. The cancer had morphed into a new form, triple-negative, and it was relentless. So the day Lebron announced his triumphant return to Cleveland, my mom’s cancer announced its return to claim the life she loved so dearly.

               

              Since that day, my mom has tried two chemo drugs, one of which held off the disease for almost four months. On November 12^th, she almost died. I was in class, half asleep, when my father texted me “Call me now.” He told me she was dying. The cancer may be in her bones, call the relatives, all of that horrific stuff. I left class and ran to her side. I said I would stay with her that night, but after my brother and dad left, I just couldn’t. I was crawling out of my skin, freaking out. My mother lay peacefully in her hospital bed, asleep, knowing the end was near. I was a sobbing mess. I went home, slept four hours, made my daughter’s school lunch, and returned by 7am. By some miracle, Mom made it through that ordeal. She posted on facebook that she would not give up, and that she was ready to win the battle. We all sighed with relief. Mom would make it through.

               

               She started a new drug. Thanksgiving came, Christmas drew near. On Christmas day, we all met in her home. She had made a lasagna, we opened presents. She insisted that she sit on the floor with her granddaughters, and that we videotaped every second. My brother watched, tears silently streaming down his face. I was happy for this moment, watching her with her granddaughters on Christmas morning. It was beautiful.

                The next morning she calls me. “Don’t freak out.” She says. “I am feeling some pain, I’m going in for a scan.” Hours later another call. “It’s back.”

The next week, Mom’s doctor was out for the holidays. We all stumbled around, watching Mom fidget in pain, anxiously awaiting the next doctor appointment which would be the following Monday, January 5^th. We all met at the hospital early. We were called back early, and the doctor comes in. We hear the news. The disease is just too aggressive. He gives her the option of stopping treatment, or trying one more drug. We are told the best drugs around have not been able to beat this disease. Chances are, the last one won’t either. Mom breaks down in the main hallway of the hospital. Sobbing that she doesn’t want to die, she isn’t ready to stop fighting for the life she loves so much. It was one of the worst days of my life.

So today is January 11^th, it’s Sunday morning, and I’ve been at my parents’ house all weekend, taking care of my mom who is dying of cancer. Last night we discussed so many different things.

“What do you want your headstone to say?”

“Who will be at your burial?”

“When and where do you want your memorial celebration to be?”

“Isn’t that toothpaste commercial so stupid?! She’s scared that her enamel is gone!”

“I will still talk to you every day when you’re gone.”

And now I have the picture for her obituary. She is fortunate enough to have a plan and to share it with us in detail about how she wants to be remembered. She knows what her headstone will say, and how we plan to celebrate her life. We have no idea how much longer she will be with us, how much more pain she will have to endure. We just know that the end is near, and we embrace every second we spend with her. I cherish every single text she sends me, especially the ones about Rafe from Days of Our Lives, while we are both watching it at the same time. I cherish every good night, every I love you, and every good bye, because I know it won’t be long before it’s the last one.

You always see those tacky posts on facebook, “Cherish each moment, because you never know, etc etc.” Well, I’m living that, right now. While you’re posting picture of your margaritas and complaining about the weather, I’m here, hanging on to every last second that I can with her. So please, just cherish each moment.

"Cheesecake"

Today we went to my mom’s house to celebrate her birthday. Mimi and Papa’s house is amazing! So much fun and full of adventure, and Papa never says no! We loaded everyone up with the hopes that the younger two would sleep on the way there. Small has already had a morning nap, but it was about an hour shorter than expected. We pull onto a main street by our house and there’s the BLIMP! I was thinking to myself, as I was watching Medium dose off in the back seat in the rear view mirror, “Thank god we have been parents long enough to know not to point out the blimp, or the kids will never get to sleep. They’ll be too excited.” Literally seconds after I have completed that thought, my husband yells out, “Girls! Do you see the blimp?!” Medium’s eyes jut wide open, and they remain that way. Luckily she fell asleep about fifteen minutes away from Mimi’s house. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something.
 
  Small had no interest in a nap on the way there, which is frightening. Lucky for us, she was still pretty good the entire time. We pull up, and even though Medium has been there a hundred times, she still acts like we’re taking her to a slaughterhouse, and clings to my husband’s shoulders, preventing him from carrying anything in to the house. Small has much more attitude than that. My parents have four small dogs, and Small charges right at them, with her fat little finger pointing. She loves animals. Large hops out of the car and is immediately off in search of Papa and some adventure.

Bug Hunting with Papa

  
Uncle Denny (my brother) arrives with his dog, and there are children and dogs everywhere. Large and Papa go bug hunting, only to catch a toad that she nearly mutilates. Medium asks for a tractor ride, and Papa busts it out of the barn, and they’re off. There’s a huge bonfire. My mom is so excited to receive a photobook that I made for her of our recent NYC trip, that she can hardly contain herself. So, we open gifts.

Helping Mimi open presents

Now, in my family, I am notorious for giving out hysterical cards to the perfect person. I pride myself on this skill, and I take card-giving very seriously. No such luck this time. I spent twenty minutes at Walmart, looking through the birthday cards. My mother is a breast cancer survivor. She has also had a double mastectomy. So I’m looking through the cards for women in their middle ages. Most of the jokes are about sagging boobs. Okay, well I can’t very well buy a card like that. Then I find one that has Mr. Potato head about to pee in a urinal, the text box saying, “Crap, I left it at home.” That’s pretty funny... until I open it up and it says something like “At least you don’t have detachable parts!” Haha but my mom does! So I can’t get that one! (Though she has such a wonderful sense of humor about life, so she probably would have crapped herself laughing at that card. Hindsight sucks). I settle on a old woman stating that she gets five miles of exercise a day, and the catch phrase inside is that she doesn’t know where she is after walking the five miles. It’s lame, I know, but so is Walmart. I should have known better.
  

 The rest of the evening is spent in the backyard, where my parents have the deck from Hell if you have small children. No railings anywhere, and a pond with a set of stairs on either side, connecting the top deck to the bottom deck. There are also flower pots above the pond, and all little girls LOVE flowers. They’re like tiny colorful magnets, dangling dangerously three feet above the six foot pond. Small is 18 months old, and is just learning how to go down the stairs. I’ve been trying to teach her to go down backwards, but the more you tell her something, the more she won’t do it. Mom and I are sitting on the upper deck, and from where we are watching Small, it looks like she is about to topple on her face and roll into the pond while attempting to go down the stairs. This happens about 27 more times while we’re there.
  

Knuckleheads

 At one point, Medium has the bug net, and she has filled it with bird-shit-covered sunflower seed shells. When I scream and tell her to put them back, she flails the net all over the place, causing seeds to fly out everywhere. Large finds another toad and proceeds to almost mutilate it, until Uncle Denny saves the day by helping her. Small has a stick larger than herself, and is trying to carry it up the deck-from-hell’s stairs. The younger two dogs, both practically still puppies, are playing tug-of-war over another stick. Small continuously waves her fat finger at them yelling “nononono!” Is this all painting a nice picture for you of the chaos at Mimi’s party?

Small and Weezer

  Dessert time comes, and I bring out the “cheesecake” that I made. I put “cheesecake” in parentheses for two reasons. 1). It’s vegan, as my husband is vegan, and therefore has no dairy in it. 2). This thing resembled NOTHING of a cake. I used a different kind of pan (my springform was leaking) and a different kind of cream cheese (it was on SALE!). Dear god, this “cake” looked like curdled flan in a wind storm. It was more like a “pudding” than anything else. But the taste was there! It was very tasty! REALLY! My family ate it, and said quietly that it was good. Large looked at me and declared, “Mommy! It’s DELICIOUS! You’re the BEST cook!” And she’s FOUR! Four year olds don’t lie about such things. So it was good. Stop judging.

Eating pizza with Uncle Denny!

   
After presents, dinner, and “cake,” we go back by the fire pit and the little ones (and the dogs) kick around some rubber balls. Uncle Denny shows Large some new soccer moves (and she was actually listening and learning!). Mom declared that she wanted a picture of her and her grandbabies. At this point, Small is a walking zombie from the tiredness, and Medium is only moments away from a meltdown. She appeared fine, but I know her. When she’s that tired, something will set her off. And it’s always a mystery. So Mimi sits down, and the girls are piled on top, and about 13 pictures are taken, 2 of which turn out well. And I know what my mom is thinking. “This is what life is all about.”
   
And she’s 110% right. Little kids, running around with their pigtails and dirty knees, riding tractors with Papa and playing soccer with Uncle Denny. Discovering toads and going up and down stairs over and over again just because. Life is about being together, eating crappy “cheesecake” and laughing at detachable boobs. Life is amazing. My family is amazing.

    Mom, you are the strongest, most amazing and inspiring person I have ever known. Thank you for everything. Especially for being Mimi to three little girls who adore you. Happy Birthday!

Perfect!

...And then, Papa photobombs.

Small, Medium and Large: The FUN! of Dining Out with Three Very Young Children

Last night, we decided to be very, very brave. We took ALL THREE CHILDREN out to dinner. It was the first time ever, without the help of our own parental units. It was everything we thought it would be- terrifying and fun, horrifying and terrific. Well, maybe not terrific. Though the food was.

We had to wake up the older two from their naps, which lead to Middle being very, very crabby. The other day I woke her up so that we could go to the library. I asked her to drink her milk before we went, which lead to an hour long TANTRUM FEST of screaming and crying in the kitchen. We did not go to the library. And she also did not drink her milk. Lose, lose. Any way, we had to wake them up. We told them we were GOING OUT TO EAT!!! Did they care? No. Candy wasn’t involved in the statement “going out to eat,” so why get excited? We tried to booster the excitement of the whole ordeal by mentioning that there is a GIANT HORSE!!! outside of the restaurant. We got nothing in return.

So we load everyone up. Small is excited, because we are leaving the house. Any time the front door opens, it’s a freakfest to get out that door! “HURRAY! We’re going OUT OF THE HOUSE! See you later, walls. I’m outta here.” I had to stop Large from grabbing handfuls of freshly fertilized grass clumps, and herded everyone into our family minivan, thinking fondly of the days that we owned a Tiberon. With everyone buckled in tight, we took off.

We park fairly close, and unload our brood. They spot the GIANT HORSE!!! and excitement ensures, but Daddy is hungry, so we forgo a picture opportunity with GIANT HORSE!!!. The host and hostess eye us up and down, and I know what they’re thinking. I was a server for five years. I know what a family with three very young children is capable of. They seat us all the way in the back of the restaurant, next to another family with young kids. With everyone in proper seating, Large opens up her coloring book to find KID FRIENDLY CHOP STICKS! She whips them out and waves them around, narrowly missing the array of sauces and the lit oil candle in the middle of the table. I blow out the candle, and eventually will ask her ten more times to stop waving those (GOD DAMNED) things around.

 As any parent with a one year old knows, everything must be removed from within a five foot radius of Small. If it’s within that five foot radius, she WILL have it. It’s magic, and you can count on it. We ordered tofu lettuce wraps for an appetizer, one of my favorite things to eat ever. The food runner who brought the appetizer was a young gentleman, who clearly has never been around small children, as he set the plate right in front of Small, who with lightening reflexes tried to grab it. Luckily, Mommy is faster. I gave a bite to Large, who proclaimed to love it, but it was obvious that her love of the tofu was simply because she could pick it up with her chop sticks. The hubs gave a bite to Medium, who almost threw up in her mouth. Then we gave her a piece of lettuce, all of which she shoved in her mouth and down her throat, causing her to gag and almost throw up in her mouth. Small liked the tofu for about three bites before she proceeded to throw the rest on the floor.

The main entrées make it to the table without any causalities (yet) except for Small’s tofu on the floor. I dish out egg noodles, broccoli and rice as quickly as I can, as before me awaits a FEAST OF DELICIOUSNESS that I must attend to promptly. Large begins to eat her brown rice with her chop sticks, one grain at a time. Medium follows suit, but has difficulty with the chopsticks, causing most of her food to go in her lap. Small picks up her noodles and shoves them by the handful into her mouth. She tries the broccoli, which is covered in a brown sauce, and spits it out with a theatrical “BLAH” of the tongue, and then tries it again. And spits it out again. Within minutes, fistfuls of noodles are being flung onto the floor.

I don’t mind though, as I have tuned into my own feast. For a few seconds I have delicious curried veggies and tofu in my mouth, and the children don’t exist. So. Good. Then I swallow, open my eyes, and see egg noodles flying by my face. Meanwhile, there is a group of large, African American gentlemen sitting next to us, and Small is batting her eyes and flirting with them. I hope they find her cute, and that cuteness overshadows Medium crying because she couldn’t get her chop sticks to work.

At least once, at separate times, both Large and Medium decide that they need to GO POTTY!! And when the urge hits, and you’re two or four, IT HITS, and it’s URGENT. So first I take Large, and Medium protests, but I assure her she can wait the ten minutes it was going to take us to finish our dinners. Large does her business, and then all of a sudden, the public bathroom transforms into a festival of treasures that she must TOUCH. So I’m in there, and the dialogue (well, monologue really), goes something like this: “Go potty. Hop down. Wipe. The right way. No, the right way.Throw it in the DON’T TOUCH THAT! DON’T TOUCH THAT! NO!!! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!” Large washes her hands, dries them, tries to touch the door handle NOOO! We make it back to the table, where Medium awaits, about to pee her pants. The whole scenario is repeated, only two year olds listen a lot less than four year olds, so plenty more “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING’s!!!!” spew from my mouth.

By the time we make it back, Small is getting antsy. She starts doing a little dance in her highchair which says, “Get me the F out of here, I’M DONE!” Some whines escape, I give her crayons, chop sticks, lettuce, anything! that will keep her occupied while I finish my delicious food. I scarf the rest down. My husband looks happy and content and non-stressed (why couldn’t we have all boys so he could deal with the potty situation? Just kidding. I don’t like little boys. They have penises. And I don’t want to deal with THAT).  Medium and Small have both had enough of this charade at this point. While we were in the bathroom, Small got to drink some of Medium’s lemonade, and now they are fighting over it. Large is still eating rice one grain at a time with her chopsticks, and Small starts screaming as the lemonade is taken from her tiny, clenched fists. Time to go!

The hubs take the smaller two out. Large eats some broccoli, inquiring about dessert. Thank god there are fortune cookies, and she’s happy. Our server was simply amazing- incredibly attentive and speedy. I pay the bill, leave a HUGE tip to cover the HUGE mess that Small left, and then it’s off the find that GIANT HORSE!!!

But the hubs is already in the car with the younger two, so no GIANT HORSE!!! fun. I feel a little bit sad to skip that opportunity yet again, but there is the whole broken up fortune cookie situation that I’m going to have to deal with once we get in the car.

Maybe next time, GIANT HORSE!!! For now, I’m going home. I’m exhausted.

Small, doing her "antsy dance" with a chop stick.

Breastfeeding vs Bottle Feeding: A Topic that I don't Necessarily Care About but am Going to Write About Anyway

A friend of mine on facebook recently posted this article about women who cannot afford to feed their babies, so they water down the formula they receive from WIC. I made a few comments about it, and I'm honestly not too certain why, because breast vs bottle feeding is an issue that doesn't interest me. I commented that my WIC office was rather aggressive with me when I chose to quit, asking me why I decided to end breastfeeding, and giving me the eye when I told them that I “just wanted to stop.” I also made a comment that many woman chose not to breastfeed for “selfish” reasons. The moment I made that claim, I was immediately attacked by another woman who insisted that I was bashing other women, and that “any reason is reason enough to not want to breastfeed.” She insisted that I was “pushing breastfeeding hard” and that I need to stop “fueling the 'Mommy wars.'” I was stunned. Mostly because that's not what I was doing AT ALL. Mostly because I just don't care about the issue.

A woman can do whatever she wants with her body. It's HER body. I was on both ends of the breastfeeding spectrum. Charden never nursed. She was too small to latch, and I pumped for four long months before she was thriving enough that I felt it was okay to stop. Jamie wanted to nurse constantly, I mean CONSTANTLY, and my body couldn't keep up, so I quit after eight weeks. Obviously nursing is the best choice, but whether you do it or not is YOUR BUSINESS. Not mine. 

At one point I even unfriended a person on facebook because she was so "pro-breastfeeding" that it made me angry. She had no children, I repeat, NO CHILDREN, but was posting articles about the benefits of breastfeeding like she was a lactation consultant (she is not). At one point, she posted an article about how formula feeding causes obesity. This is the point that I unfriended her. Charden was formula fed because despite all of my tireless efforts to breastfeed, she just couldn't. I felt like a failure of a mother because I couldn't breastfeed my baby, who was failure to thrive. And then there was this person on facebook telling me that my baby, who was born at two and a half pounds, was going to grow up to be obese because I wasn't nursing her. How. Ridiculous. 

Now, with all of that being said, I would like to examine the statement that I made that many women chose not to breastfeed for selfish reasons. The one instance that I can think of that would cause me to say such a ridiculous statement is from the MTV show Teen Mom, in which Farrah decided not to breastfeed because she was worried that it would make her breasts saggy. This is a selfish reason. It's not a right or a wrong reason, but it is selfish. Allow me to provide the definition of “selfish.” From Dictionary.com:

self·ish

adjective

1.
devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one's own interests,  benefits, welfare,etc., regardless of others.

2.
characterized by or manifesting concern or care only for oneself.

Caring about your breasts sagging is about your interests. It's about what benefits you and your own welfare. It's a plain fact that not wanting your breasts to sag is a selfish reason not to breastfeed. Let me mention again that it does not matter to me if you breastfeed your baby. I don't care if you don't breastfeed your baby because you just plain don't want to. Good for you for making a decision. As long as your baby gets fed, that's all that the world should care about. The whole concept of “mommy wars” is totally ridiculous to me. People need to butt out of what every body else is doing, and focus on what is going on in their own home with their own children and their own bodies.

I really can't stand it when a complete stranger accuses me of being hateful and bashing others, but I guess that is the beauty of the internet. You can say whatever you want about anybody and there are no repercussions. I know who I am and where I stand about certain issues. This woman has no idea that I am a person who cares about the welfare of others, who devotes her life to helping others. She was so quick to judge who I am and what my beliefs are without a second thought. In one statement that I made, she was able to draw an entire conclusion about what I stand for, and where I stand on a issue that until now, I have not vocalized a single consonant about.

How about we stop assuming we know everything, and just make sure that our children are taken care of. That sounds like a good plan to me.  

My Soccer Playing Princess

My four year old daughter, Charden, has been super crazy lately. I was venting to my mother about how crazy she is being, and she said, “Why don't you talk to someone who has been though it? Maybe they can tell you what to do.” My response was, “Mom, NO ONE has been through Charden.”

PINK!

Charden is very unique. She is a lot like Beau, but I think her mind works a lot like mine, which is scary. I can tell she is always thinking, her little mind is always going every which way. She will ask the most random of questions that are not common for a four year old. I can tell that she has thought extensively about death, because it is something that she doesn't understand. She is continually asking questions, which is normal for a four year old. It's just the type of questions that she asks that are so unique. Here is a recent conversation that her and I had:

Charden: “Mommy, what would you do if this house didn't have any food?”

Me: “I would go to the store and buy some.”

Charden: “Yay! But... what if the store didn't have any food, only tires?”

Me: “I would go to a store that had food.”

Charden: “Yay! ...But what about Rapunzel?”

Me: “What about Rapunzel?”

Charden: *laughs, then points to the blank wall behind her*

Okay, so... it's obvious that Charden worries a lot. She is clearly worrying about our family and how much food we have. She sees me cook three meals a day for her, and she wonders what I would do if there is no food here. But tires? What the hell? Where did that come from? And I don't even know what to think about Rapunzel. We haven't watched “Tangled” recently, or even discussed Rapunzel in weeks (Princesses are a main topic of conversation for us). I know that she worries, and she gets that from me. It's too bad. It's no fun worrying all of the time. But I'm also glad that it has her thinking about life. What if we didn't have food? She is not allowed to stay that she's “starving,” because she obviously isn't. I tell her that she doesn't know what it is to starve. I want her to appreciate having food readily available at all times.

Now, getting back to the princesses. I have absolutely no clue where this obsession came from. I am not a princess type. I don't wear make-up. I have three pairs of shoes that I rotate throughout the year. I wear t-shirts and jeans. I'm feminine, but not “girly.” My favorite colors are black and purple. Charden is obsessed, I mean OBSESSED with pink, dresses, princesses, jewelry, make up, diamonds, and flowers. Why? I certainly didn't push the pink. All of a sudden, maybe a year or a year and a half ago, over night, it was PRINCESS MANIA in my house. She used to have extensive conversations with me about princesses. She asks to wear a long, beautiful dress every day. She has this pink night gown that Mimi bought for her that has a picture of the Disney princesses on it. It is her most prized possession. She has ripped a few times because she is in love with the way that the sheer fabric feels, she can't stop holding it. She twirls around in it, pretending to dance, and she makes up princess songs about dancing through the forest and picking flowers while she does it. Of course, she has asked Daddy many times to be her prince. When he turns her down, Jamie is the next in line to fill that role.

Charden has a tremendous amount of energy and she doesn't know what to do with it. She is always asking for more of everything, which is typical. The television is the only way I can get her to stop asking continual questions. It is also the only way I can get her to stop crawling around on the floor, either pretending to be a baby or a cat, in which case she is either meowing or crying at the top of her lungs. Even two year old Adrienne gets tired out from playing with her. She is non-stop. I swear she wakes up talking. I'm pretty sure that she is ADHD. I would never medicate her though, or even pursue that diagnosis. Charden would simply not be Charden if this energy were contained.

Charden has a lot of trouble focusing. If she focused more, she would be able to learn so much more. I know she is so smart. She can outwit any adult who isn't me or Beau. She has manipulated both sets of grandparents before to get what she wants. She knows how to ask for something without actually asking for it- like a string of questions that will lead up to what she wants. Or not even a question, but a statement. For example:

“Jamie looks tired.”

I know exactly what this means. She is saying “Jamie looks tired” because that will get me to notice that it's the baby's naptime, so I will pick her up and put her to bed, and then come down and give Charden candy, because Charden only gets candy when Jamie is down for her morning nap. This is only one example that I can think of. Normally the string is much more complex than that. And usually, it leads to candy.

Her head is always in the clouds, and it's a great possibility that she is thinking about princesses while she's floating around up there. In order to get her to stop picking dandelions on the soccer field during a game, we would have to bribe her with candy to pay attention and score a goal. Often, she would be found on the other side of the field, away from the action, twirling around like a princess in the sun. 

Her power of observation is extremely limited, just like her father. She is unable to find anything. We have a rather small house, and one time she couldn't find Adrienne, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen.

Here are two more examples of her air-headedness:

I was babysitting a 10 month old, who was sleeping upstairs when Charden went down for her nap. The baby went home while Charden was sleeping. About an hour after she woke up, she asked, “Mommy, where's the baby?” I said, “He went home.” She said, “Wow, I can't believe he is still up there sleeping!” I said, “No Charden, he went home. Like I just told you.”

Another time, we were waiting for a pizza to be delivered and for our friends to come over. We were outside on the front porch. The pizza came first. I took it inside. I came back out and sat in a chair by the front door. Charden came up to the front door, right next to me, and looked inside the screen door. She asked into the house, “Mommy! What are you doing in there?” Mm hmm.

All in all, Charden is a great kid. She is just difficult to control. She has always been on the go, since the first moment I felt her kick. She as a real soccer player while in utero. Non stop. She was ready to come out too- ten weeks early. In the NICU, the nurses were unable to keep a blanket on her because she kicked and squirmed so much. She really is a miracle. And so unique. Life without her would be just plain boring, and unchallenging. I guess having a healthy dose of pink in my daily life isn't so bad. Hopefully she will be able to apply her energy to succeeding in life someday. Until then, it's all about the princess.

My Soccer Playing Princess

(Of course, her shin guards are pink, too).

Brittany

I have never been the social butterfly. In fact, I'm introverted to the extreme. There is a whole crazy, messed up WORLD going on inside my noggin. I have very few close friends that I can count on one hand. I would do ANYTHING for these ladies, and I know they would do the same for me. You girls know who you are. There is one in particular who has had my back since I was two years old. Brittany and I grew up next door neighbors. We were inseparable. What makes this so crazy, is how incredibly different we are today. We spent thousands of days together, and yet we have grown up to be complete opposites. Let me elaborate. I got married at the age of 21, have three kids, am overweight because of said three kids, live in a house that is 30 minutes away from where I grew up, and I love being settled down. Where is Brittany? She's in Paris. Teaching Pilates. In her first ever serious relationship at the ripe old age of 29.

Brittany is one of those women who is absolutely gorgeous, and she doesn't know it. Yes, these women really do exist outside of Twilight and Fifty Shades. She's a Pilates instructor, for Christ's sake. And has big green eyes and dirty blonde hair, and a body that most women would kill for. She has this amazing ability to thrive in settings that I would fail miserably in. She moved to France, unable to speak French, with no real plan- and this isn't the first time she has moved to a foreign country with no plan and a few bucks in her pocket and THRIVED. I'm afraid to travel to any foreign country if I don't speak the language. She moved in, settled in, and is very successful. France had no chance against her. What amazes me is that she has a bit of a flaky personality, but she manages to pull it all together and find her happiness whenever she goes. Last time I talked to her, she told me she is saving her money to go to Thailand. Do you want to know what I know about Thailand? I like Pad Thai. That's all I got.

Brittany and I were strange children, to say the least. After all, I do love me some weirdos. As kids, we had a club in the closet in the spare bedroom of my house. The title of the club? “Idiots in a Closet Doing Nothing.” We had a pledge, (that I would kill to remember), and we sang to our club flag, which was a picture of a giant piece of macaroni and cheese. Speaking of macaroni and cheese, we were master chefs in the preparation of the stuff. And none of that cheap crap. Kraft all the way. (Perhaps this is why I fail at every diet I have ever tried- because I feed my kids this stuff once or twice a week and I LOVE IT DEARLY). We concocted the perfect preparation techniques- it was always super cheesey, never “bally” (which is the term we made up when there wasn't enough milk/butter in the mix and it got all nasty). I would never divulge these secrets to anyone. The perfect bowl of mac and cheese is a secret, built upon years and years of experience. The only people who know are me, Brittany and Beau. We will not be sold out. Well, Beau might be, and that's fine. We need the money.

Brittany and I would get into petty childhood fights, and who didn't with their best friend? I don't remember what most of the fights were about, but I do remember we would fight over JTT. If you are a girl and were born in 1983, 1984 or 1985, then I don't need to elaborate here. You KNOW who JTT is. For those of you who were not born in these years, JTT is Jonathan Taylor Thomas, our heart throb. He was on the show “Home Improvement,” and also did the voice of Simba in “The Lion King.” We would sit and day dream about him, about being the voice of Nala, Simba's lion girlfriend in the movie. We would write in our diaries about him. We would also write in our diaries after we fought about how much we hated each other- and these entries would often end with “Oh, Brittany is here to play. Gotta go. I guess I still like her.”

Oh, JTT. You're so hot.

It seemed we were never bored as children, though I know that can't be true. We played Barbies, made “egg babies” with little diapers constructed out of Kleenex. We made magnets out of cardboard and tried to sell them on the sidewalk like it was a lemonade stand. We made up dance routines and rollerskating routines in her basement and forced our mothers to watch us. We played 'Saved by the Bell,” and the “winner” was always Kelly, leaving the loser to decide between Lisa or Jesse or even worse, Tori. Gross. (My brother Denny was always Zach, and I think he still believes he is to this day. I know for a fact that he is still in love with Kelly Kapowski). We ate together, drank together, played together, laughed together, cried together, lived together.

I love Brittany more than these words can write. Now we are thousands of miles apart, living completely different lives. I only talk to her once or twice a year, and I have no idea when I will see her next. I asked Beau if I could go visit her in Paris, and he laughed and laughed. It's just not a possibility at this time with three children under the age of five. No matter how far away we are, we are always connected by our memories and our past. She will always be a part of me. And we will forever and always be idiots in a closet doing nothing.

Love you Britney Anne!

Me and Brittany in her room, thirteen years old. Please note the art project in the background. 

It's of the Pope. I told you she was (and is) a weirdo.

I LOVE WEIRDOS

I love weirdos. I think people who are “strange” or “different” are the best. People who try to fit into society are the ones that you need to watch for. It is totally and utterly a compliment if I say that you're weird. Beau is the weirdest person I have ever met, and I married him! He has this dry and witty sense of humor that I adore. He says the strangest things at the weirdest times, and he can come up with amazing one-liners on the spot. He has this dragon tattoo on his left calf that he got when he was 18. Did I mention that it's purple? I call it his Barney tattoo. He swears he thought it was silver when he got it. Have you ever seen a silver tattoo? Me neither.

I love people who think outside of the box, who aren't afraid to question, and who have original personalities. Why would you want to be like everyone else? In high school back towards the end of the 90's, I was one of those “gothic” kids. I was the whole nine yards. Red and black striped tights, Marilyn Manson t-shirt, green Doc Martins with purple grape shoelaces, pig tails, and I loved it. I had a small group of friends, and we were all pretty similar, but all so very unique in our own ways. We were often singled out for being so “weird,” when we were the ones getting straight A's, and not doing drugs on the weekends. I remember after Columbine happened, we were even more on the forefront, being singled out constantly. We found it amusing at the time, because we were nothing like those assholes in Colorado. We loved ourselves, and our fellow classmates. We were mad that society had such a negative stereotype towards us, but we didn't let that change us.

I love people who think about their life and the lives of others, mortality and spirituality, but they do it while questioning. What is real and what is not, what matters and what doesn't. People who know that life isn't what it seems, that there are deeper meanings in everything, and to question religion and what it stands for. Those are the people I love. Why live in a box, believing everything that is told to you? What kind of progress would we make as a race?

Charden is a very strange child, and why wouldn't she be? She really had no chance, with us as parents. For Father's Day, the card she made Beau had a purple ghost on it, and nothing else. In preschool she was asked to draw a self portrait of her self at the beginning of the year, at the middle, and at the end. The first one is a normal, three year old self portrait. She's upsidedown, and you can make out two little legs sticking up at the top, and hair at the bottom:

She turned four in November. In January, her self portrait included her teacher, which she adored:

Finally, at the end of the year, her self portrait looked like this:

That's Charden, in a cocoon. Her final self portrait is of her as a caterpillar in metamorphosis. How awesome is that?

I'm going to do my best to raise my kids to think differently, to see everyone as equal, and to question. Please question everything. Now, that doesn't mean you can question everything now, little Charden. If I tell you to wash your hands because you picked up that pile of “rocks” that you found in the backyard (it was rabbit shit), you do it. Don't ask why.

Here are some more incredibly random questions Charden has asked recently:

“But Mommy, if we die, how will we go potty?”

“Mommy, did you know that old people like pineapple?”

“Mommy, where do berry bushes grow? Do they grow in Africa or in Paris? They're in Africa, aren't they?”

“Mommy, when I die, what family will you pick for me next?”

Clearly she is already thinking differently, and that excites me.

I feel that I have always been different than those around me, and I see it in Charden as well. Sometimes it's not the easiest life to find yourself different from your peers, but it can be incredibly interesting and rewarding. There is a great peacefulness found in the acceptance of others and their differences from yourself. The key is to find that acceptance in you. The happiness will follow. You need to know what you believe in and why. It doesn't matter if it's different from what your neighbor thinks. If you're an atheist, you should be able to say why you came to that conclusion beyond “I don't believe in God.” Why don't you? If you're Christian, be able to say why. And saying, “I believe in God because the Bible says so” is not a good reason. I spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking and feeling about religion, mortality, and spirituality, and I am very confident with who I am. I am going to do my best to get my kids in the same place, though I think experience plays a major role is the acceptance of one's self.

So to all the weirdos out there, keep it moving forward. Keep being yourself. Think beyond what is right in front of you. That is the only way that progress can be made.