The road to hell....

The saying goes that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I should know. I think I have paved that road EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. OF. MY. LIFE.

And since becoming a mother, I would say that I have been working overtime.

In the last four days, I have seen the best intentions get feelings hurt, words misspoken, leaving people frustrated, angry, sad.

The intention was to be helpful. The intention was based on assumptions.

We all know what happens when we assume. You make an arse out of you and me.

So the question becomes, once you are witness to someone's frustration, and their subsequent feelings of defeat and receive an apology that you don't think you should have gotten (because we are ALL human), what do you do?

Do you email the person and attempt (with the best intentions) to cheer up the person?

Do you just let it be?

For once, I am going to keep my mouth shut. I will not call or email. I will not Facebook or text. I will give that person space. I will not, with even the best intentions, make the situation worse.

This is difficult. I am never short on words. I always have something to say. But, in this case; as I am guessing, is the case many a time; I will not say what will make me feel better, momentarily.

Because, inevitably, I will feel worse. Because the reaction will probably not be one that I anticipate.

Because most people need their space.

Furthermore, I think I have done my time paving that road.

I don't think I need to be told where to find it.

The words get in the way...

As far as days go, today was a tossup. While I heard of news that definitely leads me to believe that prayers are answered, in other ways, my day was a rough one.

The common denominator of the good and bad: words.

Words that can help smooth over rough spots, create uncomfortable silences, give great joy, announce devastating news.

Today, three simple words lifted a great burden of worry this morning. Other words brought information regarding the Turkish bath otherwise known as my classroom.

Words spoken and exchanged...Phrases, commands, statements, exclamations, questions...Swirling, finding meaning in some, being lost on others.

Words changing depending on the audience, their purpose refocused as determined by the occasion. Words made to fit into small silences, time constraints.

And at times, we are at a loss. For all the words that exist at our disposal, none seem to fit the bill. Sometimes, our hearts, our eyes, speak volumes when our mouths cannot form sounds that resemble the form of communication that so often fails us. Because our hearts and souls cannot be held by such limitations that words, by their very nature, are bound by.

Sometimes, our words find their mark. Their meaning is interpreted as they were said, as they were meant. Other times, we are not as fortunate. Our words miss their mark. The meaning twisted, misunderstood. The message; lost.

This occurs quite often in teaching. However well you think you explained something, the blanks faces of your students quite plainly tell you that it has flown over their heads, no information received.

Other times, our words hurt others, however their well meaning prose was constructed. And while medical science has made many miracles, one does not exist for peering into the hearts of others.

Perhaps, tomorrow, I will have the marksmanship of William Tell. My words will be as true and sure as his steadfast arrow. They will find the way to be the right words, the words I intend them to be.

And hopefully, they will not get in the way of their message. My heart will find the words my brain cannot know yet.

Women: The Cockroaches of Emotional Nuclear Holocaust?

I know, catchy title. But when you think of it, aren't we, as women, just about the hardest creatures on Earth to crack? Are we not the human equivalent of cockroaches when it comes to getting back up when there should be no possible way that we could or should?

From the get go, there is drama. I see the difference between my boys and my nieces. With girls, everything is about the drama. I think it is a warm up exercise to what we go through as adults. And while this might sound cynical, I am truly not mocking. I think that women, particularly mothers, put themselves aside for the well being of others. And often, it is more than any heart should have to bear.

Broken hearts. Everyone has a couple of these lurking around. Whether it is puppy love or a bitter divorce, women converge to help the afflicted along. Armed with Ben and Jerry, Grey Goose or both, your girlfriends, sisters, etc. will be there to hold you up, tell you are justified, to you to just F*** Him. Just what we need, in the right dosage.

Friendships betrayed. This drama usually finds its peak in middle school and high school. Intrigue and soap opera antics never fail to deliver the bemoaning and the fledging alliances. But sometimes, these new friendships will pass the test of time, and more often than not, they will be the ones that support you through some of the hardest stuff you will encounter in life.

Infertility. One of the hardest things I ever dealt with. And I consider myself extremely lucky. My problems were resolved with minimally invasive procedures. I ended up Fertile Myrtle by my mid-thirties. I often think that if I survived that, I could survive anything.

Messed up families. How do you reconcile relatives that often make you wonder how on God's green Earth you could possibly be related to them? You love them, but can't expose yourself or your kids to their ways, bringing sadness, denial, unwillingness to accept. But the ability to look at a situation truthfully, and be able to walk away without regrets takes some serious gumption.

Work related drama. Both yours and your spouse's. If it is heart-wrenching to experience it first hand, it is even harder to hear about it happening to your spouse. The conniving evil that some people spout off is just unbelievable. I often wonder why some people choose to make so much trouble, cause so much harm. What's wrong with them?

Becoming the parent to your parent. It is so hard to be able to gauge how your parents are doing. After all, parents can be the master of disguise. They will appear to be fine, yet small things set off alarms in your head. Making decisions about their care, particularly if there is a degenerative disease, is never an easy one. It is usually wracked with guilt and uncertainty. And yet, as time passes, and they adjust, you see that even though it was incredibly difficult, it was the right choice.

Parents getting really sick. Having gone through my father's battle with prostate cancer is nothing I would wish on anyone. There is something debilitating in watching someone battle so hard and courageously for so long. My father's outlook, however, was not a positive one. It was hard to play cheerleader to someone who was willing to fold, and yet, I cannot judge. I cannot pretend to know what helplessness he felt at diagnosis, over the countless chemotherapy drugs and radiation he endured. He battled, we cheered. When an illness like cancer comes into play, we get pissed off and we get marching orders. We rally, we cry, we go on. Because we know others depend on us, particularly those who are afflicted. And when all else fails, we walk for the cure...

Motherhood. Nothing piles up the emotional arsenal like motherhood. The hormones, the sleep deprivation, the worry. Am I doing it right? Are they okay? Will I mess them up too much? Motherhood breaks your heart like nothing else. After all, these children are a piece of you. Your body grew them and sheltered them for nine months. The first two years of these children's lives are spent assuring their survival, marveling at their growth and newfound skills. Their elementary years are filled with making sure they know right from wrong; their adolescent years spent making sure that they practice it. Then, they leave. As they must. And with them, they take a piece of you. If you've done your job right, you get to enjoy them in a different capacity.

I think that the common thread here is that women have hope. They have hope when the odds are stacked against them. They have hope when everyone else in the world is ready to call the game and head home.

That hope is born from love. Love of our families, love of our friends and love for making sure that wrongs are righted, that justice prevails, that the happy ending happens. In spite of the odds, is spite of the difficulties.

Rest assured, when an emotional holocaust is omnipresent, there will be a group of women who lead the way, to help support those who need some wind in their sails, to hold the hand and comfort those who need it, to tell a raunchy joke and alleviate the tension. In spite of a broken heart. Finding the strength where there might be none. Because it is in our nature to be indestructible like no other creature.

We are there.

The cockroaches, and us.

Liar, liar, pants on fire...

I have one major pet peeve. There are very few things that send me over the edge, but the one thing that always gets me is when someone lies. To my face. Like I am stupid.

Unfortunately, in my line a work, the lies abound and come fast. A teacher can spot a lie a mile away.

So can a mother.

However, children often think that they are much more intelligent than their parents, and often, when feeling particularly bold, will make an attempt to make their point.

The worst is when adults tell lies in a weak attempt to deflect controversy, problems, or conflict. The problem with that theory is that usually, when the lie is discovered, the consequences are much worse.

It seems that there has been a whole lot of lying going on around here. And frankly, I am sick of it.

Our laptop's charger died about a week ago. I called our extended warranty and order a new one under our policy. It was to be delivered today.

My husband was home early due to a rabid migraine. I stayed at work later than usual to keep the children away, since nothing makes a migraine worse than having a house full of loud school aged boys. I picked up Joshua, headed to the local market for some tomatoes and headed home.

We unloaded the car, got in the house. I checked email, paid some bills online and decided to track my package. Imagine my surprise when it said it had been delivered almost 2 hours earlier! I stepped outside, checked the front of the house, the back of the house, called my neighbor to see if they had delivered it by error there. Nothing.

I called the shipping company and was promptly informed that I needed to contact the shipper so that they could initiate a claim. I did just that.

After being passed around to three different departments, and put on hold for 20 minutes, I started to give the man my information when I noticed a box in the playroom that my boys were attempting to restore to order. Shipped today. Open with a packing slip out, confirming what I was now suspecting. With said cord out.

I hastily hung up, mortified. Did what I think just happened, happen?

No one admitted to it.

So no one is allowed back in the playroom until someone 'fesses up.

It would have been easier to spot the liar with the smoking arse, though.

I interrogated everyone in my house under the age of 37. Everyone pleaded innocence, ignorance and shock at being considered a suspect.

There was a lot of finger pointing and prodding mom into thinking that a box can just walk into a house, clear it, and open itself.

I am mad.

But more than that, disappointed. Disappointed that they didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth. Disappointed in myself for badgering them with relentless questioning. Disappointed that I can't uncover the truth.

And the worst part is that I know that I could have handled it differently. I know that I should not have been so irate at being on the phone, telling the man on the other line that the shipping company had most surely NOT delivered what was in my plain sight.

Tonight, I feel like a liar. Because a good mom would have trusted that her kids were telling her the truth. Because I felt like crap when my middle son started tearing up, wondering how to trust me when I was clearly not showing him that I trust him.

Because I alone have made it that much harder for them to tell me the truth.

Truth: I think that damned box did just sprout some legs and walked right into our house, parked itself in by far the coolest room in the house, and decided to disrobe, letting all its cords hang out.

Either that or UPS has gotten a little too efficient in their delivery techniques, you know?

Sometimes, you can't make it on your own...

My hubby and I have been on a Thai food kick for the last couple of months. I can't really pinpoint when it came about, but it seems as though we have HAD to have it once a week, every week for a while now.

Of course, this addiction does not come cheaply. It is hard to swallow a $40 meal for just two people. No matter how good the Curry Chicken and Fried Rice are.

So I did what any other person what with a brain and some kitchen skills would do...I bought a cookbook.

I went to my local outlet mall, and perused the cookbook section. Not to be sidetracked by a really interesting New Orleans Cajun cookbook; I found this particular Thai cookbook, paid for my purchase and walked out, dreaming of the fabulous dinners I would be able to create using this new book.

Throughout the week, I read and made my decision to cook Shrimp Curry and Fried Rice. I even decided to make a variation of the Curry using chicken, for the kids and began to prepare my shopping list.

I began to seek out the ingredients I would need, my mouth watering with each prized acquisition added to my little collection.

Sunday night, after a day of degreasing my back patio, washing windows and cleaning out the garage, I began my adventure.

I prepped, I chopped, I read and reread the instructions and made my dinner.

My boys ate their chicken. Matthew was unimpressed with his meal but devoured the plain Jasmine rice. Andrew is much more adventurous and scarfed it down, asking for seconds.

My husband's verdict was that it was good, but I need to experiment.

And the funny thing is, I knew exactly what he meant. It was okay. Not great. Not exceptional. And it was definitely missing something.

Perhaps they add a secret ingredient at the restaurant, like, for instance, crack, to keep you coming back for more.

Maybe it was the $40 price tag and the fact that someone else made it.

Regardless, later on this week, I might attempt to go to the Asian market near the house and try a different brand of red curry paste. I might add red pepper flakes to the mix.

I will experiment.

In the meantime, I now understand that sometimes you just can't make it.

And more importantly, sometimes, $40 is a small price to pay for heaven on a plate.

In search of...

Just recently, my sister and her husband decided that their little 2/2 love nest condo is no longer roomy enough for their ever exploring little girls. They just got a pre-approval letter from a mortgage company, so the search is on.

They are not too particular about what features they want in their potential new home. A nice yard, a certain location, at least three bedrooms, two baths, and a two car garage. They assumed that they would be able to purchase a little more home than they could have two years ago, given the flush of foreclosures and short sales in the South Florida area.

What they did not count on is the squalor these homes are in...They don't call them short sales for nothing, people.

Angie and I have spent the last two days with the five kids meeting real estate agents all around town, in joyful hopes of finding "the one." If you have ever tried to do anything with children, then you understand that it is the equivalent of walking underwater with 30 pound deadweights around each leg. Toddlers and other assorted young children should never, ever be taken on such an endeavor...

But I digress.

We have seen a kinds of gems in the last two days. Needs TLC is realtor speak for get ready to unload big bucks to make the Health Department award a certificate of occupancy. We have seen kitchens that would make any of us healthy eaters into anorexics. Bathrooms? Ever feel the urine creep right back into your bladder in a really filthy public restroom? Same feeling. And the carpets? YUCK. I felt like disinfecting my shoes before I walked into my own home after viewing some of the properties. Missing cabinet doors, non functioning central air conditioning units, suspicious water damage in corners, cracked toilet tank tops, shoddy enclosures in garages to augment living space, secret hair salons at home equipment and really questionable decorating choices. I think that the paint job in the master bathroom in the last house we saw today actually made me lose some of my vision. It literally burned my eyes.

The worst is when the owners are on the premises when you are viewing their homes. They either run for the hills (or in this case, the intense Florida heat of their "glorious backyard") or they stick around and help point out the upgraded Benjamin Moore paint that was obviously applied by a five year old, or tell you that they have taken their wonderful front loading washer and dryer to their new home. Thanks.

Even worse is how people fail to make their homes a little easier on the eyes in order to facilitate the sale. Really, do potential buyers need to stumble over your open luggage at the top of very narrow stairs and see that your packing skills match your non-existent housekeeping abilities? Or, how about making the bed if you know the realtor is bringing somebody by? Wash the dishes in the sink? Run a vacuum cleaner, perhaps? I don't think lived in should look trashed. I have seen some mighty messy places in the last 48 hours. My own home with my clutter would make Martha Stewart proud.

We have made realtors very nervous as they see us unload from my sister's van like clowns climbing out of their little car. They smile nervously, clear their throats, and clearly don't know how to proceed. Sometimes they can be very gracious and kind, offering to watch the five children while you have a quick look-see in the master bathroom. Sometimes, they curse under their breath when the security guards in these gated communities won't let them in after 45 minutes of pleading, harassing and threats. Sometimes they act aloof, like they are doing you a favor by showing you places that truly should be condemned by the Health Department. I guess it takes all kinds.

Then they try to educate you on what the procedure is for a short sale. Condensed version:
So, what you're saying is, we are going to make an offer on this heap of concrete blocks with a roof on it. The bank is going to decide if the outrageous amount of money they are asking for is enough for us to take it and gut it to begin again. And they can take months to decide. Great. I think I am ready for my lobotomy without anesthesia. That is one of the many services you provide as well, no?

Angie and I will continue to do the preliminary looking for the next couple of weeks, shrieking or napping toddlers and all.

But, I think that if she finds the "perfect home" within her price range, she owes me a drink.

Or two.

And definitely some disinfectant.

A heart to heart...

The saying goes that the apple doesn't fall to far from the tree. In my case, my middle son not only looks like me, but apparently, suffers from the same "what-if's" that have afflicted his mother her entire life.

The older boys have been attending Vacation Bible School at the church where Joshua attends school throughout the year. This has been a long standing tradition each summer and it allows me a little alone time with Joshua while they are gone. Yesterday was the first day and it will continue for the remainder of the week. Although the theme is High Seas Expedition, it was not all smooth sailing today for Andrew.

It seems that amongst the many activities that the children participate in during the few hours they are there, singing and dancing is one of Andrew's least favorite. And apparently, it was enough to send him over the edge and to tears.

When I went to pick them up, Andrew's leader pulled me aside and told me he had gotten very upset, but couldn't really tell me why. I was concerned. Andrew is all about the drama at home, but he puts up a good front when he is away from home. I decided against talking to him right away, and opted to speak to him before he went to bed.

Of my three sons, Andrew is the most sentimental. He is very hard on himself and tries not to disappoint his father and I if he can help it. That is not to say that the desire to please his parents deters him from arguing with his brothers, but he is easily embarrassed if he thinks that he has not done his best at school or in extra-curricular activities.

Andrew is also incredibly self conscious. He likes to goof around, but he does not like to be the center of attention. Particularly if he thinks he is not good at something. And apparently, he doesn't think he is good at singing and dancing to a VBS song and dance DVD.

When I sat to talk with him, I told him the story of a little girl who always thought she was dumb, didn't think she could do anything right, and all too often, that worry about doing the wrong thing took the joy out of just about everything, along with her self esteem. I explained that even though this little girl wasn't necessarily dumb when dealing with math and science, her intense worry and dislike for those things MADE her perform poorly. Andrew listened intently with wide eyes. Then, the big reveal. That little girl was none other than Mommy.

"Mommy, you worried about stuff, too?" asked my little boy.

"I still worry, but not so much. I try to do the best I can, and it has to be enough. That is all that I can do," I replied.

He seemed to ponder this point for a moment. Then he asked, "But what if they laugh at me?"

"Then you have two options, sugar. You can either feel awful because someone is laughing, or you can join them. And I guarantee you that if you laugh, you will feel better," I said.

We talked a little more. It seemed as though my little boy was holding a lot inside. And I was grateful for the opportunity to let him unload all that worry.

He worries that he is not good at certain things. He worries what people think. I wonder how much worry is genetically linked. Because my heart broke listening to my little boy. Because I felt as though I was talking to a much younger version of myself. And I wondered if I can help him overcome this anxiety, before it consumes the best years of his life, like it did me.

After a few pointers of what to do when he got nervous, he smiled and snuggled as we talked about all the things he is good at. And how much I love him. And how proud his father and I are of him, simply because he is our son, and he never disappoints us.

My little boy beamed.

Today, as he walked into the church with his still small hand tightly enclosing my own, he seemed to walk with a renewed purpose. He seemed to be okay.

When I went to pick him up, he still hadn't danced and sung, but he seemed okay with it. He smiled when he said goodbye to his group and his teacher. No tears. No worries.

But I know better.

The self doubts will linger, but hopefully, not forever. He will find self solace in his own way, in his own time.

And I will be there.

To hold his hand, to offer support, to help him in any way I can.

Because I am helping my son grow some mighty strong roots that will hold him upright throughout his life.

And because I want him to spread his wings and soar as I never did when I was younger, but am so desperately trying to do now.

I know him.

He is my own apple from my tree.

Watching paint dry...

Do you remember being in school?

Do you remember the breathless anticipation of the end of the school year?

Do you remember how the clock would not move?

Welcome to my day today. A day of endless waiting. A day of the clock remaining stuck at the same time, the whole day.

And if it was painful for my students, it was excruciating for me. Because in that endless waiting for the hands of the clock to move, I was also waiting for documents, lists of instructions, a hurry up and wait kind of situation that did nothing to help pass the time.

And the only thing that would have helped would have been to have had that endless list of tasks to be completed. It would have kept me busy.

Too busy to constantly check the clock.

Too busy to be reminded of how painfully boring it is to sit and watch a clock.

Or to watch paint dry.

Like the Cowardly Lion, I want Courage

Momalom's Five for Ten: Courage

I am a coward. For too long, I have kept quiet and played the game that I was taught as a little girl. Put on a brave face, smile, and no one knows.

But I know. And there comes a point when you cannot lie to yourself any more.

Courage comes in many forms. For many, the very word conjectures images of service men and women, fighting shoulder to shoulder on foreign lands, to protect others. The images might be of local police and fire men and women.

But courage is not limited to those images.

Courage is taking off the bandages from over your eyes, and seeing for the first time. Courage is waking up one morning and deciding that you will no longer sit in denial. Courage is sitting in front of a stranger, telling your story, asking for help, and then doing it.

Courage to not continue on the merry-go-round of dysfunction. Of stopping the cycle of manipulation, verbal abuse and alcoholism. Of trying out happiness instead of continuing to drown in sadness.

Courage is then living with the consequences. The silence. The anger. The reality of what happens when you no longer are willing to play the brave face game. The consequences of courage.

Sometimes, you do the most growing up as an adult. When you are responsible for the lives of your children. When you know that your decisions will have real, lasting effects on those lives you would do anything to protect.

So, in my case, courage has meant that I have had to finally face the inadequacies of my life. Of how my parents' decisions shaped me, how those scars were created, how they healed, and how I cannot erase them. They are there to remind me.

Courage has meant silencing the mindless chatter that insinuates that I am not worthy of happiness, as defined by me.

Courage was saying "yes" to a life with a man I love, and trusting that my outcome would be different than the one I had experienced in my young life.

Courage has meant seeing the beauty that my husband and I have created in our life together, in spite of having no role model to go by, in my case.

Courage has meant realizing that living a fantasy for others is something I cannot continue to do at my expense, and have my husband and sister to support and comfort me.

Courage meant becoming a mother, because my heart wanted it so, even though I was terrified of the mistakes I would make.

Becoming a mother put a whole different spin on courage. Because mothering isn't for sissies.

Mothering requires courage from the get-go. Being wheeled into an emergency cesarean. Watching your child struggle against their own physical limitations. Praying for God's mercy when sitting in front of pediatric specialists. Praying that you are doing the right thing.

Courage has meant venturing out of my comfort zone, putting myself out there, so that my limitations do not become my children's limitations.

Courage has meant putting my fear of water aside, and learn how to swim as an adult, with my sons at the edge of the pool, cheering me on.

Courage has meant holding a snake, in spite of the horror on my oldest son's face, so that my fears are not his fears.

Courage has meant facing my own limitations, knowing when I can "fix" things, and trusting that I don't have all the answers.

Courage has meant that I heal myself, love myself, change myself, so that this mother's inadequacies do not scar her children. So that she can be an example that she can be proud of.

Courage has meant crossing over into the fantasy of a little girl, who would often dream of the life this woman now claims as her own.

It takes courage to unchain yourself from a painful past, one that limits your capacity for inner peace and happiness.

Maybe, I am not a coward after all...