Motherhood: Trial and Error

Do this, with one child: success.

Try that, with another: epic fail.

Improvisation with child three: inevitable split.

Mothering is a series of experiments,

Some great, some small, some crazy.

But all carefully cultivated with love.

Familiar with trial and error?  Share with us!  Visit Melissa to find out more about Six Word Fridays!

Promises kept...

In spite of the remarkable odds,

they tenaciously overcame all the obstacles.

They let themselves be cheered on,

taught to succeed, groomed for greatness.

They learned, practiced. They whined, complained.

We celebrated small victories, smoothed bumps

that lined the long road ahead.

In the background, silent prayers whispered;

parents and teachers inviting triumph in.

Today, the news your teacher awaited

finally arrived. Congratulations received, knowledge confirmed;

to know how far you've come;

to know how far you'll go.

You promised to do your best.

I promised to bear witness all year

to growth: physical, emotional, spiritual, academic.

A promise worth keeping, working towards.

What are you keeping?  What have you kept?  What's worth keeping?  Check out Melissa at Making Things Up and find out about Six Word Fridays!

Waiting...

On days like today, I feel like the waiting is endless. It seems as though I am always waiting on something to change, to getter better. I am always waiting for someone, sometime, to be ready, to get their act together.

On some days, like today, my tolerance is not as good as it used to be.

I am tired.

I am fed up of people behaving badly.

Of people who should know better to ACTUALLY do better.

And it makes me sad that these people misuse the opportunity they have to help others in inspiring ways. To use their opportunity to uplift people instead of bringing them down.

It makes me sad that I am still so naive when it comes to human nature, even though I'd like to think I am a cynical chick.

So, I am waiting.

Waiting to get over my over-anxious nature and not get worked up.

Waiting for the endless four days ahead of Spring Break.

Waiting for the glorious beach and hopefully, a couple of days at the sunny shore, ready to toss my thoughts into the endless waves.

And, I am waiting to be able to DO better, 'cause I know better.

And hoping I don't fall short.

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.

Lettuce wraps and entitlement

Over the weekend, my husband and I took the kids out for dinner after Mass. It had been an incredibly busy day, and frankly, I am getting kind of bored with making dinner every night. Seriously bored.

We choose a semi-fast Asian fusion restaurant, where we can order our children's Honey Garlic chicken without the honey or garlic. Any guesses as to what's left when you remove those two key ingredients? Chicken nuggets. With steamed white rice. I know.

We placed our order, and went to find a place to sit with our family horde. And there, we were met with the self serving, entitled older folks. Giving us the evil eye.

And I swear that my children were being good. No one was fighting, no one was whining about the chopstick clips, no one was upset about being hungry.

So I gave the evil eye back. They kept glancing our way, with tight frowns on wrinkled, sour faces. They got their bowl of wonton soup before us, even though we got our order in first.

Eventually, we got our soup. And our fabulous lettuce wraps. And that's when one of the entitled retirees snapped at the waiter, and me, as I sat gap-mouthed, astounded by her rudeness.

"You didn't order lettuce wraps, did you?" she asked accusingly.

"We most certainly did. Sorry." I answered smiling sweetly as I seethed.

THE NERVE! TO ACCUSE ME OF TAKING HER LETTUCE WRAPS!!! WHEN I ORDERED THEM!

She must have taken the hint. She mumbled something, half-apologetically, about us having ordered first. My husband and I exchanged puzzled looks.

How do people think that being that rude entitles them to any kind of special treatment? Why do these people feel that anything and everything that they want, they are entitled to?

Our mean neighbor and her entourage got their order messed up. The restaurant was so busy that the waiters failed to catch they incessant bickering over the order being wrong.

And us?

We enjoyed the rare instance in which we dined out and our children actually enjoyed their meal and each other's company. Hubby and I had a deep philosophical conversation about the Bill of Rights and separation of Church and State.

And you know what? I felt sorry for that group of people who sat a mere four feet away from our table. Because everyone is entitled to some happiness. And it was clear that these four people were not happy. Not because their food was wrong or because they were sitting next to young children.

Because they were failing to see that happiness is something that they could grasp for themselves. It was not the lettuce wraps that they ordered and did not come as quickly as they wanted.

It is in our grasp to live in the moment.

To relish and savor the tender morsels of everyday joy, instead of cultivating anger and anxiety.

On the way home, I thought of what these people must have endured in their lives. But, we all experience disappointments, sadness, anger, rejection, sickness... What makes people hold on to that yuck? So much so that it taints everything around them? How do we avoid becoming that person?

We experience it, but we don't have to hold on to it. We learn from it. We release it. We move on.

And when all else fails, we dig into those lettuce wraps, and perhaps, gloat just a wee bit...

Hey, I never said I was perfect!

P.S. A very special HAPPY BIRTHDAY goes out to the best dad in law anywhere, Granddaddy! So sorry the kids were sick this week and we missed out on celebrating with you! We love you and will see you soon!

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself...

Being a math teacher is hard. Being a math teacher in third grade is like growing teeth and THEN pulling them out. Being a math teacher in third grade with a new math series sucks rocks. SERIOUSLY.

Most kids begin third grade with an abnormal terror of all things mathematical. Apparently, the stigma of having to memorize your times table is a ghost that lingers past my own childhood and continues to haunt GENERATIONS of children. The fact that we have a state mandated test that determines your promotion into fourth grade does not help.

Our old math series was traditionally heavy handed with lots of computation skills, a fair amount of reinforcement exercises and plenty of opportunities to provide homework after good amount of practice. Basically, it did the job, had adequate opportunities to practice, and had a good amount of resources for remediation and challenges.

The new math series is a consumable workbook, which means you can write in it. And that pretty much sums up all that makes it great.

I REALLY hate the new series.

Don't misinterpret me. I did not love the old math series. But I knew it. I knew how to circumvent the obvious deficits of academic types who have never actually taught third graders. I knew when to strap on my boots when the skills to be taught were going to drive me to drink. I knew what concepts my kids would literally sail through.

With this series, I got nothing.

Except that the kids can write in it and instead of 3 GIGANTIC teacher's editions, I have six small, lightweight teacher's editions.

Not much of a selling point folks.

For you naysayers, there is a huge amount of deep psychological reprogramming that has to occur in third grade to not turn off kids to math. I remember constantly feeling stupid at the beginning, middle and end of every math lesson from Kindergarten through 12 grade. Every single one. I NEVER left my classroom feeling like it owned whatever we had covered. I hovered between treading water or drowning. And I cannot say it was my teachers' fault. They were good teachers, but every year I struggled so much that they focused on keeping me with everyone else, rather than finding out WHY I was so frustrated.

And for the first 13 years of my 16 years of teaching, I NEVER felt qualified to teach anything above first grade math. Because even as an adult, I was still afraid of math.

Then, I decided to teach third grade. And my administrators agreed it was time for a change. And for the first time in my life, I knew I had to be okay with math so that I could make sure no student ever walked out of my class feeling like I had for so many years.

I took that damn math book home over the summer and I taught myself all the sh*t I could not understand when I was in third grade. I started to see that there were patterns. That is really wasn't all that hard, if you were paying attention. That numbers, dare I say it, were actually pretty cool.

After discovering, albeit too late to do anything for myself, this new respect for math, I knew that I had the power to help my math haters reform themselves while they still could enjoy it. I vowed to make those kids who so closely resembled my former kid-self learn from my mistakes.

Was I not, after all, one of them?

The first year in third grade was rough. I had an intern the first quarter of the year. There were so many days I left school with bite marks inside my mouth from trying to keep myself from interjecting in her lessons. When she finally left, my real work began.

My students were timid, afraid of making a mistake, unwilling to let go of this fear. I vowed to do my best and promised them that if they paid attention and asked questions, success was theirs for the taking. I told them that if they didn't get it after holding up their end of the bargain, I would have to do a better job of explaining it.

It worked. Two years in a row. Glowing scores. More importantly, children who LOVED math.

Once they knew, they had nothing to fear anymore. They knew that they were more than capable.

Flash-forward to this year. A whole new crop of eager brains. A new math book.

A monkey wrench.

Our first math lesson was a disaster. I actually had one little boy start crying and tell me he was stupid. As I looked around the room, it seemed like there were many eyes teetering on tears as well. And then I wanted to cry. But more than that, I was pissed off. That this stupid book, written by people who had never met these kids were making this poor kid think he was stupid. Just like I thought I was.

And so we had a little talk. About people who write books that are designed to trip up kids. About how we are in this together. About how we were going to GPS anyone who was lost and help them find their way back.

We kept on it. In the midst of these past weeks, they tried to hide in their seats, behind their neighbor's head so that they could deflect my eagle eyes, searching for those who didn't want to be found. The last few weeks have been more than a little rough.

But we have persevered. We have hung on.

And today, my students actually felt ready to complete math problems on their own, without me holding their hands. I had students eagerly waving their hands, waiting to be called, instead of students with sullen, shifty eyes that beg not to be called upon.

Today, I had success. My kids got it.

But I will make a confession. Even though there was some deep psychological drama going on in that classroom for the last three weeks, my students owned it today. They proved to themselves that they are capable. And that is going to fuel the fire in their belly to continue to succeed.

And if I were the math problems in that sh**ty, new math textbook, I would be afraid.

I would be VERY afraid.

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.

Things you never thought you'd hear

Did you know that John likes you?

Want to go see a movie?

Can I call you later?

I think I love you.

I love you.

Your father has cancer. It's bad.

Will you marry me?

You're approved.

Congratulations! Here are the keys to your home.

Your father is too sick to walk you down the aisle.

Your father is too sick to sit in the church.

I do.

Mrs. E.

Congratulations! You have received a full scholarship to the University of Miami.

You're approved.

Here are the keys to your home.

Your house sold.

You might not have kids.

You don't smoke or drink and you're under 35. You'll be pregnant within 6 months.

We don't know your lab results. We've lost your blood. Call back tomorrow.

+

Yes. The blood test confirms you are pregnant. Congratulations!

It's a boy.

Mama.

Congratulations! You won teacher of the year.

I'm sorry. He's gone.

Is Abu in heaven now, Mama?

Congratulations! You have achieved National Board Certification.

It's a boy.

Mama.

Abu is right here with us, Mama. Don't you see him?

I wanted to let you know, the job is yours.

They don't do things over there, the way we do things here.

Your child bit another child.

Another child bit your child.

Your child called another child a**$%#.  Please speak to him about it.

It's a boy.

Mama.

Your baby's floppy.

If he doesn't make some major improvements, you might want to see a neurologist.

Mom has Parkinson's.

You're going to be an aunt.

Tia.

Mom fell.

You can breathe. Your baby does not have a tumor.

You're going to be an aunt again.

Tia.

You need to think of home care options.

You're in charge.

He did great. Is he always so quiet?

You are the best teacher I ever had.

He's a trooper.

He's a fighter.

Can't really say what's going on with him. We'll just have to wait and see.

Mommy, I love you.

Mommy, I missed you.

Thanks, Mom, for doing this.

It's not your fault.

You have a renter.

You made me love math.

I am going to miss you SO MUCH.

I love you.

Pink eye was in this room.

We've deloused the school.

You did a great job.

Ever wonder what your words mean to others? Sometimes, what you say and how you say it leave a lasting impression on people's hearts and minds. The list above is in some sort chronological order, but each statement above has shaped me. These statements have made my heart soar, my pulse race, my soul ache, my heart break.

Words have power.  Power to heal.  Power to strengthen.  Power to weaken.  Power to destroy.

How have other's words shaped you? What statements have stayed with you throughout the years, making you chose your own words carefully? Share.

Motherhood's mortal sin

After a hard day today, I was dragging my butt by the time I got home. It was as though all the preparation and moving, spinning and walking, mothering and teaching had finally caught up with me. And because I was so tired, I committed the mortal sin of motherhood.

I attempted to take a nap.

I know, I know. I will plead temporary insanity. Last night's interrogation regarding the "missing" boxes was the straw that broke the camel's back.

When I got Joshua settled watching Little Einstein's (I know, I committed two mortal motherhood sins...I have no excuse) and made sure Matthew was working on homework, I asked Andrew to find something quiet to do. I laid down on the beckoning couch and closed my eyes....

Along with the strains of soothing classical music of Joshua's show, my mind drifted and I could feel myself dozing...and then, the strains of Joshua's very loud electric guitar that Santa, that old bastard, brought last Christmas.

"Guys, can you keep it down just a little. Momma's so tired," I begged.

"Sure Mommy," replied Andrew.

I closed my eyes again. Snoozing was calling, and I was more than eager to heed the call...Andrew's loud voice as he struggled to convince Joshua that he should get that damned electric guitar.

Now, I lost my temper.

"GUYS, PLEASE. Just a few minutes."

Silence.

Eyes closed. Exhaustion overwhelming me. And the phone rings. A telemarketer. Another remind to myself to re-register on the Do Not Call Registry. Why hadn't I done it yet?

Oh yeah. I work. For money and for the three kids that keep me around for food, laundry and errands.

I gave up my pursuit for a few minutes of sleep.

Rest assured that I recognized the error of my ways. I grumpily got off my couch and was in a vile mood as I prepared dinner for the hungry people who reside in my home.

My efforts were in vain. Apparently, my older son no longer approves of the frozen meatballs he would devour last year. Hubby was thrilled that our salmon was prepared at home, with a side of veggies.

I guess you can't please them all, huh?

As I banged and clanged in the kitchen, I understood why toddlers wake up a wicked kind of mean when their naps aren't long enough. And I remembered why trying to nap is motherhood's greatest mortal sin.

Because you can't get what you so desperately want and need. And since you can't get it, you usually end up even more bone tired (as if that was even possible!) than you were. Plus, you get a healthy dose of guilt for trying to do something so selfish and snapping at your kids for not making it possible.

Another one for my nomination of crappy mother of the year. Don't be jealous, y'all.

And when you thought nothing else could go wrong...

The first day of school is always a day when you must be ready to fly by the seat of your pants. Traffic is horrendous, school zones are in full effect, harried desperate parents ready to leave their children at school, children who won't wake up. In a nutshell, the converging of all Laws Murphy.

My day was no exception.

For one, I skipped out on the 5:30 am spinning class, mostly because I did not want to be late on my first day. My body took it as a sign that is was a day to sleep in, so I dragged my tired arse out of bed with PLENTY of time to get three sleepy children out of bed and get myself in some form of decent for school. I managed to get everyone moving, even darling Joshua, who has been known to be quite a sourpuss in the morning. He so agreeable this morning, I thought for sure he was kidnapped by aliens. Regardless, he even pooped this morning before school, to my complete delight (have weirder words ever been expressed), because that way he wouldn't have to go at school and have difficulty wiping his own ass.

Because Andrew is now in the "big" school, I had only one drop off. Before we headed out the door, the traditional first day of school picture, backpacks and lunch bags in tow. Three happy, smiling faces.

Got in the car with all my stuff, headed out. The interstate wasn't too bad and I decided to go the scenic route. BIG MISTAKE that cost me a good 40 minutes as I cursed under my breathe, cursed out loud, pounded on the steering wheel and gnashed my teeth. Good Lord, it was going to be a LONG day.

I tried calling my co teacher, M. Unfortunately, she had forgotten her phone at home, as she also has three children who needed primping and prodding to get out of the house. Universe 2, Maria 0, for those of you keeping count.

When I got to work, rushing like a mad woman in platform heels (Yes, I dress up on the first day of school. No need for parents to experience incredible disappointment from looking at their child's teacher and thinking she is a slob) after a whole summer in flip flops, I found my principal near the Main Office where we sign in. Now, I was on time, but I had not arrived as early as I wanted. Universe 3, Maria 0.

I rushed into my classroom with my two sons lagging behind. I couldn't find my co teacher. She was there, but I couldn't recognize her. She shares my philosophy in which we should look like decent human beings on the first day of school, not at all like the slobs we will eventually become as the school year wears on. I hurried to give Matthew his room number and asked him to drop off his brother. Shitty mother of the year goes to Maria...Universe 4, Maria -2.

The class of students are phenomenal! The parents seemed very supportive and willing to be active participants in their child's education. They also knew when to leave the premises. I felt all warm and fuzzy. Then I realized I was just warm. AC unit is still not functioning. Shitty classroom awarded to Maria...

Got through the preliminaries, got them to Physical Education, lunch, to the bathroom, etcetera. Everyone is fine. Everyone is following directions. Suddenly, dark clouds and storms threaten and unleash. Happy first day of school from rainy South Florida. Every year for the last sixteen years. That's what happens when you start school in the middle of hurricane season. Universe 5, Maria -2.

Then, one of the kids exclaim, "Mrs. E! Water is coming in through the ceiling!"

Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen. The universe's joke of a classroom is truly a prize. No AC and a leaky ceiling. You know it's bad when the head custodian apologizes for the situation in your room. And if you have ever been a teacher, you know the head custodian NEVER apologizes for ANYTHING...

Dismissal was a rainy one in which we don't recognize parents or students. It was a soggy wet mess.

But I survived.

My kids had an awesome day.

Matthew loved both of his new teachers. I got a phone call from one of them, saying he was just so polite and smart.

Andrew smiled and waved when he saw me in the cafeteria. He was happily relating the day's events later on.

Joshua had a good day. And another bowel movement. And his teacher, whom was Andrew's teacher when he was two, snuck a wipe on his behind, God bless her.

So, all in all, a great day.

But Momma is drained. Needs to sleep.

So she can get up at 4:45 am for her 45 minute walk.

And maybe, that's how I can keep the Universe from kicking my arse tomorrow.

Scratch that.

Tomorrow's election day.

And our school is a polling place.

Just when you thought it was safe to dive back in....you have to go vote too.

Helpful back to school tips or how not to piss off your child's teacher before school starts

As many of you know, I am a school teacher. I have been teaching for sixteen (!) years. Throughout the many years I have educated children, I have encountered all kinds of children and parents. Just so you know, there can be a lot of "problem" children out there, but "bad" parents are by far the worst problem teachers have to deal with throughout the school year.

I have decided to share some helpful tips for all you lucky people who don't start school until AFTER Labor Day, as the good Lord intended.

1. Please do not disturb a teacher before school starts. This means refraining from introducing yourself to said teacher as she is head deep in opened and unopened boxes, when her room closely resembles Hiroshima after the bomb went off or in the full throes of the nervous breakdown that occurs when we realize the summer is over and school starts in a mere four days from now. This also includes sending emails telling her how gifted your child is, asking what supplies to bring. Bear in mind that any of these actions can remind her that the summer is over.

2. If you decide to come and show your child where his or her classroom is, please make yourself scarce. Teachers who need to move boxes, furniture and books do not tend to look where they are going. Once they gain some momentum on their hand trucks, they forge full speed ahead, rarely noticing if they are running over pedestrians. This is especially true of short teachers, such as myself, who usually pack hand trucks and carts to above my eye level, making a line of vision impossible. Consider yourself warned.

3. Please do not tell us how you can't wait to send your child to school, how the summer was endless and your child was driving you nuts because they were bored. You are not making a good first impression. More importantly, your child's teacher not only has to deal with your "angel." She has 36 other little "angels" whose mothers are desperate to unload come the beginning of school. For the record, we are not here to entertain. We are here to educate. You are not inspiring confidence in us when you relate your anecdotes. Truly.

4. We get the issues your child has with homework. We have kids too. We also have classwork assignments that we have to pull teeth in order to get done. You have our sympathy. It is an unpleasant part of parenting. Get over it.

5. Be truthful of your child's strengths and weaknesses. We will figure them out sooner rather than later. It would be nice to have a heads up so we can address it quickly and efficiently and help your child succeed. We like nothing better than to have a successful academic year and confident students, in spite of what you may have heard about us.

6. Don't schedule teacher conferences the first week of school to gossip about your ex-husband and his new girlfriend. Discuss what is pertinent to your child's educational and emotional well being. We don't like tattling from adults either.

7. Please refrain from blaming your child's prior year's teacher for all your child's academic shortcomings. Surely, uninterrupted TV and video games for the last ten weeks did nothing to strengthen their academic progress. The tons of junk food and soda did not help either.

8. Please, please don't put sodas, cookies, chips and candy in your child's lunch box and call it a lunch. Call it what it is. A teacher's nightmare.

9. Teachers are people too. We have many responsibilities and obligations, inside of the classroom and in our personal lives. Please don't get upset if we don't respond within five minutes of you leaving a message in the main office or sending us an email. We are teaching.

10. If we call you with a concern, we are not picking on your child. We truly have your child's best interest at heart. But when push comes to shove, you are ultimately responsible for your child. We know parenting is hard. Most of us have children of our own. We share the same anxieties and insecurities in our own parenting. As teachers, we know your child in a way you will never know, just as parents know their children in ways teachers never know. We get it. But we are here to help.

11. The way to a teacher's heart is through kindness. There are only so many scented soaps we can use and necklace sets we can wear. If you think we have really touched your child's life, write us a letter. Let us know what we did right so that we can do it again and reach another child. Keep in touch with us throughout the years. We love to hear how our students are doing in other grades, as they get older.

12. Be enthusiastic. Your child will pick up on it. It will make all the difference between having a good year and having a phenomenal year!

And so, it begins...

We were scheduled to leave on our vacation early on Thursday afternoon, with John hurrying back from work. I was supposed to have everything packed and ready to be put in the car, with the final arrangements of light timers, raising the air conditioners thermostat, etc. The plan was to hit the road by 4:00 p.m., guaranteeing that we would leave the great state of Florida by midnight.

All wonderful plans. And of course, Murphy's Law knows no bounds...

The realtor handling my mother's condo rental called twice, the last time telling me that I had to come and sign papers. Fine. Hauled tail, signed papers, hauled back. Met a friend for lunch, but forgot her daughter's birthday card and a piece of red velvet cake for her. A tropical storm was looming and heading our way...

But the clincher was the front door.

Our lock has been acting funny for a few months. The key for the double lock would need some coaxing to get it out, re-turning to get it unlocked or locked. It decided to get jammed. As I was getting ready to leave it at my neighbor's house, in case of an emergency. Four hours before we were to depart. After I had told the realtor I was on my way. Before lunch with my friend.

This would not have been a real issue if not for some major points. First, I have a glass sidelight. Second, and most importantly, my door in the garage that leads into the house has not permitted a key within its sacred lock in well over seven years. A born again virgin, if you will.

So, it was crunch time. Delay the trip to fix the lock. Wait until getting back and hope we can get in.

Right.

I called a locksmith, on the way to lunch. Before meeting with the realtor. Forgetting the card and cake.

The locksmith came. He did not have a brass lock. Off he goes to his supply store to get one. He returns. He installs. He rekeys. He repeats for the second door. Lock still sticks. He uninstalls and reinstalls.

Hubby comes home and starts hauling loose items from the back yard into the garage, just in case the tropical storm gets frisky while we are gone. He goes out the back door and gets right to work.

Four hours later, we try my key: success. We try my husband's key: FAIL. He uninstalls and rekeys and reinstalls. Key fails. Epically.

I want to be clear that I did not change locks on my husband. There have been times I may have toyed with the thought, but decided that I needed strength in numbers with dealing with my children.

Regardless, his key did not work. I promised to get him a new key upon arrival AFTER the trip I was now thinking may not be such a great idea. 'Cause the start was not going too smoothly, you know?

In the meantime, while the installing/uninstalling/rekeying/whatever was going on in my living room, I was a woman possessed. I ran laundry, folded and put away, I packed and paced. For all five of us. I had children bathe and get dressed. I had a spouse who bathed and got dressed. I got bathed and dressed.

So when the locksmith left at 6:00 p.m., we started packing the car. We set timers in the house, double check the mental list, we load the children in the car, armed with DVD's for the ride. We're off...

Except we don't. Because we can't find the third, hundred dollar, wireless headphone for the van. We unload. We search. We panic. We take the keys out of the car to unlock the door to find a wired replacement headphone. We're off...

Except we don't. Because I can't remember if we locked the back door. Turn around and come home. To find it unlocked. We take the keys out of the car to lock the garage door for the second time.

And this time we are off...to meet Grandma and Granddaddy, an hour and a half later, to pick up a tripod to be delivered in the second leg of our trip...notes given, souvenir money distributed. We're off!

And about halfway out of the state, I remember that I didn't pack my bathing suit. That I need. That I desperately would turn around and get, just thinking about having to go into a fitting room on vacation, to find a replacement...okay, made peace with it.

Stop and get dinner. Get a taste of what Joshua will be like on our twelve day trip. Apparently, food is optional. Being loud about it isn't.

As the kids ate, John and I exchanged conspiring looks.

Decision made.

Tonight, we drive.

All night.

D.C. or bust!

To be continued...

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.

Table for one at the Pity Party

Oh, people, it has been quite a week. Between the Money Pit, my three year old's constant vacillation between "I want to/I don't want to" and the older two boys constant fighting and bickering, I think I would like to be in a nice, quiet padded room.

Sure, I am off from school. I am down one full time job. But honestly, there have been a couple of times this week when I have snuck off to the closet for a quiet, desperate sob.

This is why we aren't cool as parents.

Perhaps it is my own fault. Because I planned for doctor's appointments this week, anticipating that it would basically suck, but after the week was over, no more constraints from the appointments. Because I went to clean up that darned apartment to FINALLY get it rented and I found yet more water where there wasn't supposed to be any. Maybe it's because my three year old can't make up his mind one way or the other about anything. Maybe it's because I am tired of running interference with the older two.

Regardless of whatever the cause, I am tired. Drained. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Anxious. Fed up.

Whenever Joshua pulls the standard "But I don't want to," I want to jump up and down like Rumplestilskin and have a holy fit. I don't want to deal with a house in need of repairs. I don't want to hear my children fighting. I don't want to spend day in and day out cleaning after people, waiting for Joshua to use the potty, waiting for the plumber that doesn't show up, the realtor who won't call, the messes that don't get cleaned up.

And don't even ask what it is I do want, because right now, I don't even know.

But I do know what I don't want.

I don't want to feel this tired, this frustrated right now. I don't want to holler at my children because they won't listen to me. I don't want to send Joshua to the potty, only to find him standing in front of it, his pants drenched in urine.

There is no magical wrap up here today. No wise words of lessons learned.

Just one tired, frazzled mother of three boys, sitting at a table for one at the Pity Party.

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.

Lust for Life (...after diapers)

Momalom's Five for Ten: Lust

One of my favorite commercials of all time was one from the Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines where Iggy Pop's Lust for Life blared. It was the perfect soundtrack for all the adventurous activities you could do onboard the ship and on the excursions.

There are people who have an affinity for the finer things in life; travel, gourmet cuisine, finely aged wines, art, music.

I am a WHOLE lot simpler. I have three children. I don't have time for fancy this or that. I often times forget what it was that I was going to do, going from one end of the house to the other. In my case, it is all simpler, except for one tiny, little detail.

My three year old is still in diapers.

I am ashamed to admit this.

When I had my youngest son, I had big dreams relating to potty-training. (Wow, that just might be the saddest sentence I have ever written.) I thought that this child would be the easiest to potty train, having two older brothers with the same kind of plumbing.

But alas, my older sons had different ideas. And in particular, one from The Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

For those of you not familiar with the story line, Greg is the middle child, getting ready to begin middle school. He has a younger brother who, in the midst of potty training, is told that there is a potty monster. Needless to say, the toddler will not go on the porcelain king, and mom is pretty upset.

So is this mom.

I discovered this debauchery when I took my boys to see the movie. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh, because they saw the opportunity and took it; cry, because they saw the opportunity and took it.

Looking at the bright side, they learned to do something from a book, right?

But, on to reality. I have spent a small fortune on diapers and wipes. A small fortune I could have spent on the finer things in life, not poop.

I have purchased diapers for eight out of the last ten years, people. I am done.

There is a life I lust after. Not one that is fancy or complicated. It is very simple wish.

I lust for a life that requires no diaper bags, no refilling the wipes box, no Butt Paste.

I lust for a life where everyone wipes their own ass.

It will mean freedom for me. Of not being tied down to a baby. Of having three independent boys. Of life progressing, evolving.

It will mean that my youngest son will be nearing school age, and we will leave the preschool he attends now, where I send a hefty tuition check the first of every month.

It will mean not having to drive back home if I have forgotten the diaper bag, or harassing the older boys into carrying it to the car, out of the car, into the house, out of the house. It will mean one less thing to have to remember.

It will mean more stops on road trips, accidents while we are out, accidents while we are at home, accidents while we sleep.

And while I cannot wait to unburden myself and Joshua of chasing after him, getting all thirty pounds of him on the changing table and getting down to business, I know I will miss it, just a little.

Because it will mean that I no longer have a baby.

It will mean that I have raised another human being to some sort of independence, regardless of how basic that independence is.

I am starting to see the glimpses of this new and improved Joshua. Last night, he went pee in the potty. Mama did the potty jig and sang the happy Mama song for a good twenty minutes.

Lady Luck was at my house this morning too. He went potty again. Another round of dancing and singing.

But more than that, I saw my littlest boy proud of himself. He was so happy that he did it. He kept telling me he is a big boy. And, he is.

No fear of a potty monster.

And that was good.

Like anything in life, those things that are the most worthwhile never come easy. Not love, not good friendships, not parenting.

Especially not parenting.

But, if you encounter the difficult but worthwhile with a lust for life, then the whole journey is a little more enjoyable, even more worthwhile.

Even in the adventures of potty training.

And especially if you have a particularly good soundtrack playing in the background, even if it's only in your head...

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...

Motherhood: Bringing out the worst in women, daily

I know you have encountered mothers who are out running errands. They look frazzled and ready to either abandon their children in the midst of a busy store, or just sit on the floor, and sob.

Today, I was that woman.

My normally easy going boys were liked caged wolves who have been set free. They complained, they smacked one another, they refused to keep up with my frantic pace.

My toddler decided that he did not need a cart. He also did not need to hold my hand, walk next to me, or even be in the same aisle where I was frantically trying to find the items I needed, so that I could just go home.

Today, I could have easily walked away.

Except that my two older boys would have called my mobile, and I inevitably would have had to come back.

I would have made the local news. The degenerate mother who left her three adorable boys in a busy Craft store. On Mother's Day weekend, no less.

And there might have been some prissy women thinking what kind of woman does that.

And others would have been cheering.

I have noticed a strange pattern developing within myself when I witness children who are getting reprimanded by their mothers in public.

Before I had children, I would feel terrible for the children in question. Poor babies, being made to feel so poorly.

Now, after kids?

I feel terrible for the parents in question. Poor mamas, being made to feel so poorly. I say, take those kids down. Sometimes, you can almost hear the silent cheering of other mothers, who have also had to chase their toddler children around the store. We exchange looks of "You go, girl!"  We closely resemble men watching a boxing match.

Sometimes, we even high-five each other.

Well, not really.

But I wish we did.

Making lemonade...

Sometime life hands you lemons. Lately, my lemons have been thrown at me. Hard and with direct aim. But I am a firm believer in seeing things in a positive light, despite the circumstances. You make lemonade with lemons, but lately, Mama needs something with a little more, um, substance.

As you get older, you wise up on how to deal with certain issues and certain people. You might smile and move along with some, as you are gritting your teeth to keep from yelling obscenities. Others, you coax until you get the desired results. Others, still, require a heavy hand. This week, I think I have run the gamut.

I have always thought of myself as a people person. I mostly enjoy being around people, talking with them, finding out what makes them tick.

But I think I need a break. I want a time out.

This week, I have organized events for the teachers at Joshua's school, sat in board of director meetings at said preschool, dealt with issues with students, prepared end of the year documents, continue awaiting test scores, taught long division with remainders, administered more end of year testing and dealt with issues with my own, birthed children: mainly, incomplete class work assignments.

It makes Mama thirsty for something other than lemonade.

A couple of days ago, what I really wanted to do was have a full fledged temper tantrum. I have seen enough in my time to know how to throw a good one. Somehow, I didn't think that I would get what I wanted.

And what did I want, you ask?

For adults to play nicely. For adults follow through when they are supposed to, not make commitments to things they have no intention for following through with. To be, you know, adults.

I am a pretty tolerant person. I can deal with people behaving badly. I taught Kindergarten for 10 years, ya'll. I know how to handle "problems."

But the amount and caliber of the "problems" are not laughable. They are not something you can just shrug your shoulders at and say "whatever" to. They are mean. They are ugly. And I am tired of drinking the lemonade flavored Kool-Aid.

So, what to do, you ask?

Well, I am looking forward to unwinding a bit this weekend. My youngest niece's birthday party is on Saturday morning. I know, it might be more fun to visit a sweat-shop, and the temperatures might actually mimic one since Florida has now begun what we refer to as Hellish Heat.

Regardless, I have big plans for after the party, mainly, getting everyone fed, bathed and in bed as soon as it is feasible. After that, I plan to do the same for myself.

'Cause Mama's tired.

And when Mama's tired, there are no good times to be had.

So, I continue to gather the lemons, by the truck load.

But something's got to give.

All those damned lemons need to be immediately traded in for limes.

So that I can at least make a decent margarita instead of sipping on that insipid lemonade.

Another round...

Today called for heavy artillery of adult beverages in my house. None were consumed, although they were much deserved. An extremely busy week, a most difficult day, and still, another two days until the week end.

My morning was not particularly hard. I was able to get dressed, get out of the house, and get the older two boys to school on time. I was scheduled to serve as a Science Fair judge at my old school, where I worked for ten years.

I left six years ago this fall. I remember that I struggled with the decision to leave for over a year. My children were getting older, I lived too far from the school and my husband had started working in his current job, that required huge amounts of travel at the time.

I struggled for many reasons. The main one is change. I traditionally have never done well with it. I will change my wardrobe a million times. I might change my hair and it's color without too much remorse. But the big things like a place of employment, not so much.

I completed my final internship at HES school in December 1994. There were no open positions there when I graduated, so I found a job at another school where I was miserable. It was the longest six months of my life.

I doubted whether or not I had made the right career decision. I wondered if I should go back to school and get a degree in something else. At the end of the year, my position was eliminated, and I went back to the principal at HES, trying to secure ANYTHING for the following year.

As luck would have it, I was hired in mid September of 1995, after the school year had started. I was fortunate enough to work steadily, although in temporary teaching assignments until the following school year. In 1996, I finally had my own classroom with 38 of the most energetic, and bright Kindergarten students ever.

At this school, I began as a young 21 year old undergraduate. I slowly emerged to married woman, Graduate student, mother of one, struggled through the loss of one parent, to mother of two boys. More than coworkers, these people became a sort of family. We mourned our losses, we celebrated new additions and life's greatest joys. It was hard to leave them and all that history behind.

But I did. As scary as it was to go and begin again in a new place, to form new friendships and professional relationships, I understood that this was something I needed to do for my family. Matthew was nearing preschool age. I wanted him to be able to attend a school that was close to home. I wanted to be closer to home as well, and not spend the bulk of my day behind the wheel, in traffic, gathering children and getting home.

The reaction on the last day of school in 2004 was hard. As people heard that I had transferred out, the questions swirled. The tears flowed. It was surely one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I still had my doubts, but at least, I knew that my sister and I would be working together, that my children, one day, would be able to attend this school with me. I forged ahead.

The first few days of that school year were hard. As the school year began, I was preparing in a new classroom in a different school. I often thought of my old school, my friends that I had left behind, my old students. But I made new friends. I reveled in the new challenges and procedures. I enjoyed my new students. I loved being closer to home and not fighting that traffic as much.

I still keep in touch with more than a few people. Several of those Class of 1996 Kindergarten group stay in touch with me through Facebook. They are now completing their Freshman year in college, which is just astounding to me.

But today, as I walked through the old halls at HES, I did not feel too nostalgic. The last few years have been rough for the staff. Administration is not what it should be. I was GLAD that I was gone. People seemed sad. They said with longing, "Be glad you left." And I was.

Because sometimes, you need another round to realize that even decisions made fearfully and with some doubt are the right ones.

Because I would have grown to hate my job.

Because, eventually, I would have equated those beautifully hearted co-workers with the confines of that building. And would have grown to dislike both.

Today, as I skipped out after judging Fourth Grade projects, I did not leave with the usual twinge of sadness for a simpler time.

I left with gratitude.

Gratitude for the people who had helped shape that shy 21 year old young teacher. Who had supported her, helped her hone her craft, and been a second family to her, and bade her goodbye six years ago.

Gratitude for having had the courage six years ago leave something that seemed safe, but would have surely killed the best part of me.

Gratitude for having forged ahead in a journey that made me mighty uncomfortable. But forced me to grow. To adapt. To change. And like it.

Another round of blessings that would have been forever undiscovered, had I not taken that simple step.

And for that, I am incredibly grateful.