How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Thats' the question.

I've found a lump. Yup, one of THOSE lumps. A lump in my happy pillows. It's been around for 6 weeks or so. At least six.. that's when I found it. I was rubbing my pec after a workout and... wait a minute. THAT doesn't belong there.

I've watched it to make sure it isn't a hormonal change thing. It's not. It's still there, being pesky.

Doc is concerned enough about it that I'm getting My First Mammogram. there should be Hallmark cards for that.

So we'll see... just how DO you solve a problem like Maria?

So, I was all set to come on today and write about dreams and the future as I see it. I think about the future a lot, see. I have since June. I know I talk a lot about Eric being sick (and to see him scampering around the roof tonight, you'd think I was crazy. Oh Sparky...) but it's the stressful reality in my life right now, and the one thing I can't just talk about to the average individual. I mean, don't we ALL have that friend who complains constantly, who can turn every conversation back to her woes and ailments?

You: "So, congratulations! That big promotion AND winning the lottery? Amazing!"
Her: "I guess... but the promotion means a new office chair in that corner office, and I just know my sciatica will act up again, and that is so painful... and the big cardboard lottery check gave me the worst papercut- my doctor says I may have gangrene in my pinky now...."

Anyway- I think a lot about what I need to do, how I need to prepare for the future. I'm going back to school once Eric is out, for something that can support us eventually if need be. But I need my creative outlets as well. That's just ME. And while I have my photography and scrapbooking (all hail the suburban mom!).... a part of me longs to write again. Fiction, not just my bloggish ramblings. I've had three stories, three sets of characters living in my head for a while. One is geared towards kids Dash's age, but girls- a girls' sports story. Too many princesses, not enough second basewomen in youth fiction if you ask me. the second is more YA, and it intersects with the world of the third. The characters in the third have a permanent residence in my subconcious, and if I'm not careful I'm going to begin taking on the characteristics of a split personality.

So tonight I was going to write about that, kind of a "pump myself up" thing, get myself geared up to stop thinking and start DOING (or typing). I was in my bedroom, folding laundry and thinking about my post. We keep the kitchen radio on almost constantly during the holidays, tuned to 102.1 for it's constant stream of holiday music. As I was folding and hanging, thinking about all of this, I heard the song "Let there be peace on earth". It made me just stop. I love that song. I remember standing in Mass as a child and singing that song during Advent. But more than that, I remember my Grandma singing it.

Grandma always listened to 61 country on the old radio by her bedside every night. She'd turn on the radio, climb into bed, and listen to whatever program was on. More often than not, she'd sing along. When i was little and staying the night, I'd often sleep in the bed beside her. She'd pat my back (even when I was 7 or 8 years old) and sing along with the radio. "Church in the Valley", "Amazing Grace", and "Old Rugged cross" are permanently etched in my mind as Grandma's songs. I can't hear Amazing Grace without tearing up. I look REALLY devout at church sometimes due to this.

At Christmas time, 61 country would play... well, Christmas songs. And my grandma's favorites were O Holy Night, Away in a Manger, Silent Night, and of course... Let there be Peace on earth. She'd half hum, half sing as she patted my back, lulling me to sleep. And tonight, hearing that song, was a sock in the stomach. Grandma's song. And a rememberance... that Grandma's almost been gone for a year now.

I miss her. A lot.

I believe that moments like that are signs, or messages. So while I was thinking about my future, and what I may or may not want to do, Grandma had a litlte message for me. I'm not sure what it is, but I know she's there.

My heart is open.

Hey, thanks!

Cell Phones ring, are you listening?
Twitter updates, my screen is glistening!
A beautiful site, toys half-price all night!
Scrolling through Cyber-monday land!

Yes, it's that time of year again. Time for good will towards men (as long as they buy you the RIGHT holiday gift), love of your neighbors (at least if they get out of your FNARKING WAY AT THE MALL!!!!), and general all over good cheer (with enough wine. Well, not me. I don't like wine. So, with enough rum.). Seem sarcastic? Only because I work retail.

I shouldn't be complaining. I actually got off easy this Black Friday (Green friday? Chartreuse Friday?). Twelve hour shift, 4am-4pm... and I was actually out the door by 4:30. Customers were mostly polite and well behaved. I won't mention the person who ranted at me because, at 11:00am, we had no more of the $199 laptops. I'll be polite and sympathetic to her obviously delusional state. But all in all, not a bad day. Got in, got out, got it over with.

I have a lot to be thankful for this year, even though sometimes I blink and wonder "Do I, really?" It's hard to look past the bad (okay, it's not so BAD anymore... just "eh" at times) sometimes to see the great things in my life, but here I go.

I'm thankful first and foremost for my husband. He's been through hell the past 6 months, being sick and not knowing why (still don't), discovering he has an incurable kidney disease, traveling for work every week... it all adds up, the weight of the world on his shoulders. But he manages. I don't know how, but he does. Sometimes he's beyond crabby- straight into pissy- but he always pulls it together. I'm thankful for his strength, his love... and most of all, that he's here.

I'm thankful for my children. They infuriate me, they befuddle me, they exhaust me... but they lavish me with love and kisses, they make me explode in great belly-rolling gales of laughter. My kids may keep me running 26 hours a day, 8 days a week... but God, they are worth it.

I'm thankful for my home. Yes, the floors need mopped, the carpet REALLY needs replaced, and the deck should be condemned... but all in all, I'm living in my dream home (my reality dream home. My real dream home has a full 2000 sq ft studio, laundry chutes, and a live in masseuse named Fernando). But I have a home, a home that I OWN...well, me, Eric, and Wells Fargo.

I'm thankful for my neighbors. Each afternoon, I can let my kids go out and play in teh cul-de-sac while I start dinner. I don't have to hover or helicopter, because I know there are many other eyes on them. Sometimes I feel transported back to my own carefree childhood. How great is that?

Finally, I'm thankful for my friends. You keep me sane. You've dug me out of more holes than I care to count.

We have a lot coming up in the next few weeks.... Eric is finally heading to Mayo the 8th and we have the usual end of the year craziness. But right now I can sit back and smile at all the awesome things in my life. Really? I've got it pretty good.

Now, where's my credit card? Cyber monday sales start in four hours!

We interrupt this story to bring you.... life.

Lately, I've had a lot of stress in my life, and nowhere to vent it to. With me, stress is like a pressurized vessel. You can keep heating it and heating it, and the pressure keeps building and building- but eventually its' going to blow. And when that happens, it's not pretty.

I've vented some recently to a friend, but I can't talk to her on a daily basis, and it's not fair for all of our conversations to be:
Her: Hey, K, what's up? How are-
Me: OH MY GOD MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE KIDS DID YESTERDAY? AND THEN THE DOG PEED ON THE BED AGAIN AND I WAS OUT OF SHEETS AND THEN.....

Her patience is golden, but it only lasts so long. It's a non-renewable resource I don't want to tap out.

She made a suggestion though. "You need to find a way to get this out on a daily basis. didn't you used to keep a journal?" I did, back in high school. My journal was a spiral bound notebook of teenage angst, unrequieted love, and bad poetry.

I am not
Made of Stone
No matter what
The masses think.
I hurt
I bleed
I weep at night.

Move over, Sylvia Plath.

The e-age gave me an online journal that I kept for several years... and I have to admit, it helped. When bad things happened, it was a place to pour it all out. When good things happened, it was a place to celebrate. I left that journal a year ago to leave some people behind. A good move... but I realized after talking to my friend, that I missed the cathartic nature of pouring it all out to the universe.

So here I am. I started this blog some time ago to document the insane life I lead with my family, but I never could find the time to update it the way I wanted to. Now I realize that it's more a matter of necessity to sanity. That could make a good band name. Maybe I should re-take up the spoons.

ANYWAY (look at the kitty!). This is the story of my life. I'm Kh, sometimes known as Silent K, sometimes known as Mom, Mama, Hey you, Honey, Princess, and even That Bitch. I'm a 32 year old mom of two crazy boys. My oldest is 9- about to turn 10 this month. Don't get me started on how fast a decade flew by. He's the Dashman, Big D, or My Bear. He's brilliant, beautiful, kind, and funny. His teachers describe him as the student every teacher dreams of having. He loves to read, and his latest passion is fantasy books. He's a math whiz. he has what is pretty close to a photographic memory. He's never met a kid that doesn't become his friend. He's popular in that "everyman" kind of way, and his birthday party invitation list is a mix of kids from every social segment. Dash plays football and baseball and understands the games more than most adult makes do. He doesn't watch morning cartoons- he watches SportsCenter and Mike and Mike in the morning. He's got blond hair, blue-green hazel eyes (they change depending on what he's wearing and his moods) with dark lashes that make even the 14 year old across the street sigh a little. He's completely oblivious to the fact that he's beautiful, and the fact that he carries my heart around in his messenger bag all day.

My youngest is 4, and the polar opposite of dash in many ways. The Z Monkey is dark where his brother is fair, is loud where his brother is quiet, and dives into everything headfirst, where Dash is more likely to test the waters slowly. Zack has a killer sense of humor, is passionate, headstrong, and vibrant. He loves sports, and plays soccer and t-ball. He requests that his wavy brown hair be spiked, faux hawked, or otherwise styled each morning. He loves the Imagination Movers and wants to grow up to be Mover Dave. He rode his first roller coaster (REAL roller coaster) this past summer, having just turned 4. The Monkey is hell on wheels, but he has a heart of gold, and is the first one to ask if you're okay if you get hurt. Z has speech issues, and goes to a special preschool four days a week to help develop his speech. He works hard, though he balks at home. He also sees an occupational therapist weekly to help with sensory issues. through it all, his sense of self and sense of humor shine through. Sometimes I have to close my eyes and count to ten, but I'm always rewarded for my patience.

I've been married to The Flake for twelve years. We met doing collegiate theatre, and it was the closest thing to love at first sight I can imagine. We ignored everyone and married less than a year later- four days after my 20th birthday. Flake is the most amazing man I know. He's a phenomenal father... every child should have a father as passionate, involved, and caring as my children are blessed to have. He's worked his way up in his company from a part time vacation person (we're talking bottom of the ladder.. maybe not even on the ladder) to becoming a National Director. he's determined, he's a leader, he's incredibly intellegent, he's hilarious.... and quite frankly, he's hot :) You should see the boy in a suit. He's also battling not one, but two diseases that he was diagnosed with this summer: Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD) and possibly Crohns. I admire him more than I can say.

And me? I'm just a part time retail trainer, full time mom/chef/chauffer/life coach/secretary/nurse/vet/jungle gym, who also happens to be a semi-professional photographer. I'm a team mom, a friend, a daughter, a sister, and at times a conniving little bitch.

This is our story. Excuse me while I go get the shaving cream off of the Monkey's head.

September 1: Ordinary Beauty

At church the upcoming discussion is going to be finding beauty in unusual places.. ordinary beauty that we miss. I like that concept. There are so many things that we miss in the day to day of life that are truly filled with beauty. Unusual beauty.

So for today, September 1st, this is my unexpected beauty. Not for it's form or it's glory... but for what it represents: kindness. See, our washing machine- it's one of those that could probably fly the space shuttle if you asked it nicely. Of course, that means that periodically it begins flashing codes at me- LD, PW, OB, DD. I'm sure they have significance, but at the time I'm too busy kicking the machine and swearing under my breath. Don't get me wrong, it's great that my washing machine can automatically detect if it's being graced with my pink underoos or my kid's stinky football pants... but it's a pain in the kiester when you're trying to figure out what an L5 code means.

So here we are, with no washing machine, in the middle of football season. Ew. I could go to the laundromat... in fact, that's what I planned on doing. It irks me to dish out the money, but it is what it is. Instead, I ended up at my in-laws, doing three loads of much needed laundry today. That's their laundry room. And while some can argue that they're family... of course they should help out- it's still an act of kindness. And kindness, in this world, has a special beauty. their kindness makes this picture beautiful.

HAVE FUN, DANGIT!

It's the last few days of summer vacation, a bittersweet time of anxiety and repressed jubilation when you have school agers in the house. The summer is over- no more lazy days lying around in jammies or staying up too late to watch another movie. It's time to pack your bags and hit the road, Jack. Your life awaits you.

But hold on, wait a minute, gotta get one last blast out. That's why we headed up to the local water park a couple days ago, squeezing those last scorching bits of fun out of August. We pick up theme park season tickets every summer. Sure, it's a bang on the pocketbook that first time out, but after that it's sensible, easy fun. Pack a cooler for lunch or dinner, and head out. We wander around, doing whatever seems like fun. Sometimes we go out for the whole day; others we zip out for a few rides after dinner. The great thing is that we never feel like we have to do ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW TODAY BECAUSE THIS IS OUR ONLY CHANCE. You know that feeling... you paid twenty umpteen dollars and ,by goodness, you're going to get every penny's worth! So you turn into the Fun Nazi, dragging your tired, aching children from ride to exhibit to ride, demanding the good time you paid for.

Fun Nazis crack me up. I mean, I feel terribly for their children, who you know will someday crack in therapy, weeping uncontrollably. "And then... and then it was the MERRY GO ROUND! All it does is go around and around and around.... just like my life!" I expect to see them in certain places- the zoo, traditional theme parks, fairs. But for some reason I'm always suprised to see them at water parks. To me, water parks are filled with a land locked island spirit of sorts. You meander from place to place. There are rides, but it's so much more of a relaxed vibe. I mean, one of the main attractions is called a "Lazy" river! How can you get worked up in a place like this? Oh, but the Fun Nazis can.

At water parks, the true sign of a Fun Nazi is the camera. Yes, a camera. At a water park. And it's not just a disposable, or a cheap digital shoved in a plastic case (of which I'm guilty). We're talking hardware. Digital SLRs, primed and ready for the next great shot of Little Lola and Junior Johnny splashing at the frog pond. Rather than getting in and playing with the kids, the FNM (Fun Nazi Mom) stands at the side of every attraction, her $1000, decidedly NON waterproof camera in hand. "Lola! Lola, honey, look over here! LOOK! OVER HERE! LOLA!" "Johnny, stop going down the slide so fast! Mommy needs to take your picture! Go slower! No, Stop! STOP! RIGHT THERE! Now... no, DONT SPLASH MOMMY!"

Good times, good times.

As we splashed and played that last day of summer, I caught a FNM standing at the side of the pool, holding a camera that easily cost well over a grand- closer to two grand with the lens. I smiled at her and said "You are a braver woman than I!" With a frosty glare, she arched one perfect eyebrow and said "Well, their summer scrapbooks will NOT be complete without these pictures. I can't sacrifice quality." With that she fired off 27 frames per second of Little Lola, all of two years old, looking dejected and nervous amid the running, screaming kids.

Maybe I won't have perfect pictures of my kids at the water park. I'll have some, but they won't be the same quality as SuperPhotoMom has. But I'm okay with that. Because in the end, I want my kids to remember the time we spent together going down slides and racing through waves. I want them to remember it in their heads, and with their hearts, rather than th rough the pages of a scrapbook. I want them to remember it because it REALLY happened.. not because i was directing an artificial scene of fun.

I'll save that for my personal social life. "Here, stand over by this restaurant honey, and it will look like we went out for the night rather than just grocery shopping!"

School bells ring... are ya listening?

It's that time of year again! A time of cheer, a time of happiness, love, peace, and goodwill towards men. No, silly. It's not Christmas.

It's time for the kids to go back to school!

Don't get me wrong, I adore my children. I love them more than life itself. But I'd be lying through my teeth if I said that three months of vacation is a dream waiting to happen. Oh sure, the first month is fun. You have so many ideas and plans! You'll go swimming at least twice a week! You'll have picnics at the park and playdates at the playground! You'll host rousing barbeques on your back deck! You'll pee rainbows and poo bubbles!

Okay, maybe I got a little out of hand there.

By month two, reality begins to click in. It's been raining the last two weeks and swimming has been out of the question. When it's not raining, the park is too muddy to play in. Your kids are sick of peanut butter sandwiches, and no one is hosting a BBQ since that big e-coli scare. The only one peeing anything of note is the family dog- you should probably have that checked out by the vet.

Don't even get me started on month three.

The point is, twelve weeks is a long time for the average family to be stuck in 80% humidity plus happiness. It's not just the parents. My son is secretly gleeful that soon he'll be racing around the playground with his buddies again, not having to deal with his four year old brother All Day, Every Day. And the four year old? Well, lets just say that I've seen him looking longingly at the occasional school bus a time or two this past week. The wait is almost over. In just fifteen days they'll be dressed in their back to school finest, waiting for their golden hued chariots to whisk them back to a life of friends, structure, and milk in cartons.

It hasn't been the summer of our dreams. Somewhere amidst the sunburns and peanut butter, my husband got sick. Really sick. We thought it was food poisoning to start- a bad slice of pizza was surely the culprit. But he didn't get better, no matter how much Pepto we poured down him. So while I ran to baseball games and birthday parties and figured out grocery shopping and carpools, he stayed home, in bed, sick. And when July reared it's head and my favorite holiday- the 4th- approached, rather than celebrating with us by buying explosives for small children, he could barely make it through the day. He spent the holiday weekend in the hospital, getting steroids and antibiotics. Instead of lighting the candles on our youngest's birthday cake, he watched from his hospital room via webcam. He came home after a week, but it's been a roller coaster of medications, tests, many questions, and few answers.

Life- and Summer- go on though, blood draws and colonoscopies be damned. And truth be told, this summer is heading towards it's close. Fall bedtimes have been reestablished, much to my children's chagrin. And while I may not look b ack at Summer 2009 with the fondest of glances, I can say beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was memorable in it's own ways. Even if I didn't pee any rainbows.

Head in the Stars, Feet on the Ground

When I was a little girl, parents told me I could be whatever I wanted to be. And what I wanted to be, more than anything else, was a martyr. That's when they realized I'd spent too much time reading the "Lives of the Saints" book I was given at baptism.

Martyrdom gave way to wanting to be an astronaut. This was something I was extremely passionate about. I was born with my head in the stars. I remember being about four- it's when we lived in the countryside- and sitting in the driveway with my brother, John. We'd make up constellations- "that's the kite constellation!" "That's the teapot!". When I started elementary school, my parents put me in a s mall parochial school that practiced "Holistic Learning"- far beyond the rote and recall of traditional classes, we mixed learning to read with tales of the Greeks and Romans, mythology with mathematics, astronomy with history. By the second grade I could tell you all about the TRUE constellations and what their stories were, both Greek and the Roman counterpart (for what it's worth, I've always preferred the Greek to the Roman.). I can still walk outside and immediately find Orion, Scorpio, and the generalization of the Pliades.

That passion for the stars made me want to travel among them. Top Gun made me want to fly jets. So I figured I'd start my professional career in the military, flying fighter jets until I could fly the Shuttle. The Navy at that time didn't allow female pilots, so I looked to the Air Force. By the 8th grade, I had my ducks in a row: a writing relationship with Senator Bob Dole (since you have to have a recommendation), as well as my mom pulling strings with an old boyfriend who just HAPPENED to be an Admiral. I was involved in teh community, in clubs. I would go to the Air Force Academy, I would study aeronautical engineering, I would do my time in the service, and prepare my step to NASA. Someday, *I* would be the one in the stars.

But at fifteen we discovered my vision sucked, and I wouldn't be flying much of anything. Too easily I let myself be talked out of the stars... and found my TRUE love waiting for me- journalism. I love to write. I can write all day- letters, notes, lists, stories, poems. I love taking our magnetic fridge poetry and composing bits on the go:

Oh wretched corn flakes!
Without sugar your taste is
Resembling cardboard.

I went to KU and immersed myself in the J-school. I worked for the yearbook AND the paper my freshman year. I started getting really interested in advertising, combining my loves of layout and art with writing. I created an ad campaign geared toward the then fledgling Major League Baseball ("MLB: Back to Basics). I also met a boy and quit going to all of my classes but the J-school stuff. Apparently that's not okay, and I was asked, somewhat politely, to leave for a while and come back when I had my head on straight. I got my head on straight, but I also met my husband and married at 20. A series of events later, and I found myself with two kids, moving here there an everywhere, and a husband that was back in school. I had found photography, ran a successful business before an interstate move closed things down and the economy created a wall between re-start and success.

And here i am. My boys are both in school now, the oldest in 3rd grade, and the youngest in a half day pre-k program. As I sit here, with my coffee and bonbons, I wonder... is this it? Don't get me wrong, I ADORE what I do with my boys, and there is a satisfaction in managing the house... but I want something else- something more. I want to go back to school.

But for what? There's my hesitation. Do I follow my dreams or do I do the responsible thing? If I were following my dreams, I'd get my formal degree in photography, a minor in english, and look towards photojournalism. I look at National Geographic, Time, Newsweek.... and I breathe it in like oxygen, devour it like food for the starving.

But I'm a mother and a wife. I'm not 20 anymore, with the world at my feet. And that part of me tells me to be responsible. Look for something with staying power, where you can find a job no matter where you are. Health Care. I've always been interested in physiology, the body, science. I love to fall asleep to Discovery heatlh (much to my squeamish husband's chagrin... but come on! Nothing like a good brain surgery or facial reconstruction to fall asleep to!). Phlebotomy, radiology... no matter where we moved to I could find a j ob most likely. I can still take pictures on the weekends.

But not how I dream of.

DH is finishing school, and it's time for me to start making decisions. Do I let my heart lead? Or do I listen to my head?
The clock is ticking....

Ask not what your school can do for you, but how much overpriced, plastic crap you can sell for your school!

Apparently, I grew up in a charmed time and place. A time when it was okay for me to ride my bike the ten blocks to the Dairy queen and buy a Dilly Bar; a time when you knew you had to be good, even if your parents weren’t around, because chances were the neighbors were watching you (and not in a pervy way, either); a time when there were actually GOOD cartoons on the TV on Saturday mornings, but they ended at 11am (and really, the good ones were over by ten), so you went outside for the rest of the day.

A time when I didn’t have to sell plastic garbage to raise money for new playground equipment, or art supplies, or whatever.

Maybe I just got off lucky, but until I was in middle school I never had to sell a thing besides liquor at my dad’s store (HAHA! Kidding! Sort of). I wasn’t a Girl Scout, or a Bluebird, or a Campfire girl. I didn’t play on a sports team. And while I did go to a small parochial school, we were self sufficient insomuch as parents were expected to provide everything. I do mean everything. The school supply list for St. Mary’s vaguely resembled a stock count report for the local supply store. We went beyond a box of crayons and Big Chief tablet to “full set of tempera paints, five color” and “band-aids, multi size, two boxes”. I’d be willing to bet that they contemplated adding “toilet paper, your brand preference, four roll pack” to the list, but opted against it due to the sheer warfare that would occur between those rocking the Charmin and those suffering the booty indignation of store brand sandpaper.

What it all boils down to is that never in my early childhood years did I have to schlep from door to door with a box of candy bars or catalog of wrapping papers and cookie dough, begging my family and neighbors to help support the cause. And it would have been me out there- my parents wouldn’t have dreamed of selling for me. “Builds character,” my father would have said of me knocking on the door of the scary House on the Corner. “They won’t eat you.” (That’s because the people in the scary House on the Corner only ate PETS. Duh.) If I had intended on selling to my parents’ coworkers, it would have been my butt up there, walking from office to office, knocking on doors and saying “Excuse me, may I please ask you a question? Do you have enough wrapping paper and plastic kitsch in your life?”

Today, of course, everything has changed. Now schools fundraise from the time kids walk in the door until the week before school gets out. And if you don’t get enough from your school, you’ll surely be sitting pretty when your child’s football/soccer/baseball/softball/water polo team launches their semi-annual fundraiser…. To be followed, naturally, by every other extracurricular activity your child has ever even considered being a part of.

“Mom, I have to sell potpourri for the Turtle Scouts of America.”
“But you’re not a Turtle Scout.”
“Yeah, but I took a brochure at Back to School night, and now I owe them $4,483. Would you prefer the vanilla jasmine or the Rainy Day Blues?”

The worst really are the school fundraisers. They herd the entire school into the auditorium, piquing their excitement over the mid-day change in events. There, a perky pitchwoman tells the kids about how EXCITING it will be when their school gets their VERY OWN , and won’t that be GREAT? But the ONLY POSSIBLE WAY they can get their Important Item, is by raising money, and OBVIOUSLY, the BEST WAY to do that is by selling this overpriced crap! And for every $100 you raise ($10 of which will go to the school), you get your VERY OWN PRIZE worth approximately five cents!!!! And if you sell enough, you could ride in a LIMO to school (after dark, when no one is looking, obviously)!!!! By this time the kids are in an absolute frothing frenzy, and many lives are put at risk with the resulting stampede for their own special Packet O’ Junk. Later that afternoon, my son will walk confidently into the house, drop the catalogue on the table, and boldly pronounce “Without Sell-O-Rama fundraisers, our school wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. We’ve got to get out there and SELL SELL SELL!”

Naturally, in these troubled times we don’t allow kids to sell door to door, even in their own neighborhood. In fact, right on the front of the 47 pound fundraising packet (want to know why the rainforests are depleting? Blame fundraising.) it says, in bold, bold letters as if to imply you are not only stupid, but quite possibly a blind chimpanzee “WARNING: DO NOT ALLOW YOUR CHILD TO GO DOOR TO DOOR TO SELL. THIS IS A DANGEROUS PRACTICE AND COULD RESULT IN YOUR BELOVED OFFSPRING BEING EATEN BY THE PEOPLE IN THE SPOOKY HOUSE ON THE CORNER. DON’T SAY WE DIDN’T WARN YOU."

Instead, the kids are encouraged to sell to family members and friends and to “ask Mom and Dad to take the brochure into Work!!!!” So after you’ve called Grandma and Grandpa (who are trying to figure out the cookie dough conversion for their 401K in their retirement years), Aunt Cindy and Uncle Joe, it’s up to Mom and Dad to make up the slack. It’s clever, really. They know that if they directly ask the parents to do the selling we’d pelt them with last year’s leftover Macadamia Bars. So we end up lugging catalogues and forms to the office, only to find that everyone else is also hawking their own goods. So a barter system breaks out.

“If you’ll buy three Krunchie Bars to send Kaitlin to Science City, I’ll buy a pound of Chocolate Giggle Drops to send Jacob to the soccer Octofinals in Schenectady.”

“I’m already buying five Krunchie bars from Jim in Accounts. Do you have any Caramel Strudel Bars?”

In essence, it’s no different from buying your own kid’s stuff, but it makes us feel better because, in a roundabout way, we’re helping others. And it looks better on your kid’s order form to see fifteen names rather than just “Mom- 438 Krunchie Bars.”

I tried to circumvent the system one year by just asking if I could donate money. “The school will get more that way,” I reasoned to the shocked PTA rep. “I’d just rather give $25 off the bat and not have to fundraise, than have to sell $500 for the school to make $25.”

She looked me up and down, she in her fashionable jeans and sweater set, I in my fleece pants that, if deconstructed, could warm a small African village and not quite matching pull over. “I don’t understand. Do you not want to do the fundraiser?”
“No, not particularly. I’d rather just give you the money.”

“But the fundraiser is so much fun! And the kids get prizes!”

“I’ll take him to the dollar store. Or the county fair. But I’d rather just give you the money now.”

Good effort, no success. We ended up selling ten items so my son could get the Super Bouncy Ball…. Just like the one he paid fifty-cents for at Pizza Street.

Now my youngest son is fundraising too, for his preschool. Trash bags. I called the PTA president to make sure, and yes, they’re huge rolls of trash bags for $10. Industrial strength. Apparently this is a very, very popular fundraiser for the school.

I bet so. This is something you can use…. For all of those other fundraising packets.

Monday Morning

This morning, my oldest son woke me up at 8:10am, a look of relative anxiety on his face.

"Mom. MOM! It's 8am."
"Mnardasiudsgh.... yeah."
"No... MOM! Come on, it's 8!"
"MNARF....sheckle-hommy... askyerdad."
*exasperated* "Mooooooooom! Come on! I don't have pants and if I don't have pants I can't shower!"

Obvious logic process, there.

Somewhere in this conversation I realize that:
A: My nine year old son does not have pants. Or at least he can't find any. The truth could be either one of these. It was a busy weekend. I didn't exactly do any laundry.

B: My nine year old hasn't showered. Furthermore, it's 8:15 (NOT 8!), and my nine year old hasn't showered. Which means he now has a half hour to find his clothes, shower, dress, brush his teeth, find his shoes, find his backpack (all morning routines in our home involve a significant amount of finding things. It's our own little safari adventure. I should buy a pith helmet.), have me sign any and all forms that require signing, check the lunch menu for the day, argue about the lunch menu, and then send him happily on his way to the bus stop. That's a lot to do in thirty minutes.

C: The painful knot in my side is not appendicitis or a burgeoning tumor, but instead the toes of my three year old son who has somehow found his way to my bedroom in the middle of the night, only to sleep completely sideways with his heels thrust into my ribs. Clearly, he was having a fetal moment, as that's how he spent the bulk of his nine months "in residence". Not only is he still sleeping, but HE has to be ready for the preschool bus at the same time as his brother.

Uh oh.

I shoo the nine year old to the shower with promises to find pants (and meanwhile allow myself to throw something on over my jammies) and begin the process of rousing Captain Crabbypants. Promising he can have chocolate milk after he lets the dogs out-- he ADORES letting them in and out the back door-- I throw on yesterday's jeans and a clean sweatshirt. I spend the next twenty five minutes arguing about clothes (I understand it will be 55 after school but right now it's 28. Wear a coat.), hair (No, you can NOT have a mohawk), lunch choices (Please, for the love of all things holy, try a fruit!), and whether or not we can turn on Spongebob (No, he'll melt your brain.). At ten til nine my oldest busts out the front door to race to the bus stop on the cul-de-sac corner, just as the little preschool bus pulls to the curb. Kisses, hugs, and frantic waving later, I'm collapsed on the sofa feeling as if I've squeezed eight hours of negotiation into 35 minutes. Without coffee, no less.

I'm not the perfect mom. If I were the "perfect mom" I would have been up at six am making sure clothes were laid out, breakfast prepared, and listening to the morning news to get the latest weather information. Instead, I find myself stumbling out of bed at the last minute, hoping to god there's clean underwear for all involved, and begging for the kids to eat something, ANYTHING for breakfast. Half the time I take Z (the three year old) to the bus in my funky pj pants and a jacket. At least, I figure, I MAKE it to the bus. I could just send him running out. It's only down the driveway, he'd be fine.

Sometimes I wonder if I was born without part of the Mom gene. I will be the first to admit- had you asked me twelve years ago if children were on the near horizon... or really much of any horizon- I would have laughed. Laughed so hard I may well have peed my pants. But soon I found myself married and with a baby. And contrary to many beliefs I didn't get married because I was going to have a baby... I married because I was goofy in love, and had a baby for the same reasons. There's a point in which you're so in love you can't imagine not spreading some of that love around. So there I was at twenty-two: married, a beautiful baby boy, hadn't finished college, didn't know what I wanted to do with my life really... only that I'd make it somehow. And I have. This isn't exactly what I thought I was signing on for, but man, what a ride!

I do the best I can by my boys. And while I'll never be class mom, my kids know how much I love and support them. I'm the mom who paints the van windows before important games, the mom who stayed up all night cross-stitching the Valentines Mailbox from hell. I'm the one D (the nine year old) can talk to about his burgeoning interest in girls (Dateline Extra: Girls not as "yucky" as once thought; sometimes they smell good. More at eleven!), and the one who knows just how to rub the boo-boos off of a bumped head or knee. I build great roller coasters on Thrillville, the kind that really make you want to throw up. I'm prone to dancing in the kitchen with the music turned up as loud as possible. And eventually... eventually I can find a pair of killer faded camoflauge pants that will look just right with the grey hoodie you wanted to wear... at 8:15 on a Monday school morning. Without coffee.