Struggles

It still astounds me how one thing can effect everything.  There's a scene in the Disney movie Pocahontas (bear with me here - I watch a lot of Disney movies) with the Grandmother Willow Tree.  She's explaining to John Smith and Pocahontas how their actions can have a far reaching effect.  She does so by touching one of her vines gently to the water.  She tells them to watch the ripples.  They start out so small... but eventually touch every part of the lake.  One thing can effect everything.

It's been a little over 3 months since my Dad passed away.  It already seems like a lifetime.  And it has touched every part of my life.  In the 60's, my Dad was a professional baseball player.  He played in the San Diego Padres farm organization.  My son worshipped his Pop for many reasons, not the smallest of which was the fact that his grandfather played pro ball.  2 days after Dad died, we took my son to his baseball game.  As soon as we came over he rise and set eyes on the field, I burst into tears.  My Dad had never been able to see his very talented grandson play in person.  I will never watch one of Connor's games the same way again.

A week after he died, I tried to do something "normal".  I went to one of my favorite classes at my gym, a 75 minute killer class.  Thinking I could just loose myself in the sweat and difficulty and forget for just a few minutes.  Instead, I wound up fighting to hold it together half way through the class.  It was almost 2 months before I went back.

I'll hear a song on the radio and tear up.  Look at a particularly beautiful sunset.  Walk past the place where my husband asked Dad for permission to marry me.  Find an old voicemail, wishing me a happy birthday.  Realize that I will never have another birthday with a Daddy.  The opportunities to rip open the wound again are many, and usually quite unexpected.  I'm told all of that is a "normal" part of the grieving process.  Like that makes it suck any less spectacularly.

But these ripples touch even more places.  Almost 2 years ago now, I completed a life-changing weight loss journey.  I lost almost 80 pounds, going from 215 pounds to 138.  And I kept it off, continuing to fluctuate around the 140 mark, and I was thrilled with the me I had become.  Dad died October 23rd, 2014.  Enter grief, the holidays, grief, some traveling, and a little more grief.  I have always been an emotional eater.  Happy, sad, frustrated, tired, bored, excited - all reasons to eat.  I thought I tackled and defeated that monster during the loss of all that weight.  I was very wrong.  I got on the scale this morning and weighed 160 pounds.  Twenty pounds in just over 3 months.  Ripples.

I could chalk it up to the crap.  I lost 3 significant members of my family in 2014.  That alone would drive anyone to find comfort.  Some would say it's great that it didn't drive me to drink.  For me... food is my drug of choice.  So the fact that I didn't drown my grief in a bottle is no consolation.  But it's not just that.  We decided to move 300 miles away, to where we know next to no one.  We're selling our house.  We're moving my kids to where they have no friends (yet).  We're spending a buttload of money to get our house ready for someone else to fall in love with.  We don't have a house to move into, yet.  My husband doesn't even have a job where we're going.  He will before we move, or we won't move out of our area, but still.  All major stressors.  All "reasons" for that 20 pounds.  But none of that makes me feel any better, or any less fearful that I'm on a slippery slope back to 215 pounds.  My BFF told me that she wasn't worried.  That she knew this was just temporary... a coping mechanism.  And that when I was ready, I'd drop it without a problem, because that's how strong she knows I am.  Today, looking at 160 pounds on that scale, I don't feel that strong.  I feel... weak.  A little defeated.  Lost.

All I can hope, today, is that I can make it through today, faking being strong, so that I can wake up tomorrow and be a little closer to actually being strong.  You know...  "Fake it 'till you make it!"  Right?

Fear

Why are fear and excitement so closely intertwined?  It's as if, for certain things in life, we have to be afraid in order find it exciting.  Like there won't be an adrenaline rush in the absence of fear.  I love roller coasters.  I am scared every. single. time. I ride one.  Until we take the first big drop, then I'm just getting bugs in my teeth from smiling so hard.  And, I know this.  I know I have nothing to be afraid of, but it's still there.

As I get older, I find myself fearing different things.  When I was little, I was afraid of the bear in the attic.  Yes, I wholeheartedly believed there was a bear in my attic.  And my evil mom and step-father fostered that belief on every sleepover party I had.  But that's a post for another day.  I was afraid of getting lost.  I was afraid of falling overboard while we were under sail.  Kid things.  Things that were a big deal then, but seem almost silly now.  As an adult, my fears are different.  Bigger and badder.  Something happening to my kids.  To my husband.  Given the track record of my past year, loosing more loved ones ranks pretty damn high on my list of "grown-up" fears.  Change.

Most people that know me well would be surprised that "change" makes my short list.  But change is something almost everyone fears on some level, even if they don't like to admit it.  We get comfortable.  We like our lives, our personal routines.  Even those of us that live what seems like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of life can count on the consistency of their inconsistency.  Some of us struggle with even small change.  Yeesh, you should have heard the muttering when my son's Elementary school got a new Principal.  Others of us only pause when the change is huge, even when - or maybe especially when - the change is our own choice.

Because of the way I had lived my professional life for many many years, I pretty much isolated myself from forming many friendships.  I worked a million hours a week, and I worked by a policy that we didn't befriend our clients.  So, my friends were my co-workers.  One of whom was my husband.  There were a whopping 4 others.  Makes for a pretty small circle, right?  So, when I switched gears and, at the age of 34, became a Stay at Home Mom, I pretty much left my friends behind.

Most people also believe it's a cakewalk for me to make friends.  And that is certainly the case, sometimes.  I make acquaintances very easily.  But good friends?  The kind you can tell all of your stuff to?  The kind you can call or text at 1am for whatever crazy reason, and they're ok with that?  I gotta tell you...  That wasn't the easiest task at 34.  Everyone already has those friends.  They're not interviewing for another.  Don't get me wrong, I still had them...  they were just 1,500 miles away.  So, it took me a while, but I made them again.  I have friends that rise to that level here.  Several, actually.  And one, in particular, which pretty much falls in line with the norm, I'd guess.
So why would I want to go and choose major change into my life...  again?

I think my husband wonders that, too, God bless him.  But, it seems that, every so often in my life, I want that level of change.  I need that level of change.  So, here I go again...  A big change.  A new place, new people...  This time, I'll be in a "strange" town, and I won't be 34...  I'll be 40.  6 more years my peers have had to establish and solidify existing friendships.  That much older to be "interviewing" for new friends.  All while hoping I don't loose the old ones.  Which will happen with some - is already starting - because, like I said... people don't like change.

I hope Southern hospitality is all it's cracked up to be.  It would be nice to be welcomed with open arms and hearts.  It's getting rare these days.  And I fear this change.  Yup, even at (almost) 40, I'm afraid of not making friends.  I guess that "silly childhood fear" never goes away, does it?  But I suppose this level of change is like a roller coaster for me...  I know I have nothing to be afraid of, but it's still there.

It's said that bravery is not action in the absence of fear... but in spite of it.  So, I suppose moving 300 miles to a place where I know one person from the home I've known for over a decade makes me brave.  Here's hoping I can act it, too.

Changes...

Me and my Daddy

On October 23rd, at approximately 8:30am, my life changed.  At 10:49pm, it changed again.

A girl identifies herself differently at different points in her life.  A dancer, an athlete, a brainiac, a gymnast, an actress, an honor student, a girlfriend, a college student, a business woman, a wife, a mother.... the list is infinite.  But from the very moment we come into this world, we are all one thing - a daughter.  To someone, somewhere, present or not, traditional or not, we are daughters.  And in the backs of our minds, we always define ourselves, in part, as Mommy and/or Daddy's Little Girl.  On October 23rd, at approximately 8:30am, while I was in a car on my way to see him... I ceased to be Daddy's Little Girl, because my Daddy left this world for a better one.

It's been a rough couple of years for my family.  In 2013, My Mom's brother, my Uncle George, was diagnosed with throat cancer.  Then, my Dad's sister, my Aunt Kathleen, was diagnosed with leukemia.  And the final blow of the year was my Dad being diagnosed with an inoperable malignant brain tumor.  They all underwent treatment.  Some more aggressive than others.  But they all refused to go silently into that good night.  We all had high hopes that 2014 would be a year to slay the dragon that is Cancer.

Aunt Kathleen fought like the tiger she was.  From the moment she was diagnosed, she made appointments and phone calls and did research.  She went to the best hospital available to her - even though it was an almost 2 hour drive from her house.  But in the end, her body gave out on her, and she left us on June 5th.

My Uncle Georgie stopped his treatment in pretty short order.  It destroyed his quality of life, and the payoff was maybe an extra year.  He decided it wasn't worth it.  We can only assume he was right.  He made it about a year past the end of his treatment before he left us, at complete peace with the end of his life, which came on October 11th.

Both of those losses were hard.  I loved my Aunt and Uncle to the ends of the Earth and back again. I think about them all the time, and know that they are both looking over us.  I know that they are both healthy and whole and happy.  That they are with our amazing loved ones who have gone before them.  That my Grandparents were likely waiting for them with open arms.  That they are with God.  And, although all of that is a comfort, being left on this Earth without them is still hard.   But, really, I had no idea...

I got a phone call on Wednesday morning, October 22nd.  We were at my daughter's riding lesson.  I saw the caller ID, and my heart dropped.  It had been several weeks since I'd directly spoken to my Dad.  I knew what the phone call was.  I briefly thought of ignoring it, but, of course, ignoring something doesn't make it go away.  Oh, how I wish it did!  I would have ignored it forever.  I was told that my Dad was failing.  That if I wanted to say goodbye, I should get my butt to New Jersey.  That I shouldn't wait.  Even until tomorrow.  So, I made phone calls.  I called my stepmother, who said Dad was best in the mornings, and why don't I come around 9am?  I made arrangements... my husband left work early, took Thursday off, I packed, accepted my Aunt's offer to spend the night with her, gassed up, and off I went.  It's a 3 and a half hour drive from my house to my Aunt's.  Longest three hours of my life.

We woke early, my Aunt and I.  It was an hour drive to my Dad's from her house.  I showered and dressed up a little.  I even put on makeup.  I wanted to look nice for my Daddy.  We stopped for breakfast.  Half way to his house, we got the phone call that we were too late.  Or he was too early.  But either way, God had called him home.

The rest of the day is already a little hazy.  I'm not sure how I made the 3.5 hour drive back home that afternoon.  There were tears, certainly, but I didn't really loose it until I was home, the kids were in bed, and I was alone in the dark with my husband.  Then, I sobbed like a little kid.  Like the Daddy's Little Girl I no longer was.  And then I got the text.  It was 11:10pm.

"7 lbs. 8 oz.  Don't have length yet....born at 10:49.  She pushed 4 times and that's it.  She did amazing!!"

One of my best friend's daughter's... she was 8 days overdue with a son.  They decided to induce her that morning.  And Colton arrived an hour before midnight... the moment my life changed again.

Thursday, October 23rd started with one of the most significant men in my life leaving this world... and it ended with a new man coming into it.  It's only right, I suppose.  If God was going to take my Daddy that day, that He give me a reminder of life's miracles.  That, against all my thoughts to the contrary, life goes on.  That happiness is still possible.  That it's ok to smile... and even to laugh.  And that this hole in my heart and in my life won't ever go away... but I will learn to go on in spite if it.  In some ways, because of it.  Because I know that my Dad would want those of us he left behind to find our happiness again.

I love you, Daddy...

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

The Things We Do....

I saw something once, a saying about how we, as parents, feel about our kids.  Something along the lines of, "Our children are our hearts beating outside of our bodies."  I thought that was true when my kids were babies.  I would have protected them with everything I have, and then some.  I'd give my last breath for my babies.  And as they grow, I'm learning the broader meaning of that saying.

To keep our hearts beating, we will do a whole nature of things that go well beyond physical protection.  Sure, we feed them, clothe them, make them brush their teeth and try to keep them basically healthy.  That's kind of a no-brainer.  But what else is there?  Now that I have one that's almost double digits (holy. crap.), I'm really learning the extents to which I will go, the mountains I will climb, to raise the little people I made into the best adults they can be.

As I'm sure you've noticed, my boy child has an affinity for baseball.  Just a little.  I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised - it's in his DNA.  My Dad played ball for the Padres organization in the 60's.  My Popop (on the other side of the family, my Mom's Dad) was pursued by the Yankees in the 30's-ish (the YANKEES!  In the golden era of baseball!!).  Neither of them played past their late teens/early twenties.  My Dad because there wasn't a whole lot of money in baseball in the 60's, unless you were a superstar, and he was already married with a son, and my Grandfather because he came from a "good" family, and you just didn't ignore your "real life" to "play a game".  But the fact is that my son has a baseball rich heritage.  Who knows, maybe he's got the spirit of my Pop in him, urging him along so he can give it another go.

But whether it's because if all that or in spite of it, my son loves this game.  He watches the games, follows the stats - both Minor AND Major League, plays every chance he can get...  He eats, sleeps and breathes this sport.  He's got a passion for it that's rare in 9 year old boys.  So we foster it.  We feed it.  We play with him.  We have fun with him.  We get him lessons.  We send him to camps and clinics.  We try not to think about the expense, and we simply find a way.  A way to help our heart not just keep beating, but grow and thrive.  And that's how I came to be writing this today, from a Starbucks 50 miles from my house.

We signed Connor up for summer camp with the Washington Nationals, his favorite baseball team.  It was quite the expense, and it's not close.  It not only required financial output for the camp itself, but a 50 mile drive - each way, every day, sometimes twice a day for me, for 5 days.  Through morning rush hour in DC traffic.  Which can be (and has been, on a couple of occasions), nightmarish.  But the look on his face when I told him he was going was amazing.  The experience he's had this week was worth. every. damn. penny.  Every minute on the highway.  Every gallon of gas and mile on my beloved car.  Every whine from my 3 year old, who had to make the afternoon drive with me 3 times.  All to keep my heart beating strongly.

And today?  Today is Friday.  The last day of Nats Camp.  Possibly probably definitely the best day ever.  Today, he gets to go to Nationals Park.  He gets to play on the field.  Did you know that when you take a tour of any given ballpark, you're allowed on the warning track (that dirt area between the grass and the wall that circles the field), but you're not even allowed to touch the grass?  And they're not kidding.  They'll escort you right out of the ballpark.  But my kid gets to play out there today.  Like the big boys.  I told him to roll in the outfield grass for me, so I can smell him later.

But that's not even all.  He gets to meet one of the players.  And not some Minor Leaguer who's name no one knows, yet.  He gets to meet a regular.  An active 25-man roster guy.  He gets to meet Nate McLouth, who my son knows and respects.  He gets to talk to him, ask him questions, and get an autograph.

He gets to touch the dream today.  And that's worth all the exhaustion, all the time, all the money in the world.  Because I will do all of that and more... because my heart deserves every bit of it.

Raising an Athlete

Be careful what you wish for... You just might get it.

From the time I realized I wanted kids, I imagined what they would be like.  I know what I wanted, of course.  The same thing we all want: a happy, healthy, well-rounded, smart, good at everything, liked by everyone, successful in life offspring.  Barring all that, which pretty much takes a small miracle, we secretly pick.  Part of my secret wish for my firstborn was that he be a good athlete.  It does, after all, run in the family, so it wasn't like that particular wish wasn't do-able.  I just had no idea how it could come around to bite me in the butt.

We've tried several sports.  Gymnastics, swimming, cross country, baseball...  If he wants to give it a shot, we're willing.  He was good at them all.  He's small, fast and strong.  He runs a mile in 6:22 (freakish, I know.  I don't think I can ride my bike that fast).  But baseball...  he fell in love with baseball.  I didn't start him until he was 6, because I thought he might be bored.  Let's face it, America's pastime isn't necessarily the most exciting or fast paced game in the world.  And since baseball runs in the DNA, I wanted him to like it.  So, we waited.  He had a really cool T-Ball Coach that he loved.  He was one of the first to be able to hit a coach-pitched ball.  Later that fall, he started playing Machine Pitch.  Bigger kids, faster balls, more rules.  He loved it.  He picked less daisies in the outfield.  The next Spring, he played as a 7-year-old, one of the younger kids at the Machine Pitch level.  He learned to catch.  He was really good at it.  He was the only one that didn't shy away from the ball coming at him at 35mph.  We took him to his first Washington Nationals game.  We stayed until the bitter end, by his choice.  He declared Bryce Harper to be his favorite player, and the Nats his favorite team.  He decided he would play for them when he got older.

Last year, we had to make our first difficult athletic decision for him.  Move him up to the next level (Kid Pitch Minors), or keep him in Machine for one more season?  The average age progression for these kids is as follows:  T-Ball, 4-7; Machine Pitch, 8-9; Minors, 9-11; Majors, 11-12.  He was 7 playing Machine.  Should we move him up to Minors at 8, or leave him down another year?  Based on Coach feedback (and Connor's begging), we moved him up.  I was nervous about him playing with older, bigger boys, but it turns out it was for nothing (mostly).  He rose to the occasion and did a fantastic job.  His team even made it to the City Championships (which they lost), and he played 2nd base most of the way.  I just won't tell you about some of the new... ah... interesting terminology he picked up while sharing a dugout with 11 year olds.

By the end of that 2013 season, my son had really hit his stride.  He did a couple of camps over the summer, practiced all the time, took private lessons, hit the batting cages, clinics, you name it.  He started switch hitting.  Well.  Like, line drives and grounders 75-80% of the time off a 40mph machine well.  He's 9!  I swear, if you asked the child if he would rather breathe or play ball, he'd pick baseball every time.  My Dad and my husband bought him some practice equipment for the yard.  He didn't care if there was snow on the ground, he wanted to play.  And it sure showed at his Spring Evaluations last week.  Turns out he did so well that all the Coaches were - still are - talking about him.  Even though we had expressed that we were leaning toward keeping him in Minors this season, talk of moving him up surfaced.  Once he got wind of it, the begging started again.  "Pleeeeeaaaasssseeee let me play Majors!  PLEASE?"

Did I mention that there are 12-year-old boys in Majors?  That's Middle School.  That's hormones.  That's some kids that are bigger than my husband.  Seriously.

But...  he's a really good ball player.

But... he's my baby.

When did "I hope my son is a good athlete" turn into a bunch of grown-ups vying to have him on their team?  Seriously, apparently one of the Coaches offered up two other players of he could get my kid on his team.  Makes a Mama proud.  And makes a decision that should be easy that much harder.

I have to balance challenging him vs. overwhelming him.  Keeping him excited about the game vs. boring the crap out of him.  Play more vs. ride the bench more.  Play with boys his own age vs. older boys.  The list goes on.

Where's my kid manual???  You know, the one with the answers to all the tough stuff??

So, yeah...  having an excellent athlete isn't all cheering and proud Mama moments.  It's stressful and nerve-wracking, too.  And let's not even talk about expensive.  And you never get to win the Mother of the Year Award in years where you disappoint your own kid.  Because he's playing Minors again...

Born Again Athlete

This morning, when I was at the gym taking a group class, the instructor said something really cool.

"Everyone is on a personal fitness journey.  Maybe today, you're just trying to get through this class.  Maybe you're past that, and today you're trying to SLAM this class."

She doesn't care which one it is... she's just glad we're there.

Two years ago, I wouldn't have gone this morning.  Two years ago, I wasn't even a member of a gym.  Two years ago, I was proud of myself for walking a couple of times a week around my neighborhood, pushing a stroller.  Two years ago, I was still working on fixing what was broken inside, so I could be happy with the outside.  Today was my 5th workout this week.  Today, even though I'm tired, and the kids are already frazzled with Christmas glee, and I have a million other things I could have done, I did not do what I would have done two years ago.  Today, I got my ass in gear, got the kids up and ready, fed everyone, made my son's lunch, got him out the door to school - with his trombone! - packed myself and my daughter up, and went to the gym for my hardest class of the week.  Why?  Because today, I'm a different person.  My innards have morphed right along with my outtards.

My journey isn't over.  I've learned that it probably never will be.  I will constantly fight an inner battle with my relationship with food.  But here's the thing: two years later, I've won the war.  I got this.  There will still be skirmishes.  There will still be days where food wins, and that's even okay.  But I will never again be obese.  Because it's not who I am anymore.

Some of the stuff I've learned on this crazy journey:
1.  On day one, you are always ready and raring to go.
2.  On day five, you think you'll never make it.
3.  You will.  Just don't stop.
4.  On day 365, you know you'll make it.
5.  If you don't fix the inside, you will never love the outside, no matter how much you loose.
6.  Yes, spending an hour or two in the gym (or wherever) everyday is absolutely worth the time you spend away from your kids. They would rather have a healthy, fit, happy parent who plays with them, instead of an unhealthy, unhappy, cranky and out-of-shape parent who is physically present but never gets down and dirty with them.
7.  Don't diet. They don't work.
8.  Do find the nutrition/exercise combo that works for you.  I did not loose 80 pounds with tricks.  I worked my butt off.
9.  Don't listen to the critics.  They're everywhere.  I got criticized for being heavy, and I get criticized for being thin.
10.  Once you've retrained it, listen to your body.  After a while, it knows what it's doing better than you do.
11.  Don't beat yourself up for having the occasional crappy meal.  Or doughnut.  Or burger.  Or mac-n-cheese.  Or even half a box of Munchkins (yes, I did that.  Yesterday, actually.  And, seriously...  my body hates me today.  But... yum).  It happens.  Just don't let it happen all the time.
12.  Learn to love food again.  Food is good, and it's meant to be enjoyed.
13.  You have to do it for you.  Until you're ready to do it for yourself, it won't work.
14.  You do have the time.  Get up earlier, go to bed later, just do it.  The time is there, if you want to find it.
15.  Believe.  You can do this.  I know you can.

My Friend's Angels

Loss is a part of life.  We loose little things all the time - our keys, cell phones, favorite pair of jeans... but these things are all replaceable.  Our loved ones, when we loose them, are not.  My most painful loss is that of my Nana.  She helped raise me.  She was 92 when she passed 5 years ago, and it still hurts.  But there are losses that we, as spouses and parents, can't bear thinking about.  If I lost my husband, I don't know how I would continue to function.  If I lost a child...  one of my precious babies... well, I just can't even go there.  But I have to.  I have to, just for a second, try to imagine it.  Why would I do that, you ask?  Because I know people, friends, who have lost their babies.  Some to miscarriage, some to still birth, some to tragedy.  And they, without exception, are forever changed.

I haven't had a miscarriage.  I haven't had a still birth.  I haven't lost a child to a fire, a car accident, a drowning, or any other horrible tragedy.  And I can try - so can you - to imagine it, what it feels like, what those parents must go through... but I can't.  I know I won't even come close.  So why bother?  Because I have to remember that as much as I might want to ignore it, to pretend none of that can ever happen, it does.  And my ignoring it does not help my friends.  Talking about it, about the angles taken too soon, about what happened, even...  those are the things that help.  How do I know this?  My friends have told me.  They've told me the best thing we, as supporters, can do is to talk, to remember, to be a shoulder, to listen, to hug... and if we need to shy away, that's ok - they wish they could ignore it, too.  They understand.  But they need people who won't.  They need people who will, on some days, hunker down in the trenches with them as much as they need us to haul them out on others.  Is it hard?  Is it heart-wrenching?  Of course it is.  But what I, as someone who's never gone through the loss of a child, will feel absolutely pales in comparison.

Why am I writing this today?  It seems like there have been a lot of babies leaving us lately...  I attended the funeral of a playmate of my 2 year old daughter recently.  She was only 3 weeks older than Casey.  Just a few days ago, I heard of a 3 year old who was lost.  A local family lost 2 young daughters to a house fire.  Newtown.  And these families, and the countless others like them, need us to support them correctly, and not to just ignore it.  Don't just ignore and offer painful platitudes... help by facing the pain with them.  From what I'm told, it helps more than we can know.

One of my amazing survivor friends told another recent survivor to ignore everyone that kept telling her to "just take one day at a time".  She said that one whole, long, excruciating day was too overwhelming.  She should take one minute at a time, one breath.  That can be handled.  And you just take it from there.  If that doesn't help with our understanding, I don't know what will.

Take a look at this Still Standing Magazine... let these wonderful people help you help others.  Please...  do not ignore or push aside the loss of a baby, whether they were born or unborn when they got their wings.

And then...  go see Return to Zero when it's released.  You will help so many families by breaking the silence.

Frustrations, Plateaus and Other Fun Stuff

I don't like 2013.  I know we're only 3 months in, and it's certainly possible that 2013 will redeem itself, but I'm not holding out much hope.  Less than 2 weeks in, I had a minor fender bender in my brand new, 4 month old, Honda Pilot.  My husband insists that once it was washed, you can't even tell.  There are some scratches, and the wheel well is pushed out ever so slightly.  I can tell.  It pisses me off every time I see it.  Because the stoopid accident was my fault.  Haven't had an accident for over 10 years, and I swipe a guy at 11pm on a Saturday night in downtown Baltimore.  While wearing a formal dress.  Great.

Our shower is broken.  The base has a nifty crack in it that started leaking into my son's closet.  You know how I know?  I found mold growing on the ceiling in there when I was putting away some blankets from a sleepover he had.  We can't use my shower until it gets fixed.  Which was supposed to happen 2 days ago, but since the part has to be special ordered, I have to wait another 2 weeks.  Oh, and did I mention that the money to fix this particular debacle comes from the money I was going to use to buy my new, professional grade camera?  That I have been waiting for and drooling over forever?  Yeah.

My husband changed jobs (that's actually good).  We found out after he started that his new insurance wouldn't kick in for almost 2 months.  And when the Cobra letter came in the mail, it was more than our mortgage to get the patch insurance.  Nobody get sick until April 1st, people!!

I've had to deal with an unacceptable level of drama in an organization I volunteer for.  A reminder of why I, at times, really dislike being only one of the people in charge, as opposed to the person in charge.  When you're the person in charge, you can tell everyone else to take a long walk off a short pier, and do what you think is right.  Sometimes, it's just better that way.

Since March 17th, 2012, I've lost 54 pounds.  I've gone from a size 14 to a size 8.  And I'm stuck.  Been stuck, and fluctuating inside the same 3 pounds for six. weeks.  When I'm at the bottom of that 3 pounds, I only have about 10 pounds to go to hit my goal.  Ten pounds!!  I've lost almost 55 pounds, how come I can't drop the last 10?!  Grrrrr.

Most recently, my son started his Little League season.  His first year in kid pitch, yay!  And he winds up with what, by all appearances, is an amazing Coach.  After the first practice, I was thrilled.  Until we got the email that he's moving his child down to machine pitch - for perfectly good reasons, and I respect that - and won't be the Coach.  Less than one week of practice, 2 weeks until opening day, and he's on his second Coach.  Woo. Hoo.

But, here's the thing...  If you know me, you know I'm a pretty positive person.  I'm simply wired that way.  So, with all the stuff that's happened in this thus far short year, I'm still managing to see the silver lining - thank GOD.  Otherwise, I might have already stuck a fork in my eye.  Repeatedly.  That fender bender?  It really was minor, and no one was hurt.  It's just a car.  A fabulous, amazing, well-worth-the-long-wait-for-it car, but still just a material thing.  And the kids were not with us for the experience.  And the insurance company rocked it.

The mold in my son's ceiling?  Nothing but ordinary, run-of-the-mill, non-toxic water mold.  And not much of it.  A simple removal and replacement of the offending affected drywall, and it's fixed.  The shower?  After some whopping estimates that ranged from a staggering $5,500 (do NOT use Sears home renovation services!  Everything from the guy that came out to the overpriced products stunk.) to a more reasonable $2,000, we found a highly recommended independent construction guy who'll do it for $800.  More silver lining on that one?  That means I can get my camera!!

The insurance?  No one's gotten sick (I'm currently knocking on wood).  And, even dealing with that hassle, my husband went from a 90 minute commute - each way - to a 5 minute one.  He's home more. He's less tired.  He's less stressed (so far).  Let's hope this keeps up, because it's worth every uninsured-for-almost-2-months minute.

The volunteer thing?  It's worked itself out.  With the help of an amazing mentoring organization.  And some good friends with clear perspective.

My weight?  Well, I got on the scale this morning (weigh in day!), and I've lost 2.5 more pounds.  I'm up to almost 57 pounds lost and 8 pounds to my goal weight.  Plateau OVER!

Little League?  I still haven't met the new Coach, but he seems ok.  And there are some pretty good kids on my son's team.  My son loves baseball, and that's all that really matters.

There are good things that have happened in 2013.  My daughter, who just turned 2 in December, has suddenly jumped to forming "real" sentences with inflection and everything.  Like, "Now can I watch Mickey, Mommy?"  Or, "Can you make me some mac and cheese, pleeeeeeeeease?"  And the daily, "Mommy, can we go get Connor now?  He's at school."  She amazes me.

My son is excelling in school.  He's advancing in his Tae Kwon Do training - he'll be a Green Belt soon.  He's active and healthy and an absolute trip.  He amazes me, too.

I have the best husband ever.  Seriously, ever.  I would list why, but the list would be so sappy and sentimental that it might make you throw up in your mouth a little, and I wouldn't want to do that to you.

After a lot of years feeling like my close friends were achingly far away, I have found a set of amazing and wonderful women who are finally making me feel like I'm home.

Huh.  Look at that.  Maybe there is some redemption in 2013, after all.

Humbled

There are times in my life when I am completely humbled.  The birth of my kids was one.  My latest endeavor is another.

On September 29th, I'll be participating in the 2012 Warrior Dash in Virginia.  It's a 3+ mile obstacle course.  Mud, fire, mud, climbing walls, mud, hills, mud, water, mud, cargo net climb... did I mention the mud?  I'd heard of it before.  Tim actually wanted to do the Tough Mudder (a Warrior Dash on some serious steroids), but we'll be out of town.  So this whole mud run thing wasn't new.  What I didn't realize was that these things are generally done to raise money for charity.  How awesome is that?  As odd as it might sound, I'm all for that sick and twisted do-something-physically-painful-and-call-it-fun kinda thing.  I think all athletes are.  And once I heard that I could not only run this Dash with amazing friends (thanks for the suggestion, Christine!!) but I that I also had the option of raising money for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, I was all in.

Now, their goal is for their Warriors to reach $250 per individual.  As incentive, they give you access to the St. Jude VIP area... it has private showers.  Did I mention the MUD?  So, $250 seemed like a small price to pay.  Shoot, I was thinking of donating that all myself, just so I wouldn't have to drive 3 hours home covered in mud.  Ew.  But, honestly...  it's more than the shower.  St. Jude is one of my favorite charities.  Always has been, and became even more so once my oldest was born.  So I'm always willing to raise money for them.  So, I set my goal for $250.  Then $500.  Then $1,000...

And I've passed them all.  Faster than I thought I could.  Never in a million years would I have thought that my ticker would top $1,225.  Yep, that's right.  One thousand two hundred twenty five dollars.  From over 30 people.  And still going!  And there is where I am humbled.  Those people.  I actually signed on to my fund raising page one morning and started tearing up.  Ok, more than one morning.  All those people stopped and decided to give money to some kids in need.  Yeah, I asked, and that was a catalyst, but if they weren't giving people to begin with, they would have ignored the request.  There are people on my ticker that I know don't have extra to give, but they did anyway.  They all gave up something in their lives to give something to a kid with cancer.  And not even a kid they know.  A stranger.  I can't even say that they're all parents, and cannot imagine having to go through that with their own kids.  Several of my donators don't even have kids.  None of them have a dog in this fight.  But they all gave.  And I am humbled.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who gave.  And a thanks in advance to everyone who will.  This has been an amazing journey, and I haven't even run the actual Warrior Dash, yet!  My people are amazing and wonderful.  You make me proud, and I love you all.

**If you'd like to donate to St. Jude, please click on the link for my fundraising page, and have at it.  No amount is too small!!**

This Journey of Mine

Everyone's body image is intensely personal.  We, as women, feel too much of a lot.  Too... fat, skinny, short, tall, busty, small... and that's just the major stuff.  Let's not forget how we feel about our individual body parts... skin, eyes, noses, arms, stomachs, butts, legs, back, hair (oh, God, the hair!) - feet, even!  I think I have yet to meet a woman who is 100% satisfied with every part of her body, and wouldn't change a thing.  Trust me, I'm not trying to exempt myself.  I'm exactly the same way.  I have a list of body issues an arm long, starting at my unruly curly hair and ending at my gnarly karate feet.

With my PopPop, about 7 or 8 years old.

Why do we do this to ourselves?  There are a myriad of things and people we can blame - our parents, society, our spouses or significant others, our peers, the movies, tabloids - the list goes on.  But the brutal truth is that we do it to ourselves. At least, that's my truth.  I have no one to blame for my struggles with my weight but myself.  Could I blame it on my family?  Sure.  If you look up "emotional eating", our Irish family portrait is staring back out at you.  Happy, sad, hurt, depressed, celebrating, whatever!  We eat.  And we eat well.  My family makes some wicked awesome grub.  So why couldn't I be one of those women who are happy to be heavy?  It sure would be easier!  Because, when push comes to shove, I'm an athlete to my core, and I just can't stand being and feeling unhealthy for one. more. minute.

(An aside:  It was wickedly hard to find pictures of myself through the years.  I've always had a tendency to want to be behind the camera, another fault I'm working on.  So, missing from here are some "fat" pics, but also some of the great "thin" pics during my competing years.  :::sigh:::  should have taken more of those!) 

At my 8th Grade Grad

Freshman year,
getting a little
chunky

Let me share a brief history with you.  I wasn't a heavy kid.  I was active and healthy.  I played soccer and I swam.  I played outside with my friends constantly.  At some point, maybe 5th or 6th grade, I started getting chunky.  My Mom helped me get back to healthy by 8th grade-ish.  I stayed that way for a while.  I wouldn't say I got "fat" in High School (I saved that for adulthood), but there were definitely stretches of time where I dieted to get some weight off.  I was definitely heavy when I got my Black Belt.  And those of you that know me don't get to try to deny that to me - I've seen the pictures.  Then I thinned down again, and started competing.  I'm 5'4", and built like my Dad - which is to say, somewhat like an oak tree.  Oops, sorry... I meant to say that I have a "muscular build".  I have a little waist and big thighs.  If I work my weight training routine wrong, I bulk instead of define.  So, despite my "ideal weight" (remember that chart in Health class?) being 115 pounds, I weighed in at a very comfortable, defined and lean 128.  That put me in a size 5/6.  I was good with that.  Great with that!  Still hated my hair, though.  And my karate feet kept getting gnarlier.

Senior Year
Trimming down

Starting to head
up again,
late '93

Then I got married, stopped competing and had two kids.  It crept up on me, but I got heavy.  Meh, screw the PC stuff - I got fat.  At my heaviest (known) weight, I was 215 pounds.  Did I mention I'm only 5'4"? there are women who have been on The Biggest Loser who weighed less than that at the start.  Now, this was before I got pregnant with my daughter, Casey.  And I met a lady who started my ball rolling.  An angel.  She's one of the most amazing women I've ever had the privilege to know.  Her name is Sandie Lynch, and she started ATP Health and Fitness.  I lost almost 30 pounds with her, getting down to 189 when I got pregnant.  Our goal was for me to not gain more than I had already lost during my pregnancy.  Sandie only wanted me to gain 10-15 pounds (perfectly healthy, by the way, for someone who is already overweight - it's just all baby), which goal I didn't meet - I gained around 20.  Then lost some (spitting out a baby does that).  Then gained some (eating like a piggy does that).  Then leveled off around 200 pounds.  And had a newborn, and now a toddler, plus that energy driven 7 year old.  Which makes it pretty hard to get together with Sandie's schedule.  So... I called Nutrisystem.  And here I am.  About to reveal my real, unfortunate-but-getting-better numbers.

December '94.  You don't need a
full body shot, you can see it in
my face.

My weigh in day, I was 202.8 pounds and my BMI was 34.9.  In layman's terms, that put me well into the realm of obese.  Obese?!?!  Me??!  But...  I've been an athlete my entire life.  Surely, they're not calculating muscle mass.  And no one used those annoying calipers to pinch me, so they must be wrong... right?  Bleh.  It was way to far into the range to be that far off.  So... time to change it.

I've been doing Nutrisystem for 11 weeks, now, and I weighed in this morning.  I have lost 27.6 pounds - I now weight 175.2 pounds.  I've lost 11.5 inches - 4.5 of which are in my waist (only one stinkin' inch in my thunder thighs, though).  And my BMI has gone down by 4.8 to 30.1.  Still in the obese range, but barely.  And, I can now say that to call a chick who is now wearing a size 10 "obese" is asinine.  I bought it when I was wearing a 16, but not now.  I am not obese, I don't care how you calculate it.  Pppplllttttt!

This is my current "before" shot.  It's the last picture
I can find of me - December '11.  Stay tuned
for the "after" shots!

I am, however, still overweight.  Despite the size 10, I'm still not comfortable.  Too much cellulite, too big a muffin top, not enough muscle showing.  And, although I'm getting better, I still need to work on my habits.  Like, when I was trying to decide on something to do to celebrate making it halfway to my goal, I still jumped to food.  "Ooooh, we'll go out to dinner!  I'll treat myself to dessert!"  Yeah, not the direction I'm supposed to be going in.  Manicure, pedicure, massage, getting my hair done...  those should be the treats I jump to these days.  But, you know...  I'm a work in progress.  And I'm hoping to get enough work done to get to my goal body and stay there.  What's my goal weight?  I'm not really sure.  I say 135-140 (I figure a bod that popped out two kids might not get back to that 128 that my 20's enjoyed), but that's just to have a number.  I'll know when I get there.  I might be 145.  It might be 130. It's really not about the stupid number - it's about me, and feeling comfortable in my own skin.  And being healthy.  And being able to put aside my body image issues so that I don't model them for my daughter.  Making sure my husband has a hot wife is a plus, too.  =D

"The Ultimate Manufactured Man"

Years and years ago - sometime in 1996, I think - the people in my life were... concerned, we'll say, about my choices in men.  Not because they were horrible human beings, or anything, just that they weren't as into me as my people thought they should be.  So, one of my instructors sat me down, and we made a list.  I haven't looked at the darn thing in years - not since I met Tim - but something reminded me of that list today.  And, since our 9th wedding anniversary (12 years together) is coming up on May 17th, I thought I'd get it out (yes, I keep stuff like that) and look at it for fun, see how he did on the checklist!

My handsome husband on our wedding day

Positive traits he must have
Good looking to me
Kind hearted
Athletic
Intelligent
Caring
Consistently Perceptive
Strong Willed
"No wimps"
Fun loving
Independent thinker
Spontaneous
Dedicated to me
Passionate
Outgoing
Sense of humor
Integrity

Hmmm....  So, far, Tim's kicking butt!  He needs a little work in the spontaneity department - he's a planner - but I also find that much less important as an almost-40-year-old-Mom-of-2 than I did as a 20-something-year-old single girl.  On to part 2!

NOT Acceptable
"Wimpy"
Negative
Condescending
Dumb
Too macho
Mean
Prejudiced

The best decision of my life was saying "yes."

Psh.  My husband totally knocked it out of the park.  Good thing I chose him.  And I'm SO thankful I waited for him to appear.  <3

One of Those Days

My son.  The good one.

I love my son.  I truly, truly do.  He's a wonderful kid.  He's kind, loving, considerate, smart, snuggly, respectful, athletic...  I couldn't have asked for more.  He's the best son I could possibly have wished for.  I just want to hug and love on that kid all day long.

On the other hand, sometimes I really don't like him very much.  He can be a pain in my @$$.  He can be mean, hateful, inconsiderate, dumb, stand offish, disrespectful, spiteful...  and when that is the son I'm faced with, when that is the Connor that shows up, I just want to wring his little neck.

I try to breath.  I try to remain calm.  I try to be reasonable.  I occasionally succeed.  Someone (a lot of someones, actually) once told me the biggest lie about my parenting ability that I've ever heard.  Before I was a parent, of course, so I had no idea how horrid the lie actually was at the time.

"You're such a great Instructor, being a parent is going to be a breeze!"

And I actually believed that!  Oooohhhh, how naive I was.  I suppose the argument could be made that because I had all these coping skills from teaching martial arts for so long - 10 years before I had Connor - that God decided I needed a challenge.  What is that twist on the old saying?  "God never gives you more than you can handle... I just wish he didn't have so much faith in me"?  I'm feelin' that!

Part of me feels like I shouldn't complain.  He really is wonderful most of the time.  And I've seen other people's kids.  Some of them, I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  And Connor's bad days really are few and far between.  But when they're bad...  they're epically bad.  Last week, he had a complete melt-down-fly-apart.  Over what, I can't even remember, that's how minuscule it was.  But he was in a funk the entire day.  He lied, he back talked, he threw a tantrum, threw stuff, kicked his headboard like he was running on it, he screamed - yes, SCREAMED at the top of his lungs, both at us and just for the sake of screaming.  In our house (as in mine when I was growing up), when you are asked (read: told) to do something, you say "Yes, Ma'am/Sir" and you do it.  You might ask if you could please finish/do this-or-that first, but you most certainly do not cross your arms, stomp your foot, put a puss on and say, "NO."  That right there sends me 'round the bend.  And that happened a lot that day.  I wanted to choke him.  He was so insolent, I was at a loss for a solution.  I was so angry, I couldn't think straight, anyway.  So, I sent him to his room to avoid the throttling that I knew I would later regret, and prayed that Tim didn't hit any traffic on the way home.  He was no better for Daddy, apparently (I got to escape for a grown-up meeting.  Yay!). Although it took me the majority of the afternoon to be done, Tim was at his wits end within an hour of me leaving.  I say it's the Chinese in him.  No patience for disobedient children.

I frequently flash to Bill Cosby's bit about children not being able to sleep properly without a good beating.  Sometimes I think he might have something there.  Maybe it's lack of sleep (i.e., lack of a good beating) that's causing this abhorrent behavior.

You will be thrilled to know that despite all of this, I have not, in fact, wrung his neck, throttled him, choked him or beat him in any way whatsoever.  I haven't even so much as muttered an inappropriate expletive.  Thought it...  yes.  Said it... no.  I may have told him he was "acting like a brat", but I've never actually called him a brat.  Fine line, I know, but sometimes I need to split hairs, ok?  Because I do get angry.  I do yell.  But I try to take a deep breath and act like he's not mine.  Like he's one of my students.  I try to step back, be objective, and deal with the crap as it comes.  I'm not always successful, mind you, but I'm getting there.  And one of the things that keeps me motivated to deal with him?

I know that tomorrow, he will wake up and be the sunshiney, smiley, happy, kind, loving, considerate, smart, snuggly, respectful kid that I know and love.  And thank God for that, because if that other kid, that wretch, got out of bed in the morning, one of us would not make it to old age.

Growing Up

Today is my birthday.  At somewhere around 1:00 today, I'll officially be 37 years old.  I have no problem advertising that, because I have a 7 year old who does it on a regular basis.  He also likes to announce that "my Mommy is older than my Daddy!"  He's a real charmer sometimes.  :)

I also find that I have no great connection to the number 37.  When I was a teenager, 37 seemed pretty darn old.  I mean...  that's almost forty, and forty is downright ancient, isn't it?  Only...  when I was 15, my Mom was 43, and she was no where near ancient.  She didn't look it, and she didn't act it.  So, the older I got, the more my Mom redefined my perception of "old".  She turned 65 this year, and doesn't look or seem - physically or mentally - a day over 50.  If even that.  For Pete's sake, I have a friend who's mother-in-law is 65, and she's with a walker and oxygen.  Talk about contrast.  Then there's my Martial Arts Grandmaster.  Grandmaster Rhee is 81, and up until he got hit with the shingles last year, he was doing 100 push-ups in under a minute.  And over 1,000 a day.  AT EIGHTY!!  So, yeah...  I've had some people in my life who have forced me to continuously redefine the meaning of "old".

So, what is "old", then?  Certainly, it's not any given number.  I'm turning 37 today, but I still feel like I'm 25.  Even though it's cliche, age is just a number, and old is just a state of mind.  I'm sure I'll get to the day where I both look and feel "old", but I pray that day is decades and decades and decades away.  For now, I get to enjoy my blessings for my birthday...  I am so thankful to have so many of them, and these two are my favorite...

My Photographic Tendencies...

Connor, age 2

Some people look at a canvas and can create an amazing image on it...  Some people look at clay or stone or some other moldable material, and can create stunning figures...  So many people in this world can create something from nothing.  Beautifully.  Me?  That's not how my artistic self flows.  I don't ever feel like I can create something from nothing.  Kids, maybe.  But not art.  Give me a cartoon, and I can recreate it.  Give me a pattern - cross stitch, crochet, drawing - and I can make it.  But don't ask me to actually make the cartoon or the pattern.  I go completely blank.

Connor, age 5

But send me outside, or in a group setting, or anywhere, and I can just see things framed in a photograph. A pretty good photograph.  Or at least, I like to think so.  I'm getting closer to the point where I'm ready to take a gigantic ego risk - I feel like my shots come from a piece of my heart sometimes - and call myself, in word and deed, a professional photographer.  Maybe.  So, here are some of what I consider my highlights - you may be able to figure out my favorite subjects...  :)

At my husband's
Baptismal Mass

Casey, age 4 months

Casey grabbing my finger,
age 3 weeks

Casey, age 7 months

Casey, age 3 weeks

Connor and Tim in Miami, 2008

A friend's gorgeous son

Connor playing T-ball,
age 6

Connor in the snow, age 6

I've Been Re-Named

I waited a long time to hear my son call me "Mommy". I kept chanting "Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" at him when he was a baby, hoping he would say it, on purpose, to me. Didn't matter - his first word was, of all things, "ball". Go figure. But he did eventually start calling me "Mommy". Incessantly. You know, like that now famous clip of Stewie from Family Guy. And I loved it. I was MOMMY!

As many of you may know, Connor turned 7 in September. He started 2nd Grade this year. And he started calling me "Mom". Not all the time, but there it is. I am loosing the all-powerful, omniscient persona of "Mommy", and becoming the more flawed "Mom" (and, let's face it, ladies... "Mom" is just plain stupider than "Mommy" ever was). And my firstborn, my baby boy, is growing up. /sigh

I Remember...

The alarm went off - it was set to the radio. A man was talking about something weird. Some plane hitting the World Trade Center... must be one of those War of the Worlds things. I hit the snooze button and rolled over. 9 minutes later, the same man was still talking about the "tragic accident". It sinks in. I get up, shake Tim awake while I'm turning on the TV. "Honey, something's wrong in New York City... a plane crashed or something, get up." I'm not a news watcher - I don't like hearing about all the tragedy that happens in the world every day. But I just knew this was... bigger. I knew something was wrong. I didn't have to channel surf. It was on all of them. We were watching for less than 3 minutes when the 2nd plane hit the South Tower. That's when it dawned on the general public what had been known for less than 20 minutes by the FAA and the Air Force. These were not accidents. They were attacks. And they were only half the story.

Tim had recently moved to Maryland. He was interviewing around the DC area for a job. I had an inkling of the repercussions this attack would have. After I had regained my speech, blinked away the first tears and dropped my hands from my mouth to my lap, I took his hand and told him he was going to take the first job offered him. When I couldn't wrap my mind around the unthinkable, self preservation took over. But not for long. Another plane hits the Pentagon. It was like a bad movie unfolding in real time. The South Tower collapses... the heroic souls aboard flight 93 sacrifice their lives to prevent the possible deaths of hundreds more... the North Tower collapses... In one hour and 37 minutes, our lives are forever changed. All of our lives. Some more than others. But irrevocably changed.

My father's machine shop was located off Route 4 in New Jersey, 20 minutes outside of NYC. They could see the smoke from the parking lot. Route 4 turned into a parking lot. Emergency vehicles raced into the city, waiting for... nothing. No one above the impact of the planes survived. When I asked my brother, later, what the city looked like, he said, "It looks like NYC got her two front teeth knocked out."

I have a student that was compelled to travel to NYC that morning to help in any way he could. He made it pretty far up the NJ Turnpike before he had to park his car and walk. Over 30 miles, as I recall. He worked for days in the city, looking. For anyone. He said he is forever changed - altered - by what he saw there. I will spare you the details. Part of me wishes I could forget them, myself.

Why am I going through the details of that day? Why do I feel it necessary to remember, as vividly as I can, every year? Because our memories are short. Time moves on - I've gotten married and had two wonderful children in the past ten years - and the normality of our lives reasserts itself. We try to push horrific memories to the back of our minds. It is our nature as human beings to try to forget. But this event... we cannot.

My heart breaks for the 2,998 people that were killed that day. For the families that lost integral parts that day. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, husbands, wives, sisters and brothers... Gone. We must never forget them.

There are crazy people in this world. People who are jealous of the freedom we, as Americans, enjoy. Revel in. And take for granted. People who think we are arrogant. Too full of pride. And they want to take it away from us. They failed. If we remember... they will never succeed.

As I sit here looking at the beautiful and precious life that is my 8 month old daughter, and listen to my 7 year old son playing cheerfully outside, I send a prayer to all the families effected by 9/11. I pray for the ones that are safe in God's hands, and for the ones that were left behind. I pray for and thank God every day for the men and women who put themselves in harms way for me and mine, so that I can continue to revel in the privilege and honor of being American. Fire fighters, police officers, paramedics, soldiers... you all have my eternal gratitude. THANK YOU for keeping my babies safe. I will always remember...

"A great people has been moved to defend a great nation. Terrorist attacks can shake the foundations of our biggest buildings, but they cannot touch the foundation of America. These acts shattered steel, but they cannot dent the steel of American resolve. America was targeted for attack because we're the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity in the world. And no one will keep that light from shining. Today, our nation saw evil, the very worst of human nature. And we responded with the best of America — with the daring of our rescue workers, with the caring for strangers and neighbors who came to give blood and help in any way they could." ~President George W. Bush, September 11, 2001

Life Marches On...

The biggest news in my life at the moment is that we are finally expecting baby #2! It's been a long time coming, for many different reasons. But the new addition should be here by Christmas Eve. And feeling this little life squirming inside my belly makes me remember being preggo with Connor, and how much I both loved and hated it.

We'll start with the "loved" part. The thing I love the most about being pregnant is feeling the life growing inside of you. This time around, I was majorly impatient to finally feel movement - which I did, around 16 weeks or so, because this time I knew what I was feeling. I loved dreaming of my baby, and what he would look like... what he would sound like... I couldn't wait to meet him. I loved the extra bond that my husband and I suddenly shared. And I loved that I was finally going to be part of the "club."

The rest? I hated it. I had Connor in September, so I was hot, swollen, tired and perpetually uncomfortable. I'm a stomach sleeper, so once I couldn't do that, anymore, sleeping became almost impossible. Even if I didn't have to get up every 5 minutes to pee. Needless to say, I was not a very good pregnant person.

I vowed that would be different this time. Silly me, I always forget that God has a sense of humor! Although I had a very boring pregnancy with Connor - no morning sickness, no constipation, no excess gas, no heartburn to speak of, etc. - I am having quite an exciting one with this Peanut. I have had all of the above at varying degrees. Yes, God is testing my resolve to be a good pregnant person. But I'm still trying! I'm pretty darn sure this is our last hurrah (my husband is 150% sure), so I want to enjoy it. I try not to be impatient, irritated, moody... but it's all in the hormones, I think. But I am enjoying the whole pregnancy experience more, I think.

We get to find out the sex in 2 weeks, something I didn't want to do the first time until my husband convinced me. I'm glad we did, and I'm excited about doing it this time. More decorating and buying! =D There's so much to look forward to, and in all the determinedness not to rush, it's starting to seem like it's flying by. December will be here before I know it, and so will our new bundle of joy. So, stay tuned.... it's bound to be an exciting ride...

Silliness

In the world today, out in public, what are the two most controversial subjects you can touch upon? The ones that normally incite all sorts of rage and horrible behavior? You got it - politics and religion. Now, I am a raging conservative and practicing Catholic - not that those two necessarily go hand-in-hand - and proud of it. I believe in God, country and family, and that you should take care of your own. I believe we live in the greatest country in the world, and if you have issues with it, you should work for change, move or shut up. I believe that actually working for a living is not optional, and that stay-at-homes Mom's (a HUGE job, by the way) are a gift from God. Although I believe that women are equal in every way to men, I would never call myself a "feminist". I believe that Dr. Laura has it right when she calls N.O.W. the National Organization of I-don't-know-what-kind-of-Women. I have such an immense respect for my military men and women that their dedication and sacrifices for my freedom and yours brings a tear to my eye. I believe that God is my guide in this world He created. I believe he has a hand in all that happens to us. I believe He can be anyone's savior - if He is allowed. I could go on forever. Yes, I am a raging conservative.

I just as strongly believe in one of the founding beliefs of our country - freedom of speech. Do I think some people should refrain from speaking so as not to showcase their lack of IQ for the world to see? Of course! Don't we all? Isn't that the beauty of this country, though? That we can speak what we believe, no matter our race, creed, color or gender? I do not begrudge anyone their ideas and beliefs, regardless of whether or not I agree. I have had many wonderful, insightful and stimulating conversations with people on the opposite side of my fence. But I never get angry. Because there is no point to it. Anger should be reserved true injustices, not for people who simply think differently.

What is not okay is this silliness that goes on in our government, news and even everyday life. Mudslinging at any level is classless and tasteless. It makes the person slinging look bad, not the opposition. Getting in someones face and yelling solves nothing. Looking like a raving lunatic solves nothing. And if you look around... there is no party, organization or religion that is guiltless of those types of actions. And it's asinine.

Passion for what you believe in is a wonderful thing. But be careful you don't cross the line into the silliness that is so prevalent these days. If your argument truly has meat, you wouldn't have to resort to Kindergarten tactics. My Kindergartner crosses his arms, stomps his feet, pouts and yells when he doesn't get his way. At which point, by the way, my conservative self tells him to take his attitude to his room, because it's not acceptable in public. And, guess what? It doesn't happen very often. So, if you're going to act like a Kindergartner, maybe you should be treated like one. I think that many of our leaders would do well with some time in their rooms, or perhaps a spanking or two. Actually, scratch that last idea... some of them might like it too much.

The point? I really don't care what you believe. I care whether or not you're a decent human being, and whether or not you treat the people around you - ALL OF THEM, kids, adults, elderly, from trash collectors to CEO's - with dignity and respect. If you discover that my beliefs differ from yours, you are more than welcome to have an intelligent, grown-up conversation with me about them. I will not call your beliefs and ideas stupid, and I expect the same respect in return. The minute those guidelines are deviated from... our conversation would be over. And I strongly encourage everyone to adopt the same attitude. It's much more effective than the alternatives.