iTunes

Okay, I just came from the store,  But in this instance I never got out of my seat because I came form the iTunes store.  How do you like that?  You would think everything went smoothly.  Not so much.

I should have been forewarned with the whole lowercase i uppercase T.  I can't get into these details. Who has the freaking time?

I have these little ipod shuffles for the squigglybeans.  It's cute they listen to their little tunes, and you know they think they are on Broadway singing to their fans. They are prancing around right now because they are all about that bass.  Not treble. And so on.

So the first step is the charger. I cannot even get into how many chargers we have that charge some robot on the planet Skipwad or whatever, but apparently the ipod shuffle has the world's most distinct charger to be found only in Sears catalogs from the 1980s. Or what have you.  I had to purchase another shuffle just to get the charger.  That is correct. Financially, and logistically, it made the most sense. We'll talk more about that hocus pocus later.  (They do know just how to get you, with the money, don't they Bloggy?)

Okay so plug in the old ipod hello new ipod. Everyone's skipping around happily and throwing daisies It took me a second to get back into ipod world, since I haven't been there in a couple of years. But now what is this?  Username and password for the store.  Sure.   Yadda bing Yaddo bang. Lots of red fonts.

Mama doesn't like red fonts.  Your password does not meet the specifications.

That's fine, but a couple of uppercase letters and baby teeth later, I will never remember this password. Are you kidding me?  The password ends up being like BabyLASAGNAinahouse444.  I am  seriously to remember this?   And then they have five or six  security questions. Okay.

Who was your best friend's boyfriend when you were in a car and under a plane with a spoon riding a tractor?

Answer:  Al?  Everyone's got an Al, right?

I have no freaking idea. I have spent three years trying to FORGET my childhood, Bloggy.


I am finally allowed into the itunes store. Sorry, the iTunes store.  To give them money. OH skipppetidy do!!

Am I missing something here?   I do love my tunes.  I want to GIVE YOU my money.  Yes?

Coupons

So I played a little tennis today, Blog.  Doubles.  Turns out, Mama's first serve ain't nevah goin in.

I have an aunt.  And she is wise and beautiful and smart.  And she sends me coupons.  She also knows all the calories in all the world for every food.  But that is for another day.  She encourages me to eat fruit.  Oh and the coupons.

So coupons are basically bits of paper that are sort of like gold.  And also like a board game. I won. This fruit is now half OFF.  Before, it was just a fruit that cost one dollar.  Now I have a coupon and guess what?  Now you're measly little fruit costs fifty cents.  Magic.  So I am thinking back to when we started bartering and trading and then the dollar bills came on the scene. Who came up with coupons?  Who came up with the idea that if I give you this piece of paper, what I am holding in my hand becomes less valued?  Whoever this guy is, he is smart.

I am just picturing me in a cape at the checkout line with E.  And the cashier is like is 7.50 and I am like Kablam! Here is a coupon; what is it now?  We could play that game all day long.  E and I need some new fun games to play.

Two for one?  Half off?  I guess it's about stock and moving goodies and entrancing people to purchase your schmickles.  That concept I understand.  So then we have the overload of product.  What happens to that?  Seems like a donation situation.  But the best is when you get a coupon for a product you were not even thinking about buying. 50 percent off of my own knuckles??  Fantab.  I'm in.

Anyway, give me all your coupons and send them all to me.

Beep Beep

Here is what you should not do while trying to drive

Talk on the phone
Figure out your gps
Light and smoke cigs
Text
Catch up on summer reading
Your taxes
Buckle in all three children
Fix the dvd player in the backseat
Look at the pretty birdies in the sky
Saute delicious veggies
Drugs
Eat a chicken salad sandwich
Eat a tuna salad sandwich
Eat an egg... okay.. you know where I am going
Play Marco Polo
Change from work clothes to workout clothes
Teach your kids to swim

Some of these things are very tempting, Bloggy.  VERY tempting.  But that's how accidents happen.

Here is what you should do while trying to drive:

Look at the road.

Anne J. Morley

So the word is, Mama got a credit card in the mail yesterday. Watch out, world.  Tee hee.

So it is time to immortalize Anne J. Morley.  From birth to 12 I had a babysitter, who watched me while my mother worked part time.  I will describe her physically.  She was around sixty-five when she began working for us.  She had a bit of a belly but I wouldn't say she was fat. She had a uniform of sorts:  She wore different polyester housecoats that are akin to infant's onesies.  They button up the front, you can buy them five for ten dollars, pastel colors.  She wore brown man's dress socks and wore orthopedic dark men's dress shoes. No make up and wild gray hair that went every which way when the wind blew.  She had three teeth.  Her voice was deep and smokey.  When she hollered, you listened.  She was sort of a female Archie Bunker.  She was definitely the most racist person I ever knew.

She was awesome.

She is also the reason I love soup so much.

Anyway, she took care of me from the time I was born until seventh grade.  She had a sickly half brother, Johnny, that she took care of until he died, when I was about seven.  She was destitute, and she had a blind poodle named David and about a million cats. She was pretty fierce.  One time, my sister got held up with a knife in our elevator by a big guy, and Anne went out into the hallway to chase him in her man socks wielding her own knife and hands down I'd place all my money on her.  She had asthma and always put money in the poor box at church.  St Patty's day was her favorite, and she always got us the green Entenman's cupcakes to celebrate.

Now, towards the end of her life, someone from the state must have intervened and she somehow ended up with a black, mentally retarded man as her caretaker.  They lived together in her apartment and I remember thinking (I was in high school then when I visited her once). Wow.

I think about her a lot and I miss her so much.  When E has her temper tantrums I think to myself: that is probably exactly how I was, and how would Anne have handled it?  She did love her soap operas and her game shows, and I was a different child when I was with her.  Obedient, kind, happy and subservient.  Anything Anne wanted, she would snap her fingers, and I would run to get.  What was her magic?  I wish she were here so I could ask her.

I am also pretty sure she took me to a bar when I was about four to have a shot of whiskey while I played pinball.  Those were the days, as Edith Bunker would sing!

Being a Mom

Oh. My. Dear. Jesus. +

There is no way I should be telling you this, but I don't think I can keep it to myself. This is a story about how all of the things that you think can go wrong go wrong but then another layer of million things go wrong.  And also it's so nice it didn't happen to you. This time.  I was thinking the whole time, maybe this is so unfortunate, I should just fughettaboutit.  But then I was like, oh my effing G.

Here we go.

Let's take the kids to the Y for some extra curricular fun what have you.  School bus screeches to a halt, ejects two blonde pez dispensing little guys who are alll

WhycantIhavethewhatshesgot so on.  And I am like, Heyyyyy guys, how was your day?  Let's burn off some energy at the good ol' Y!  Off the three of us go.  You would think since baby stayed home, we might have an easy time of it!  Ted's plan is to swim, and Helen's to play in the active center. Mama wants to work out.

We arrive around fiver.  Walking to the door, Helen realizes she is wearing flip flops and not sneakers. So she doesn't have socks to enjoy the Active Center (that's their rule).  Oh well, she will sit at the arts and crafts table, okay.  Towards the check-in, Ted realizes he doesn't have his keys/ID card which he ALWAYS HAS.  No matter mom's got her's....where are they?  Why is my purse so freaking big?  Holy Sh*t is that a bonsai tree in there? In front of check in, dump whole purse out only to realize... keys must have fallen into the car somewhere.

Kids stay with random purse clutter (letter from old college roommate, plastic fake baby lipstick, bonsai tree, half a ham sandwich, one tennis ball, whatever) while mom runs out to car.  Got keys back to the counter check in. Phew.  Start walking to pool, mom puts things back into purse, where is my phone?  Is phone back by where purse was dumped?  Did I not bring phone?  Here is a cell phone.  It is not mine. It is H and T's.  The battery is dead.  For fleeting moment I am so happy the Y has charging stations for phones, and I am relieved that I will not be cut off from the world when Armageddon or a Kohl's clearance sale strikes.  Hoppity hop to pool with the kiddos, Helen stops.  "Are you going to drop me at the arts and crafts table?"  Of course, let's get Ted settled in the pool.

"But you have to stay on the platform with him at the pool once he is in the water."  Oh right.  Okay, let's get Helen to the arts and crafts table first.  I remember, "Hey, there is a bathing suit of yours in the back of the car."  Helen turns into a streak of smoke as she flies out the door to get swimsuit.

I go over to the charging stations to charge dead cell phone. For the first time in history, they are all occupied.  I begin to laugh, and Teddy's little voice comes at me: " Mommy, I am all ready for the pool."  And I look at my sweet boy. He has done everything right. He has his swimsuit on, he has his goggles, his flip flops and two towels and he says, "Let's go!."

Now, Blog, I don't want to get too personal here. Even though we have already crossed that line eons ago.  But every woman has a special time of month.  Mine decided to showcase itself at this moment. I was wearing sweatpants that were faded to almost white.  I was unprepared for this. Yes my purse has everything UN useful.  A ham sandwich, while delicious, is not going to help me out here. I am thinking, there has to be something in the car because there was at least nineteen pairs of leggings in the trunk last time I checked.  It was like I was bootleg-selling them or something.

Okay, Ted, gets settled at the pool, I run out to car.  Nothing.  In some poorly timed sporadic cleaning move, all the pants that had been there minutes ago are not there.  Of course there are seven hundred and ninety two tank tops. And diapers.  Jesus.

Do I love my children?  Oh yes I do.  That's right.  So the diaper goes on and I still have the problem of my very noticeable pants.  I actually contemplate trying on my seven year old's jean shorts or Helen's sweatshorts -- anything.  I am not that skinny. Bloggy.  (Thank god) I spend about ten minutes in the handicapped stall washing my pants in the sink whilst wearing my two year old's diaper.  Put on wet but clean pants and jet out to the pool.  Helen and Teddy are swimming happily.  Well, that's nice.

As it turns out, Zumba class had started and a Body Combat class was about to start.  I really, really needed to exercise.  I consider taking this Body Combat Class wearing a diaper and decided, yes absolutely can do. Have been through much worse.

There is a lifeguard stationed at every two centimeters around the perimeter of the pool.  I say, "Is it okay if I go upstairs and take a class while my kids swim?"   This guy, who is about 8 years old and thrilled that he has the underarm hair and the power of a whistle around his neck says, "Unfortunately, no."  You have to stay here.  Hmmmm.

Okay I am going to go get some water.  I deserve water, at least, Blog, right?  So I get my water and of course I peek in to the Body Combat Class which turns into me taking a spot right up front thinking, eh... it should be fine.  As we know I have some trouble with the rules.  But then I get this feeling.  (I am wearing a diaper, of course).  That I will get kicked out of the Y by an 8 year old life guard so I should hustle my a$$ to the pool immediately, and wouldn't you know?

The embryo lifeguard has H and T pulled out of the pool waiting for me on the sides.  He flexes his muscles. I'm here, I'm here.  Diaper and all.  So I sit and they swim.  Helen comes up to me and says, "Are you okay?  You look sad."  And I reply, " Oh no, I am fine. I just missed my class."  And she gives me this big, wet hug and just says, "Thank you, mom."

Totally worth it.

Until of course they are out of the pool and on their way to the car.  "Can we have snacks from the vending machine? PLEEEEASE??  You never let us get snacks from the vending machine."

 Kill.

Bored Games

I know Blog, I was going to tell you about when I learned how to drive.  But this one is for the INTERIM.

It's also fun advice for moms and dads out there who don't necessarily like playing the board games. My husband does not like playing board games with kids or adults.  I do, so it works out well that way. Sometimes though, and especially with children around H and T's age, it can be not so much fun for everyone.

But last night I gave it the old I feel like a couple of minutes of self-flagellation but cannot find my leather whip try.  We started out trying to play Cranium, only to find that several pieces were missing. No big deal, we invent things all the time in my house so at the end of ten minutes, some pieces of popcorn were dice and a rosary was the board piece, etc, until we went scrounging for other pieces in other games and found a game WITH ALL THE PIECES.

So we threw Cranium out the window and settled in to play Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? The players were H, T, E, and me.   So your regular cast of looney tunes.  Of course E is two, so her contribution was mainly sitting in the center of all the pieces and either throwing them at everyone or eating them.. She wins, hands down.

I got out the old directions and started trying to read through those guys while H and T surreptitiously punched each other in the face.  I am not sure if it is just because the game is new, or I am old, but it seemed pretty damn complicated.  There were two boards, many different flashy pieces, a set up that was close to recreating Stonehenge, and then the RULES. Of course but the time I got to rule 33 that was like and if it is  Memorial Day you can't play, I was like F it.

So it quickly became me reading the cards to H and T and making up my own rules while doing a stand up routine for seven and eight year olds which was pretty fun for all. (E at this point realized she was smarter than ALL of the fifth graders and was busy sculpting the City of Versailles out of some leftover gum).

It's nice to see how smart my kids are -- they were answering questions I did not think they would know, and of course they are so close in age.  Right now, Ted is seven and Helen is eight, and what with my made up rules I could throw piles of money of fake money at them for doing just about anything.  I could also make sure they both ended up relatively close to "winning".

So at the end H was the victor by a slight margin of one thousand dollars.  But our rule is the winner has to clean up, so there were no hard feelings.  It sort of reminds me of when E picks out a story at bedtime and each page has a thousand words.  But she can't read so the story quickly becomes.  "Here is a duck"  turn page "Duck is swimming" turn three pages "Duck GOES TO SLEEP".  The End.

Safety

Driving is actually a sport. And of course it should not be.  Hello?  When did we decide that we were gonna make our vital needs for transportation  into modes of entertainment?  Bad idea.  And I will tell you why.

 Well of course I will tell you why. I will always tell you why.  

First off, driving is F-ing hard.  I mean we like to do the whole it's like riding a bike - you never forget thing, but I am almost absolutely certain, that the Big Guy himself did not create us in His Most Image and Likeness while driving a Chevy.  I just don't see it.

So when you begin you are all, holy fballs, yeah man this is rad.  I have taken go karts and bumper cars to a whole new level. Need a ride to the petting zoo? I'm your lady.  Were you off to the salon?  Let me escort you in my mother's fuschia 1999 Volkwsageen Beetle. You don't care, it's a chance to DRIVE.  I get to pump and brake and steer and shift.... 

Then about half a minute later.   It gets old. And not only does it get old, but all the CONCERNS start happening.  Wait- what there was an ACCIDENT? Whowhatwhenwherewhy? Then you go into... isn't it amazing how we all follow the same rules at the same time and everybody's a drone until someone - MUTHA EFFIN BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Oh also, I learned how to drive in New York City. How is that for a narcotic fueled pubescent video game?  I was 19 and I used my summer job earnings to take driving lessons. I called an 800 number (it was the 90s) and said sign me up!  And a little Asian man came down 20th st in a Toyota Camry to teach me how to drive.... 

That will be my NEXT blog post.


Oh also btw?  I have grown new skin that refuses to tan.

Principal's Office

Rah, so we had the talk, Blog.  As a child, I was never called into the principal's office except when maybe somebody was having a luncheon.  As an adult, I pretty much have the principal's office on speed dial.  With all of the technology nowadays -yes,  you little Bloggy-boo, you know you come first- it really is much more of a this type situation.

And the Bat Phone rang today.

Awesome beautiful mom: Yes, hello?

Please hold.  

Awesome beautiful mom diapers one naked pygmy flying through the room while on hold. 

Still on hold?  Awesome beautiful mom dares to ask Eldest why she will not stop hiccuping tears into a trash basket after just coming off the school bus.

Eldest (wailing): I- HAD- A -REALLY- BAD -DAY. ...IT ....WAS.   JUST SO .. AWFUL AND TERRIBLE..

Awesome beautiful mom: Okay, Let's talk about it.(still on hold).

Eldest:  wails This morning I almost didn't catch the bus. You should have driven me to the bus stop!!!

Awesome beautiful mom: I am so sorry, I did not realize you were that late.

Eldest amidst sobs: I guess it's okay, you didn't know.

Flying pygmy realizes her  diaper is just one more layer of societal confines.   She hurls the confining beast of product overhead.       Hits wall. SMACK. *slide*

Still on hold? Yes, it's me!

Awesome beautiful mom wipes up the hazardous zone with a swoop of the hand, and now she is putting on makeup to get ready to leave for drs app.   

Oh, hi? Hello? How are you? Wait what? Yes, me. no you. Yes, Hi.

Kids in the background shouting at the top of their lungs PLEASE FREE US.

Awesome beautiful mom: Yes, hello?


Caller: Hi this is the  Assistant Principal calling because of the recent behavior of your child. Is this a good time?

Brain thinks, her day has just stopped being what my day is becoming right now.  But it is my kid she is taking the time to address, so...

Your answer: Of course, I have all the time IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW.

Naked Pygmy decides to try potty.

No matter that I just found a four leaf clover on top of a unicorn.  Some other day.

Naked Pygmy decides toddler potty looks delicious and bites it.

Caller: So we were concerned about your email and wanted to talk to you about how we are helping T blasi blasi blasi here is what actually happened and not what he said and also teacher says you don't sign behavior sheet daily.

Eldest Child has given up on world and gone completely goth. Is deciding how to best  sacrifice Naked Pygmy to her new god.

Awesome beautiful mom:  Well,, the first thing we do is talk about the behavior sheet. He tells me what his score was and we talk about what happened, so sometimes it doesn't make it out of the bag because we are trying to figure out what went wrong.

Awesome beautiful mom stops Middle Child's punch in midair and replaces it with lipstick tube. Middle child is confused long enough for Awesome beautiful mom to to begin stroking Eldest Child's hair in soothing fashion.

Caller:  It's cool, are you cool don't sue us, we won't sue you, let's all love Ted, stop with the hatey emails, did you say you might be MOVING???

ABM: Yes, the house is on the market.

Caller: sounding super casual Will you be staying in the area?

Actually we were looking at the house right next to yours, great neighborhood :)

ABM:  We are trying to.  Of course, we can't be sure. But I am sure that's having somewhat of an effect on Ted.

Caller agrees while frantically scribbling on teleprompter all over school, T may be leaving next year!!!!!!

ABM and Caller: simultaneously Let's all be friends.

~Fin~

(No Bloggy, that's just Mombo feeling awk that she is being called into the principal's office on behalf of someone else. See, I got confused when there was no luncheon, so I panicked.  And of course humor is my scapegoat.)

There was a post-it on the behavior sheet that read PLEASE SIGN DAILY, and I felt ashamed, Blog.  It's akin to searching for my glasses all day when they are on top of my head.  The whole world knows about this behavior sheet.  Grandma Patsy, Aunt Martha, Helen, the Ambassador to Norway, but sometimes I don't get my sig on it.  I have the naked pygmies to handle.

The Blender Please

Yes, we have one.  A blended family.  I'm thinking strawberry raspberry banana smoothie.  Delicious.


Now, I know you guys are out there, so don't be shy.  I see youuuu.  Sillly.

We got the babes from my first marriage and then darling Eleanor from the second.  Now, E must do everything H and T  do, there ain't no halvsies about it.  She is their sister even though we are cutting apples and oranges in half to show what ?  I dunno.  Tra la la they are together.

Families are always interesting.  I have heard so many stories about a brother who is actually a nephew because a grandmother was reading The New York Times while the trolley was going along where the balloon flies and Presto! Your brother is your aunt.

So my fam goes by these ages:  H is 8 and superdedoodle awesome
                                              T is 7 and holymolycasserolley
                                               E is 2.5 and TBD

Because the kids do ask me all the time, about half sisters and steps and so on.  Now, the cameo is Helen and Ted's half brother Sammy who goes to school in MA.  He is 17.  Kablamo!

If anyone wants to draw a tree, that's cool.

The Glove

Okay so Ted didn't do so well yesterday.  His behavior chart showed all red lights for drawing on his chair in the afternoon because he was bored. Of course he is very smart, so he did not hit things with his hurting hand.  He decided to head butt. Interesting challenge, I guess. So we spoke this morning, and he really doesn't want to wear the glove.  I told him it is not a punishment, it is a reminder.  I know that working in the autistic sphere we encounter tactile discomforts and comforts.  That is why I wanted to do the glove.  But I don't want him to feel punished or bad all day.  So what do I do?

I thought I could start with a rubber band around his wrist for the hurting hand.  Not so awkward of a reminder.  I sent him to school yesterday with a poster we worked on that read "Don't Expect to See Change if You Don't Change Yourself".  We drew it in bubble letters and the kids colored it and then Ted drew various characters he made up all around it. I thought it could help as a visual aid. And T was very proud of it. The poster didn't go up yesterday, but that's fine because I am sure the classroom was busy.

So then we got the three red marks in the afternoon. Here is how it went down (through play acting I did this reconnaissance).  Ted gets back from lunch and pokes a hole in the divider they use to shield desks while testing.  He gets a red mark.  He has already started drawing on his chair, but the teacher hasn't noticed.  Then a couple of hours go by and the teacher notices the chair and is upset, so he gets two red marks for the afternoon periods. He goes to gym class and pushes someone because he figures he is already in the red...why not?

So I did write an email saying the behavior chart is not supposed to work that way because it can be counterproductive, as shown in this example.  The behavior chart is supposed to be for every hour of behavior, which might be too much for the teacher. I was a teacher, so I totally get it.  I sent him to school today with crossword puzzles and worksheets games to do if he is bored.  He has a list of things he can do when bored (draw only on paper, read, crosswords) and what he should not do (distract other kids, make noise, take away from instruction).

We will see how this works today.  I am hoping we can get him on track.  Any feedback is much appreciated!

Spinning

Hey Bloggy Boo.  I tried a spinning class for the first time ever and I probably won't be able to sit down for a week. The thing is, we biked several miles and remained all the live long day at the very same spot we started on.  I am sure you have seen hamsters in wheels?  Don't get me started.

I don't know what it is, but I have a real problem with spinning and cycling and running and bowing and curtsying and shimmying and not actually GOING anywhere.  It annoys me.

It's a little scary, the way they clamp your feet into the pedals.   Talk about commitment.  I was all tra la dee da hey I'm trying something new today, and she was like clampclamp .into the pedals. Alrighty.  Off we go!  Since now I don't  get a choice.  Of course I am thinking about what it would actually look like if I were to ...try to reach for my water, say? I imagine  Rubber- Band Nancy.

So anyway  I'm clamped which basically means I have somehow wandered into the castle of Dungeon and Dragons without  the glowing amulet to set me free. I'm committed. About ten seconds in, my a$$ was on fire and I thought I was pretty much not going to make it.....

Turns out I'm okay.  We rolled up hills and did sprints and all sorts of imaginary things.  Then I realized that's why I have a problem with  this rigmarole.

Sisyphus. That guy.


So exercise actually is torture.

For all the Southpaws

So yesterday was a toughie. Ted spent half the day in the principal's office because he punched a girl in the face. Then he got kicked out of his tennis class at they Y and then there was more punching of his sister at home.  I had just about had it at that point, and we had some words before bedtime.  In general, I am not a hollerer. Or a spanker.  This little one does push me to my limits though.

So last night after the fifth or sixth indiscretion, I told Ted, "You can't expect to see change if you don't change."  I try to keep it simple because he is seven.  I told him:  We are all trying to help you but you are not helping yourself. I left it at that.

This morning, I was very serious, which is not like me.I took both of his hands in mine.  I asked him, "Ted which hand do you use to hit people?"  He showed me his right hand.  I said, "This is the hand that you use without thinking. If I throw a ball to you unexpectedly, you will use this hand to catch it. But it is also the hand that hits, the hand that smacks, and pushes and does things we don't want it to do.  We will call it the hurting hand."  I held up his left hand and asked, "What do you think we will call this hand?"  Blank stare.   I continued, "This will be the helping hand. It will be the hand you think about before you use, but it will be the hand that helps the other."   So I told him,"In every decision you make today, we want to try to use the helping hand."

Then we traced both hands on paper.  On his hurting hand, he wrote the words that hurt on the fingers: pushing, smacking, hitting, etc.  On the helping hand, he used those fingers to write helping words:  handshakes, high fives, hugs, back scratches.  I said, today we will try to think before we use that hurting hand.  If we have no problems, great.  If we still do, tomorrow, a glove goes on the hurting hand.  You will look silly wearing a glove all day in the middle of Spring, but it is a reminder not to use that hurting hand.  (There can also be a hurting foot which will be socked, of course.)

Come hell or high water, that boy will behave by second grade.  If I have to sit with him through every class; I feel I have to nip this in the bud.  I'm sharing it with you, Bloggy, in case it could help others.  (Also, I may make Ted ambidextrous as a side project :)

School pics

So H and T had their school pics done months ago.   They came back and Helen looks sweet, T looks like a gangsta, all is well with the world.  But when I was in school, back when the cameras were little tents that exhumed a puff a smoke every time someone snapped a pic, the parents chose the package of pics they wanted and sent the check in on picture day. Then, what felt like one million years later, you got your pictures. Too bad if you came out with drool on your chin and lunch on your shirt (as I almost always did), if they ordered an 8 x 10, there you were, all 8 x 10 of you, half blinking into the camera with a fly on your head.  35 wallet sizes of my awkward stage.

Now, they do this crazy thing where on picture day they refuse to take your money. They send the kid home with ALL of the pictures -- the big ones, the little ones, pictures on plastic key chains. I am surprised they stopped short at giving every child a carton of coffee mugs with their face on them.  So then they say, choose what you want and send the rest back.

Somebody please explain to me how this makes any sense at all.  I mean it is my fourth year and I keep hoping that it will change and every year, no....I mean, THE QUESTIONS, but forget them, these are my kids and you went and photographed them.  I feel like the photos should be mine no matter what.  I feel weird sending you back a packet of pictures with my kids in it.  Why would you WANT that? They are already made, might as well give em up.

I only say this because today Helen comes up to me with a slip that is like, better give all your pictures back today or you are stealing (not verbatim).  And I am like, hmm I have to find those guys so I can give back the ones I don't want. Annoying.

Oh, and I don't mean to throw TBone under the bus but come on check this out.  I feel like Ted was aiming for some sort of Humphrey Bogart stand-in or something.

Dear God.

Yes, yes.  Always on a Sunday.

Hugh  Mill  E   A   Shun.

That's pretty much how I felt when the nicest father and son duo turned around to shake hands for peace with Helen  at the exact moment she happened to be ROLLING HER EYES and TURNING AWAY.  It was a coincidence, and I knew it was, but man it did not play out like that.

So he went to make peace and she went to PSYCHE but it was an accident.  But the thing was that these guys, had these weird ... strawberries?  You might call them on their faces?  So they felt already out of place.  I was horrified that he thought she was that type of girl.  Cause she is not. (yay)

No, that's not the part that stood out the most.  Really?   Somehow, Teddy ended up punching his sister (why did I let them sit next to each other? I KNEW I was rolling the dice), and as I separated them in beatific serenity, he said.....

"I HATE YOU MOM!"

Mort.  if.  FIED.


Soooooooo  obvs

Go in Peace.

Piggybacking on the good memories from grade school courtesy of Chris Nolan, I have a secret to tell you, Blog.  My kids ain't going to no Catholic School.

Word.  Perhaps you have not realized I was a teacher, and am now a writer.  The two careers where people die of starvation.  So the kiddos go to the public school.  But actually, I have taught at Catholic schools and public schools and many public schools are excellent.  And I have been very pleased with H and T's education thus far.  But you know what this means, Blog.  CCD.

Cross Contamination Disease?  No.  Continuing Catholic... Disease.  I have no idea what CCD stands for.  Hold up.  Um, okay I was not prepared for this: Confraternity of Christian Doctrine.  Thank you, Google.  Also: Colony collapse disorder, Community College of Denver and last but definitely not least Congenital chloride diarrhea.  Sometimes, I am not prepared for where the Internet takes me.  Honestly, I can be all pigtails and lollipops let me look up how to toss a salad and holy smokes....

Any way, about the holy smokes, what happened was Mama was a little late on the get-go with CCD. I had to find a friendly church and taste various baked goods at many different diocesan bake sales  to get all situated and the fact of the matter is:  H and T are in the same class.  Normally, H would be a couple of years or a year ahead.  But it's Sunday school and it's for two hours every week and they watch an enormous amount of Veggie Tales.

But see what this does, Blog, is it narcs poor Ted out.  Man, Helen cannot WAIT to tell me if Ted had to go to the "source" room.  I have never asked him what this is; I just assume it's a room with medieval torture devices.  We are paying them, of course.  But Sunday school is a little bit "softer" than Ted's regular classroom.  As I have told you before, in his regular education classroom, he has his charts and his visual aids for guiding proper behavior. Sunday school is more a fly by the seat of your pants operation.  I am pretty sure his teacher has one move and it's called send Ted to the source room.

So I get their progress reports a couple of months ago which basically say, thanks for showing up and therefore you don't go to Hell.  But, they are both handed to me at the same time from the same teacher and one has all the check boxes in the excellent column with comments "Helen is a delight to have in class.  She is always participating and listening carefully."  Then, I open Ted's.

You aren't even going to believe it but she has ADDED a column at the end AFTER "incomplete" that says in her handwriting "needs improvement" and she has marked an x all down her new makeshift column.  No comments.  Well, it's probably hard to comment on him if he is always in the source room, lady.  Yikes.

Roots

Blog!  I got my wisdom teeth out.  So now they are gone. So sad.  Bye guys, someone should play "Taps", right?

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky

All is well, safely rest
God is nigh.

Nigh, Blog.

I haven't been taking care of my little Bloggy Butt.  Are you okay? You look thinner.

I don't feel any dumber.  So I guess that's a crock.

Here we are, Blog, there was the Spring Fair.  That's right.  Mama rocked the house and took the kids to the Spring Fair the day after she got her wisdom teeth out.  And I noticed something interesting.  I am struggling with how to describe it but when I grew up there was one classroom scene over and over.  Same kids, same class. All the same players.  Yes, at some point during Miss Flood's science class Chris Nolan is going to flip his chair over.  He'll be rocking back and forth on the chair and Kablamo! It's a given. One school, one scene.  And that felt very safe.

But at the Spring Fair, everyone seemed..... scattered.  Is that how it is, now, Blog?  Is it urban versus suburban? but no because I read all the Judy Blume books.  I did my time.  Judy had the same cast of characters coming back again.  Now it seems like there are four first  grades and seven second grades and so on.  Lots of peeps.  Its very hard to make play dates and socialize in this scattered venue.  Mama struck up a scintillating conversation with some red heads at the Spring Fair, and thought, interesting peeps for sure.   Let's go get a grilled cheese with tomato! And the rapscallions are like, I'm sorry I have to go polish my marble statue of Mary Magdalene. Pardon me.

I guess it's happenstance. Some people settle, and others logistically keep moving.  But I was struck today by the dichotomy of consistency versus wanderlust.  And I do wonder what effect it has on my children.  Those that have roots feel safer, I think.  But kids that are always "the new girl" get to add that element of pizzazz.  Hey.  I am shiny and new.  Who doesn't love that?

Hungry Ted

Blog, this is too much.

Of course Teddy wants to eat the entire universe.  He is a boy and he is growing so pretty much he should stand in front of the fridge all day with a funnel in his mouth.  Oh but by the way, food costs money, don't you know.  And this little flabberghaster skips all the live long day down the lunch line at his elementary school, piling on the what have yous.  And I keep telling him, Ted, honey, maybe you can limit it to ONE snack a second, and so on.  And he nods while he laughs all the way to the counter.

Of course, I get it.  Nobody likes to be hungry.  That's the worst.  And delicious treats?  Yes, I will have some right away.   Wait, delicious free treats?  Even better.  All Ted has to do is punch in a six digit number and hokus pokus! Fritos!

So just about every other day the money in Ted's lunch account runs out.  Apparently Helen is grazing on magic replenishing beans this whole time, I have no idea.  But the thing is that when he runs out of money in his account?  Well, there couldn't be a better alert system if the red cross were running the show.  I get an email, with an attached voice message that plays audio on the screen at the same time I get a text message at the same time oh, now... now, phone?  THIS THIS is when you finally decide to ring?  It's too much -- I need smelling salts.

And for what?  the same automated voice in EACH MESSAGE "Your student...Edward... has a negative balance of...six...dollars. Please replenish his funds immediately." I mean, there could be a tornado wrapped in a hurricane riding a monsoon and I'd be none the wiser but god forbid Ted doesn't have enough money to cover that last pack of Twizzlers.

Inspector Gadget

Remember that guy?  He had all the right parts and no brains (enter Niece Penny).

Here I was all set to blog about how I wanted to kill my phone, and I sit down at the comp and my keyboard "b" gets stuck and starts sporadically typing "b"s into every space available on the screen until I randomly choose the right key to hit to make it stop. Good times. bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb/od

So my phone, oh kill kill kill.  I had this GPS once that I loved.  It was the most awesome little thing that saved my life as I was trying to find my way to tutor through the mean streets of Philadelphia, back in the olden times when I used to travel to student's homes to tutor with my horse and buggy. And GPS.  And when it is dark and you are in a ghetto you are unfamiliar with it is very nice to have this GPS.

Then it got stolen.  Duh.  So I got another GPS and it is the WORST.  BI meanbb bbbtbbbhbbbibbbbsbbbb bbbbtbbhbbibbbbbnbbbgbbbb bbbbbbbbbbbbbbhbbbbabbbbbbbsbbbbb bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbmbbbbbebbb bbbbbbbbdbbbbbrbbbbbibbbbbvbbbibbbbnbbgbbbb bbabbbbbbtbb bbtbbhbbbebb bbbbbbbbbbbbobbbbtbbbbtbbbobbbbbmbbbb bbobbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbfbbbb bbbabbb bbbbpbbbbbbbbbbbbobbbbbbbbbbbbbnbbbbbbbdbbbb bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

I had to leave that up there Blog, I just had to.  I hope you feel my pay---wait, Blog is that YOU?  Trying to talk to me...? Huh.  Anyway, so this GPS has me driving at the bottom of a pond and it like somehow makes it snow in the middle of summer and it's just terrible.  And of course, they don't make the older one I had anymore.  My true love.

Same thing with these gd phones.  And of course your phone is your computer when you are on the go.  And sometimes also your GPS.  And this phone I have let me tell you.  We do NOT have a good relationship.  The thing reverts to a silent ringtone for NO REASON AT ALL.  Hello, you are a phone.  Your primary job is to f-ing RING. I mean yes you can also sing and dance and show me restaurants and all that other stuff (which by the way you are also no good at), but let's get back to basics.  Ring you little mf-er.

Sorry Blog, but I had to vent.  I like that you are trying to talk back blog.  Maybe tomorrow you will learn another letter!

Anyway, here is Eleanor with Bear and Lyman (lion).

Barbecue Sauce Makes You Think Better

Straight out of Helen Patricia Fesko's mouth.  And the project?  Well T minus 12 hours.

When I went to school, there was no Internet.

Splash BAM WHAT?  Right-o.  When I went to school the Internet no in casa.  Now, I tutor online and I have taught in a cyber school, and basically if I look out my window right now I will probably see meteorites flying by me.

I tutor online, Bloggy, and guess what? I am doing it RIGHT NOW.  Weird, right?  Well like I said before (and apparently my before means yesterday) I am always talking about fine lines. And today's fine lines are brought to you by the Letter C which stands for CHEATING.

Oh, Cheating.  Oh, the law.  Oh, rules.  I try, Bloggy, I really do try to obey the rules but it's just no fun.  I think it's somewhat innate. If the pool sign reads NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED, a ham and cheese sandwich will for sure sprout cartoon legs and jump into my handbag.  I'm not sure what it is but as soon as someone starts telling me what I have to do?  My brain immediately begins thinking of all the ways I will not do that particular thing.  A challenge of sorts. It's like when someone tells me to do something ASAP.  Ha.  I fall asleep right away.  I can't help it.  Put that in your ASAP.

No Blog, it's not all that bad. I mean I drive on the right side of the street (most days) so obviously some rules are okeedokee with me.  I wear clothes.  Pay taxes...(?) I think maybe I am a free spirit, Blog.   Which is a nice way of saying wackadoo.

Teach to the Test

Hey Bloggy

So H dawgs has a project due tomorrow.  Part of the project is her writing and part of it was supposed to be either an essay or a ppt or I forget the other options -- speech maybe?  Anyway, at first she chose the ppt and was very excited about it.  She was going to go all Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart on the ppt and we were all singing tra la la.

But then of course she doesn't realize how hard the ppt option is.  So we are two slides in and she wants my help, but also she is frustrated so she keeps snap yapping at me. I am doing the dance of help or no help; hands get bitten off or hands stay connected to wrists.  Since I prefer my hands to stay where the Big Guy made them I back track. 

But now, Blog, the prez is due tomorrow and we only have two slides.  I try not to stress about this because it isn't my prez.  But of course all day today I have to sit on my hands and not do the gd thing for her because I hate to think of her going in empty-handed.  This morning she says, let's change to the essay option because I am really a writer, not a techie.  Her words.   So in her little third grade head she is gonna happily type away the blues tonight but I know it's going to take a lot longer.  I can offer to type it for her, but again, my hands.  I like 'em where they are.  So tonight there will be tears.  Hers, mine, who knows.

As a former teacher, I know projects are essential.  As a parent, holy moly do we dread them.  It's tough because I could do the project in two seconds and we are constantly asking our educators not to "teach to the test".  Well, a project is a great way to differentiate instruction.  Until mama is sitting in a pool of Elmer's glue trying to connect two double A batteries to a sheep.   Then, not so much.

Screen time

Blog, it was your first Mother's Day as a real blog.

Scureeen time.  We have all heard that phrase before... screen time. I know, Blog, I am going to do a whole yourself on vocabulary the Internet has given us, it's crazy!  We all know that "screen time" is no good for our kids but like everything else in the world, screen time has its bennies.  Otherwise, we wouldn't have INVENTED it, you silly. We'd all just point a remote at the fireplace and press random buttons on it, sit back on the couch, and stare at the wall above the fireplace. Boring.

Okay so I have my rules about screen time in the house on the weeknights. And then during weekends. And then over at a friend's house on weeknights.  And weekends at a friend's house.  When it is raining and not raining.  When the second Wednesday of the month falls on a Tuesday.  And so on.

Actually the rules are pretty simple, which is no screenage unless mama's super tired or has to work, which is almost always.  But something needs to be said for this screen time.  Yes, it is detrimental and undoubtedly there is a direct correlation to Teddy having screen time and Teddy punching things. Honestly, you put the 3ds in one hand and his other hand simultaneously forms into a boxing glove on a spring.  But like I said, the bennies.  I can plunk my kids in front of a screen -  video game, Sesame Street - and not only mow the lawn but read the entire The Hunger Games trilogy before they even notice I am gone.  Unless Ted wants a banana.  He might notice then.  Ted and his bananas; it's enough to drive you...well, you know.

That's really it for now, I feel like I will always be talking about the fine line between things, Blog.  The fine line between screen time giving mama a nice break and melting my children's brains.  The fine line between Ted teasing his sister and torturing her (being crossed this very second). The fine line between his sister laughing and losing all her marbles (about to happen in one nanosecond).  Gotta go Blog, love you.

Happy Mother's Day

Oh, man, Blog.  I love being a mother.I really do.  And of course it's my "full time job", as they say with a know-it-all-smirk.  So it's a day devoted to us martyrs and I will honor it.  Hell yeah.


What can I tell you about being a mother?   You sacrifice everything? Of course. Just think about eating.

I know before I had any babies I would just eat food like a regular person.  After I had babies?  My food is not my food at all - it is just stuff I cut up for the audience.  I am in the middle of eating an apple?   Baby wants its?  I automatically hand it over whilst maintaining my convo on squeaky pistons. When I was a regular old person, I just ate whatever was placed in front of me. As a mom, I expect the motion of things being taken off a plate and being put into my mouth to never again be a fluid process.

I will now end with the content of my Mother's Day cards/gifts:


From Ted: A flower with the petals of adjectives all about me:  pretty, nice, beautiful, awesome, helpful, loving (I'm assuming the teacher helped out with this one otherwise these petal might have read cooks sometimes, not annoying, let's me play Super Smash Bros)

A foam tea cup that reads You are as sweet as the sugar in my tea.  I am assuming also a gift from the teacher as Ted has never drank tea in his life and also has no secret stash of pink foam that I am aware of.

A homemade card with water stains that reads on the front Happy Mother's Day, Mom, Nancy, I love you Daddy, Karl, Nonni, Poppy Helen, Sammy, Harper, Emmet.  Inside: I love you. I will never hate you.  Happy Mothers Day mom. I hope you like\love my presents I gave\made you.  A stick figure pic of me and Ted holding each other.  I have two strands of hair and the neck of a giraffe.  He has no hair. On the back:  I love you, Mom! I will never hate you. To Mommy Nancy. Eh, F it I have to take a pic of this and post it.  It's too much.   At first I was like, why is he advocating for the Red Cross and then I realized it's a picture of a gift.  Where this gift is, I have no idea.

Mind you Teddy and I have already had three fights today and he now just exclaimed, "Great!  Now I'm being punished on a HOLIDAY."

Now, Helen, has a little more sophistication to her gift. Water has also been spilled on this card. I assume also teacher-orientated as it is a haiku of sorts and reads

Mom
Kind, Helpful
Tutoring, loving
Makes me feel safe.
Tutor.

She also has more sophistication to her Mother's Day attitude.  In the middle of putting away dishes with me she "fell ill" and had to go "lie down."  Then I was like why am I putting away dishes on Mother's Day?  I have to go see what Blog got me.

UPDATE:  Ted just took his tea cup back.  No one is being nice to him on a HOLIDAY.

Temper Tantrum, Anyone?

Well, of course, Blog, you know what I mean.  Every child has them.  Every parent has to decide how to deal with them.  There are no good options because it's embarrassing when emotions are out there.  Yes you can do the ignoring thing.  Makes you look like a bastard.  You can do the take control of the situation thing.  Guess what?  Everyone thinks you are a bastard.  It really depends on the day and the mood and everyone walks away from your scene with two thoughts:  glad it's not me, and I would've done it better.  Eh, no worries unless the pulsating blue siren shows up.  

But man E had one this morning, and I couldn't stop laughing.  I know, inappropriate laughter is the worst, but still.  It was because of the shoes.    It just struck me all of a sudden.  They are the first to go, the shoes.  It's like, this two year old gets pissed because the world is over in his/her mind. it really is - but the MF-ING SHOES HAVE GOT GO.  So as the parent, you think, uh-oh, little baby is getting angry...uh-oh we are at the supermarket or the park or the zoo or wherever, and first off -- is the shoes.

Obvs one has to hit me square in the forehead. The second gets perfectly wedged in between someone's mandible.  That's just life.  But it's like the shoes. THE SHOES HAVE GOT TO GO WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME BY TRYING TO COVER MY FEET AND MAKE ME WALK ON SOLID GROUND I CAN"T STAND IT.  It's funny, Blog.  They have so very few issues they have to argue about.  But, man, the shoes. How DARE you try to civilize me by making me wear these clodhoppers.  I couldn't stop laughing when I thought about it, and my husband's like...sorry I can't join you in this.   And I'm all, yeah man I'm sorry, too, because the shoes are killer.

THESE MF-ING SHOES HAVE GOT TO GO  And so do the pants and the shirt eventually  So you're little jabberwalky is in the buff because that is what is gonna make the world turn right side up.  Or how it's supposed to be.   It's like well first let's all get back to ground ZERO here,  and then we'll see what's what..  But how dare you...put me in shoes.

Specialized Educational Services

I've been thinking about this for some time, Blog.  I'm not sure how it will play out but I want to try to make it happen.

The IEP meeting. Individualized Education Program.  That's what they call it in PA.  I think CT has something called the BIP which sounds much cooler.  As it goes, I have sat in a billion of them. I have sat in one for my daughter; I have sat in one for my son. I have sat in one as a teacher. I have sat in one as a parent. I have called in as a parent; I have called in as a teacher.  I am telling you.  I have IEPeed my way through the Golden Gates. I have been not only a parent and a teacher, but also a PREGNANT mother.  That's the best.   Oh, your kid needs some specialized services? and here you are...all procreating again.   Well isn't that nice.  Didn't you get the message the first time? Your uterus produces sublevel humans, so please stop fornicating.  We have other things to do.

The IEP meeting is multi-faceted. On the one hand everyone is there to talk about your child's unique needs which is terrific.  Really, when you take into consideration the time and money these administrators spent to be with you and hold this conference, it feels like the world is doing right by you. On the other hand, there is a table full of  well-educated people who are saying, your kid is definitely not normal.  Well, how is that for awkward?

So you agree or disagree on all sorts of forms with all sort of signatures, and let me tell you, as a licensed teacher with a husband who specializes in IEP meetings -- as in he flew through the birth canal holding up an IEP sign where he was subsequently held by a nurse whose name was IEP while she rocked him back and forth in an IEP chair. I still feel like I walk out of that room not sure I advocated for the BEST services for my child. There are a million out there that they don't tell you about, so you have to research and do the whole stalemate thing which is just unfortunate.  I am not trying to buy a used car. I am trying to educate my child.   It's tough  and confusing,  I know Blog, it's the weekend, and I should focus on happier things.

It looks like maybe you lost a few ell bees, Blog?  Love you!

BJ

I was playing a little hard-to-get with you today, Blog.  Did you notice?  Did it work?

I guess maybe we can talk about Bruce Jenner.  I wasn't going to, but since you won't stop ASKING me, I'll give it a shot.  I don't know too much about him except the basics:  Olympic medal winner, married to Kris, and now wants the lady parts.

I have watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians every once in a while, but only because the person in control of the remote placed a sawed off shot gun to my temple. Of course it's like a devastating train wreck; you just can't turn away.  He seemed hmmmm, what's the word....harmless enough on the episodes I watched.  I mean I definitely kept trying to figure out which of his face parts were real and which were plastic until I realized that was a game with no winner.  He also seemed somewhat effeminate for an athlete of his stature, but he isn't really the show's main nightmare, there are so many others that distract you.  And he certainly did father two of those Krazy Ks, agreeing, I believe, to name them each with a name starting in K.  Maybe that was our first klue.  Unless OJ did.  I dunno - we might find that out in the future.

I guess I just want him to be happy, Blog.  And I feel bad that he is clearly super messed up.  I sort of think something about it is that he is just never satisfied.  Olympic gold medal?  The star of the Wheaties box?  Husband and father to Hollywood train wrecks?  None of these were gratifying enough and now he wants to change all of his man parts to lady parts and that just seems sad.  But anyone with that much plastic surgery (hello, Joan Rivers) is probably just never happy. I don't know, does anyone else out there have an opinion?

Sha BAM

That's the name of an actual class, Blog, as I told my sister -and perhaps the sole reader of this blog- No Blog, I'm sorry lots of people read you.  And I know you read yourself, but we're not supposed to talk about that. It's dirty.

So I know I have focused on my exercise classes a lot because such is my life nowadays.  When I was younger I am pretty sure I sat in a pool of nacho cheese and Budweiser and worried about Banana Republic not having enough size double 0s in stock.  Now, I go to exercise class every day and am lucky if I can sew two pairs of maternity pants together to cover me up. Whaddya gonna do?  And in the book I am writing about my young, "crazy" days?  Not an exercise class to be found.  Ah, youth.

But the best part about today was I spent the entire morning thinking it's Friday which turned out to matter not one little bit since I have no traditional job.  Even when my instructor shouted, "It's almost Friday!" I didn't get it.  I was like ha ha good....joke....whatever.

Point being I read the schedule wrong. So I thought I was going to a body pump class, but I knew something was up when I saw the cast members walk into my show.  They weren't getting out weights, putting together barbells or mats, and I thought something is not right.  Eh, let's see what's up.  Then I saw the instructor and realized....Sh'bam.

I have taken Sh'bam once before with the same instructor. It's all in good fun, but there was a strobe light and star pose.  A little too much for me.  And it's all the same version of Jack Tripper and Janice Wood in the aerobics studio of Three's Company with a different twist, so I thought I'm here, and let's make the most of it, right?  Well, I just didn't get my jazz hands out fast enough so I consequently spent most of the class observing, which is a polite way of saying making fun of everyone in my head. But come on, I recognize you from the last time, and let me tell you the chances of Mel Brooks or Penny Marshall secretly observing our SH'Bam class and making you a Broadway hit overnight at the age of forty-five?  Slim to none, so stop taking it so seriously!  Jeez.  Wait, I am sorry, I did not mean to lead you into thinking there was a slight chance.  The chance is NONE.  But who am I?  I was all TGIF in the house.

Sauna

Blog, sometimes I just don't know if we are on the same page.  Today, you seemed all moody.  Maybe that's just me. I love you.

I was going to blog about science because I love science. Oh also? I am a huge nerd.  I know, it's so funny, Blog, I'm trying to be all super cool wanting you to think that I am one of the popular kids.  Which I never was. Ha.  I can never fool you. But today I had various encounters with different types of temperatures

First off. It's springtime.  So there were a lot of long sleeved shirts flying around the short sleeved shirts chasing the capris following the tanks and the whole closet basically came out before I did. (I am not gay.) How come no one ever thought of wearing a long sleeved, camel-haired  turtleneck with cargo shorts?  Oh yeah, they probably did and then they saw me.

And then I played with E in the pool so I go from working out temp to regular temp to chlorine/urine temp and basically my body is like, yo how many goosebumps did you want to be permanent because this is exhausting.  And then the sauna.  How is that for a temp? I'm not entirely sure if even the saunas know what purpose they serve, but of course I have to try out every sauna I come across.  Duh.  And of course the one I'm gonna tell ya about is at the Y.  So already we are starting out on a, shall we say, antiseptic, point of view?

So after all of that intro, there is really not much to say about the sauna except, well,  usually there is silence, and always there is an Asian person.  Some people go in pairs, but I have always flown solo. Which is too bad because I have no one to help me when I realize the metallic of my earrings grew so hot it just lanced a hole in my neck.

My Girls

I have to break this news, and I don't know what to do.  It's terrible....sit down, Blog.

I'm writing a book.. And it has absolutely nothing to do with you. Oh my god, I said it.  It was before I knew you.  Way back in my "crazy" days, Blog. I'm so sorry. Maybe this will make our relationship stronger? I hope we can still be friends.

So I'm writing a book.  I hope it will be finished by the end of summer.  So that happened.

So far, I have told you a lot about Ted, due to his recent "diagnosis".  You know, the one that had me all horrified, until I realized it comes with lots of free STUFF.  Yes, make that wheelchair 24 karat gold please.  No, Bloggy, Ted doesn't need a wheelchair (it's for me when I don't feel like walking around Kmart.  No seriously, what is WITH those dudes who saunter from their car to a motorized cart.  I'm like, I just saw you WALKING, man. Oh and I think you were just DRIVING.  Then they take out the clamp on an arm to get things down from the shelves.  I can't take it.)

Oh anyway, yes, I have offspring with the lady parts, as I have told you.  And let's give them a little spotlight here, cause let me tell you if you don't?  They will snatch it out of your arms and hog it all the live long day. Singing and tap dancing to their heart's content while you yawn and try to figure out how to get your spotlight back. And I say this because E and I just got back from the Y where she had her third meltdown of the day.  And Helen?  Well she began screaming, rocking back and forth and giving up on ever waking up happy again because I turned the tv off abruptly last night.

So yeah T definitely has his meltdowns, and of course there is a certain expectation with autism that he is less emotional or connected to his feelings for other people.  Back in my day, we just called that being a dude.  Sorry guys. But I'm not saying that meanly.  The drama that comes with the lady parts can be a little too much at times. Just ask the man behind the fro yo counter where Eleanor decided to disrobe and see if she could reverberate the walls down with only her screaming yesterday.  He tried to give her a balloon and she almost split his jugular in two with her fangs.  I was like, thanks!  Have a great day!  (We took the balloon.)

Seriously, No Judgment.

All right, Blog.  I'm gonna let you in on a secret.  And this, this is worth all the tea in china, as my father used to say. He used to say this, mind you, when he was kicking our little butts in poker after dinner.

Parents do the best with what they have.  Lemme repeat.  Parents do the best with what they have. Absolutely essential. Nobody decides to be a parent and says, hey you know what?  I'm gonna have a baby and what I'm gonna do is just be half a$$ed about raising it.  That doesn't exist.  Maybe it does during gestation, but after the little springer spews forth, no way.  This.  THIS is why every single human being, no matter how cool or upper class they might be, will take that little plastic Fisher Price phone out of your toddler's hands and say, "Hello?  You looking for Mama? Wait. Mama's here."  I don't care if you're Snoop Dogg or Hilary Clinton.  You are on that play phone and you are all business. Ask yourself:, why is that almost an involuntary reaction?

Once you understand this, the world becomes so much easier.  Parents always think they are doing the best for their kids, so let it be.  Teacher, the parent didn't show up for a conference?  It's not because he or she was too happy throwing back cocktails at Mike's Gimme Baby's College Tuition Watering Hole.  It's because for whatever reason, he or she is struggling.

So when the toddler has a meltdown in aisle 3 of Target, and all of a sudden you hear smacking sounds?  You're horrified.  Corporal punishment is unheard of.  No this parent thinks they are doing what is right.  You have to remember that.  And I am as guilty as the next guy in the way of can you please glue your kid's mouth shut because I am on my VACATION (aka a trip to Target without kids) and I thought I was gonna have twenty minutes of no screaming.  And now I hear screaming.  Kill.