Archive for the 'Dysfunction Junction' Category

ALL HAIL THE ARBITER OF ART! (Part 1)

So, about a year and a half ago, I was hanging out with a homeschooling friend of mine, and we got to talking about stuff we were thinking about doing for the kids. And I mentioned to her (me being a poet and all) that I was thinking about maybe starting up a poetry appreciation tea party kind of thing, and she (being an amateur pianist) said she’d been thinking about starting a music recital thing at her house, and then (WHOOPS!) her chocolate got into my peanut butter and the next thing you knew, we’d accidentally created this little arts appreciation program for homeschool kids in our area. We named it “Afternoon with the Arts” and held it once a month at her house, because her house was a hell of a lot bigger than mine. So, once a month, we’d post to one of the local homeschool groups near here, asking people to sign up for this thing, and before long, it became this Incredibly Popular Event. Practically everyone wanted in.

At first, it was really cool. Kids brought their musical instruments they were studying. Kids brought their artwork. They read poems and stories. Some danced. Some of the preschool set would get up there and do somewhat odd things that weren’t exactly related to the “ARTS”, but they were preschoolers, so we didn’t worry about it. We didn’t expect prodigies. And if they wanted to get up there and talk about firemen for 2 minutes, we’d just applaud and move on to the next act.

After a year or so of this, things began to deteriorate. It started with this one mom. (There’s always that ONE, isn’t there?) She’d been bringing her 3 kids since the beginning, and her youngest was only 3 years old, and he always liked to get up there and dance to Michael Jackson. And again, since he was only 3, we didn’t expect him to do a great job, although he actually had a pretty decent moonwalk going there. And since dance is part of the Arts, we figured he was well within the scope of the program, so no big deal, right? Well… he got so much applause for his routine that his older brother and sister wanted IN. So the 3 kids started doing something called ROCK BAND.

ROCK BAND was this act in which the 3 kids turned on some Hannah Montana song and bopped around the room for a few minutes, sort of lip-syncing and playing air guitar to the music while the 3-year-old danced his dance. For the first couple of ROCK BAND acts, we applauded politely and sort of shrugged. We figured it would eventually stop and the kids would go back to something else. Something that they were actually performing. We figured their mom would tell them: okay, that was fun, but remember, this is supposed to be a program where you show YOUR TALENT. Not just futz around up there.

But, noooooooooooooo….

ROCK BAND began to escalate. Another little boy (about 8 years old maybe) decided he wanted to do something like that too. So at the next opportunity, he got up there, put on a rapper CD, slung a KB Toys plastic guitar around his neck and mumbled along to the music. He called it HIP HOP. Next thing you knew, my kids wanted to do a ROCK BAND. And so did my co-creator’s kids. Everyone wanted to do ROCK BAND or HIP HOP. Because, let’s face it: you sound so much cooler that way, and no one can tell if you mess up.

I looked into the future of Afternoon with the Arts and saw endless hours filled with watching kids lip sync (badly) while playing air guitar and imaginary drums. And I didn’t want any part of it anymore. But, for a while I just kept my mouth shut. Who wants to be the kill-joy mom who brings ROCK BAND to a screeching halt and makes them go back to fumbling out beginner level tunes on the piano?

But then in February we held a special evening show (dubbed Evening with the Arts – we’re SO original, I know!) and invited the dads to come and see. And we invited the adults coming to also perform something if they wanted. And this little boy came with his dad, and the two of them sang a song together, a cappella, in perfect harmony. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard in my life. It was Afternoon with the Arts at its finest hour, you could say.

And after they were done singing, the ROCK BAND jumped up, popped a disc into the player and did their lip-sync air guitar thing. And the kids watching responded (in an almost Pavlovian kind of way) by screaming and cheering like the Beatles had just landed, and I was just disgusted and tired of it all by then. All the work we’d put into making this happen, all so we could watch these kids do NOTHING up there. No thanks.

But the next month, when we sent out the signup notice, that mom put her 3 kids down for ROCK BAND again, and the HIP HOP act went in there too, and I finally emailed my friend as diplomatically as I could and told her I thought ROCK BAND really had to stop. I didn’t mind if the kids wanted to do rock music or hip hop, but if they wanted to do it in the future, they needed to actually PERFORM the song themselves. No more lip sync-ing. No more air guitar. It was just getting ridiculous. I also asked her if she thought I was being too picky, and if she said yes, I was ready to bite my tongue. I mean: who am I to say if it’s ART or not, right?

But my friend agreed. She told me she’d been thinking the exact same thing. But she wanted to wait until the year was done before saying anything. Let’s finish out the year, she said, and then next year, we’ll put some guidelines in writing and start the year fresh. She was moving across the country in a month or two and wouldn’t be here to start the year fresh with me, which made it much easier on her to say “oh, let’s just wait till the new year starts” but she’d just had a baby too, so I didn’t want to press the issue. I was just glad she’d been thinking like me. That I wasn’t being crazy or mean by wanting to stop this weird un-artistic trend that had developed.

So, fast forward to last week. The new year is starting up. Another mom stepped into the place my friend vacated when she moved. This is a good friend, who also agreed that it was time to refocus our little arts program. I didn’t think people would be overly upset about it. So when the call came out from the leader of our little homeschool group to come to the planning meeting, I signed up and went to the meeting without thinking much about what I was going to say about Afternoon with the Arts.

Big mistake.

When it came time to talk about it, and I mentioned that we were going to be limiting the kinds of acts that the kids could do that year, all hell broke loose. The mom with the ROCK BAND kids got upset. I knew she would. She’s a mess and a generally unpleasant person. She’s made it clear on many occasions that no one has it harder than she does, that she doesn’t like her own children, and often chastises people for not helping her enough with whatever she thinks we should be helping her with. We all have spent the past year tiptoeing around her IMPENDING NERVOUS BREAKDOWN. Entire families have pulled away from her and her children in an act of self-preservation. I’d already had a couple problems with her in other activities, and I knew she’d take this badly. So, I said to her, Look, I’m not trying to single just your kids out. I’m not trying to mess with you. I’m just trying to bring this thing back to where it was supposed to be.

It didn’t go well at all. The fact that the HIP HOP kid is the son of the leader of the group didn’t help me much at all either. She got just as mad as the ROCK BAND mom. Then everyone started brainstorming OPTIONS for me. Like maybe we’d do a special ROCK BAND night. Or maybe the kids would have to take turns doing ROCK BAND. It all began to spiral out of control, and all their suggestions just added extra work to me, as the planner of the event. And I got mad. I bared my teeth a little. I told them if someone else wanted to do this thing, I’d be happy to pass it off on them. That it took an enormous amount of work to run the program. That we’d had a very specific vision for it way back when we started it and that the vision was getting lost in air guitar.

At that point, someone said, “you know… there are air guitar competitions all over the world… can you really honestly say that air guitar isn’t art?”

I almost cried right there. Picture it, if you can: there I was, the woman who’ s married to a rocket scientist who’s also a thrash metal bass player, a man who once took guitar lessons from John Petrucci, and who once was in a band that opened for Machine Head and Otep, sitting at a table in a Borders bookstore coffee shop listening to a bunch of “good Christian homeschooling mothers” defend the artistic genre of TEEN BOP RAPPER AIR GUITAR.

Somebody just fucking shoot me already.

More heated discussion ensued. I was no longer sure what I was trying to say or do anymore. I only knew I wanted to get the hell out of there. I threw my hands up in the air and said: “Okay!!! I stand corrected! If you think it’s art, then you decide. I leave it up to you as the parents to determine if your child is presenting something artistic.” It wasn’t what I wanted to say, but it was the only thing I could think of to say to MAKE THE CONVERSATION STOP. Then I made a ridiculous show of saying I felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. And the whole meeting pretty much broke down (which made me feel worse) and I managed to just get out. I was 45 minutes in to an anxiety attack that would last about 16 hours.

I went home, told RegularDad the whole story, lay awake most of the night and wondered what the hell I was going to do.

“Have had no thoughts today…”

Excerpts from a letter written by F. Scott Fitzgerald to his daughter:

…I am glad you are happy—but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed page, they never really happen to you in real life.

All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (according to your talents) and the punishments for not fulfilling your duties, which are doubly costly. If there is such a volume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonnet of Shakespeare’s in which the line occurs Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Have had no thoughts today, life seems composed of getting up a Saturday Evening Post story. I think of you and always pleasantly…

 Fitzgerald ends his letter to his daughter with this list of things not to worry about and things to think about:

Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t wory about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions
Things to think about:
What am I really aiming at?
How good am I in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:
(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

[From William J. Bennett's The Book of Virtues for Young People, pp. 86-87]

I read this to the girls today during lunch, having come across Bennett’s book purely by chance at the library last week. It was one of those books I’d heard mentioned frequently in homeschooling circles, but never felt compelled to rush out and purchase. So, when I saw it on the shelves, I grabbed it and brought it home to peruse, and now we read a little from it every lunch hour. And now that I’ve read this letter, I do believe I’ll buy a copy for the house.

I can’t help but remember how my own father never gave me any advice, except with regards to what I should be reading. I’d send him a letter, and he’d write back: “Go out immediately and get yourself a copy of Madame Bovary.” Or he’d send a letter with a postage stamp with Hemmingway on it. “Look at the man on the stamp,” he’d write back. “Read him.” My father lived a life of missed opportunities, estrangement from family, homelessness and addiction. He was the Hemmingway Defense defined, you could say, and a failure as a parent in every possible way.

Except one, I suppose.

No room for arugula.

Way back when RegularDad bought our first house, one of the Great RegularAunt’s gave me a book on gardening as a housewarming gift. It was an old book, probably bought used at a yard sale, so I had a good time perusing the pictures and giggling over the oh-so-70′s outfits the gardeners were wearing in them. But I also spent a lot of time reading through the book, and wanting very much to give gardening a try.

But as luck would have it, it seemed every time I’d say to myself: okay, this year I’m gonna go for it, something would happen. We’d suddenly have to move, or I’d suddenly become pregnant, or I’d already have a new baby to nurse and care for, or some combination of any of those things. And the years went by and I’d often pick up that old gardening book and pour over the pages again, and think to myself: someday.

And as this past winter was coming to a close, I got out that old gardening book, and sat down with RegularDad and said: okay, this year I’m gonna go for it. And he smiled at me and we talked about it for a long time and we walked around our large neglected yard and talked some more and then we decided we needed to fence the whole thing in because of the little pool we put up every year, and then I said, this corner over here would be perfect for a vegetable garden.

garden-4-25

And we spent quite a few evenings walking around that little corner and sitting down with graph paper and planning and plotting, and then we decided on raised beds, and RegularDad said he’d be happy to build me whatever I needed. Then one night we sat down and ordered a whole mess of seeds from an organic supply close by, and over a series of weekends, RegularDad built me eight large garden beds, dug out the sod, and refilled them with dirt.

I can’t even begin to tell you how much work that turned out to be. Not just the actual carpentry and digging and filling, but the fact that he had to schedule it all around a very busy work schedule and the absolute RAINIEST spring ever on record, and in between doing the actual labor he had to deal diplomatically with one crazy neighbor, one crazy fence-builder, a less-than-ethical dirt supplier, and my many bouts of angst and worry and doubt.

You see, once we decided to do this project, and we told the kids about it, they of course had to tell everyone that we were putting in a garden. And when they told my mother and my mother-in-law about it, both of those women said in no uncertain terms: What are you kidding? That’s so much work! Why would you do that to yourself?

What they were thinking was probably something along the lines of: oh GOD. First she homeschools. Now she wants to grow her own food. WHAT NEXT????

And silly me, sometimes I’d buy it. I’d agree that this was ridiculous. That I’d never be able to grow anything. That I would fail. That I’d look so stupid at the end of it all, having made RegularDad do all this work, and there’d be nothing to show for it. And my mother and mother-in-law (the two people who should be NURTURING me in this process and sharing their knowledge of cooking and doing MOTHERLY type things like SUPPORTING ME IN THIS ENDEAVOR), they’d be lined up out front elbowing each other out of the way to be the first to say to me: See? I TOLD YOU SO. Didn’t I tell you? You can’t do this. You can’t do anything.

Because they’re THAT kind of mothers.

But RegularDad kept telling me to shake it off, and I remembered some very good advice a good old friend once gave me about gardening:

Just plant something.

So I did. I planted stuff. And at first, it didn’t look so impressive at all:

 garden-5-31a

And I spent quite a few anxious hours on the phone and online with some of the greatest women I’ve ever known, discussing the state of my dirt, the health of my little plants. And they all held my hand and told me that everything would be okay. That things would grow. Wait and see, they said. And take another picture in a month. So a month later I went out to the garden and snapped another shot:

garden-7-2

I was starting to feel a little better by then. I’d gotten some lettuce to grow and the corn was definitely knee-high by July, and we’d had fun with radishes. Even more important than that was the fact that all four of us would often end up out there after dinner working in the beds, or just playing in the vicinity. My 8-year-old suddenly became quite attached to the garden and often asked to go out there with me so that we could work together. We’d be busy digging or mulching and she’d say to me: What if nothing grows? And I’d say to her: Then we’ll try again.

RegularDad decided to build me a gorgeous little picket fence to go around it, and if there wasn’t any actual work to do with the plants, the kids would often go out there and help hold boards in between bouts of swinging on the swings or playing tag. And every time they found a worm, they’d bring it to me and I’d say: oh, go put that in with the squash. Or the cucumbers. Or wherever. And whenever they found a ladybug in the house, they’d make a big deal out of ushering it out to our garden and wishing it well.

And one day my mother-in-law showed up and said, so… show me the garden, and we went out there and walked around and talked about what was in there and she smiled and nodded as if she’d been the one who’d had to encourage me to do this all the while. And at one point she said, so are you growing any arugula? And I said, no, I wasn’t because I don’t really like arugula very much. I find it very bitter and prefer to not eat it. She expressed her disapointment at that, and then bent down to one corner of a bed and said: see… this here (using her arms to draw a wide box in the air)… this would  be perfect for my arugula. And in my head (not out loud, because the kids were clamoring around begging to harvest the last radishes) I was all: OH MY GOD. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY GARDEN.

And then a couple weeks later, my mom showed up to have dinner with us, and she said to us: so… show me the garden. So, we all trooped out there again and walked around again and commented on what was out there AGAIN, and my mom was all: how wonderful! I’m so glad you finally decided to do this! And before I could even sputter any obscenities in my head, she trotted off to her car and came back with a tray of nearly-dead plants she’d picked up in a garden center, oh, I don’t know, three months earlier and then apparently hid in her trunk until that moment. To give to us as a gift. Oh, I know they’re not looking too good, she said to us. But I bet if you just put them in the dirt and give them a drink, they’ll perk right up.

Oh, my FREEKIN’ GAWD.

So, the point of this whole story is, I did it. I gardened. And it’s been a really great experience. So far, I’ve eaten the following things from my own garden: lettuces, radishes, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, zucchini, corn and green beans.

Here’s what it looks like more recently:

garden-8-7a

garden-8-7

garden-8-7b

 

garden-8-7c

 

garden-8-7d

 Those are my cucumbers right above there. Can I tell you that I’m currently in cucumber heaven? Actually, I’m in a full medley of vegetable heaven, but the cucumbers are really my favorite this year. I planted two varieties, one of which was recommended only for greenhouses, but I thought I’d try anyway because I loved them so much, and they were so expensive at the store. And I watched, amazed, as they grew into these enormous giant vegetables with small thorns on them. I gingerly picked one about a month ago, and brought it inside. I washed the dirt off it, scrubbed the spines off it, and sliced it and, oh-so-timidly bit into it. And it was the most amazing cucumber I’d ever eaten. I couldn’t believe how much I’d been paying for store-bought cucumbers that were yellowed and scrawny and dry. The ones in my garden are like watermelon rinds.

There’s a patch of corn in the background there. A month ago it was knee-high. Now it’s seven feet tall. And tasty. There was this one afternoon when I went walking down the aisle to pick some beans, and I walked by the corn, and the aroma of those plants pollenating made me stop and just stand there for about five whole minutes.

Never in the past three years was I as glad to have quit smoking as I was at that moment. Because if I were still smoking, I probably would have missed that scent. And so I realized yet one more benefit to having this garden: it’s something new. Something I never smoked while doing. I’ll never be triggered by a wish to smoke in that garden. And more than once, when briefly wishing I still could grab a quick smoke, I’ve gone out into the garden instead and stood between the corn and the tomatoes and just breathed it in.

And last week, when my mother-in-law begged us to make the long drive to see her mother, crying and moaning to me on the phone that her mother wouldn’t stop calling her and crying and moaning about how no one comes to see her, I went out to the garden early in the morning and picked a small basketful of tomatoes and cucumbers and brought them up to RegularGreatGrandma’s. And I bit my tongue when my mother-in-law raved about how beautiful our garden is, and just pulled out a pile of knitting and kept myself happy with it while we had our visit.

garden-8-7e

For a first year garden, I’d say this has been a success. And next year will be even better. Not that I haven’t lost any crops. Because I have. I lost my early spinach. And I don’t think my watermelons are going to make it. Nor the pumpkins or squash. I didn’t get to start them as early as I would have liked, and they’re still very tiny. This has been an unusually rainy year and it seems some plants do well with it but others don’t. But I didn’t lose it all. And each year, I’ll try again and see what I get. It’s amazing how fast I’ve gotten used to just wandering outside to pick something to make for dinner. What a gift this is.

I’d orginally planned to blog about my garden project slowing during the course of the summer. But then, I lost my watch, and blogging took a backseat to both looking for it and to actually being out in my garden. Gardening. But again, I do apologize to those of you who have waited so patiently to see these pictures, and to see how it all turned out, not to mention the length of this post.

You were right, cowgirls. It all came together. And now I’m hooked.

In 20 years, we’ll look back and say: “Oh yeah, that was the summer Mom lost her watch!”

See, the thing is… I lost my watch.

I lost it way back in June. The kids were swimming and I was cleaning the back porch. It was hot and I was sweeping the porch, dust and grit floating in the air around me, and I was sweating a bit and thinking about getting on a suit and getting in the pool with the kids for a while to cool off, and my watch was sort of STICKING to my wrist in that way and at some point I went inside the house and went into some room or other to do something and I remember taking off my watch and putting it down on top of a little pile of… oh, I dunno… junk, toys, something… and I can see myself doing that and I can SEE the watch tumbling down the pile a little bit, and I can CLEARLY REMEMBER saying to myself: don’t leave your watch there, dummy, you’ll lose it for sure.

But I was hot and gritty from sweeping the porch and I just wanted to cool off fast, so I left it there, in that place where I was SURE to lose it and went and got my bathing suit on and went for a little swim with the kids.

And guess what? I haven’t seen it since.

And I LOVED that watch. RegularDad got it for me a year ago and it’s one of those uber-cool solar-powered things so I’d never have to get the battery replaced in it ever!

Sigh… and now it’s gone.

And I’ve thought about it and thought about it and retraced my steps again and again, and I can’t find it anywhere. I’ve checked all the likely places. The most common places where little piles of junk crop up, and nothing.

And then my camera battery went dead.

And every time I’d come up here to my office to get the charger to charge the battery so I could post some pictures of things I want to blog about, I’d think to myself: hey, I wonder if my watch is in THAT PILE RIGHT THERE? and I’d start looking and then I’d wander down to check the top of the microwave but it’s still not there, and then I’d wander into the bathroom and check there because I was about to change into a bathing suit when I took off the watch so maybe I left it in there. But nope. (I even let the trash can in there pile up for a quite a while because I was afraid to throw it out because maybe my watch had fallen into it, and it took quite a while for me to find the spare 10 minutes needed to dig through that trash, and let me tell you what a THRILLING 10 minutes that was for me. And guess what? It wasn’t in there.)

And then I’d forget all about charging the camera battery, and by the time I remembered it and realized I hadn’t done it, it would be time to take the kids somewhere or cook something or CHECK THE LAUNDRY ROOM BECAUSE MAYBE MY WATCH IS IN THERE SOMEWHERE. I know I already checked there, but hey, you never know. It could magically reappear there someday. Maybe. And by the time that was all done, it would be time to put the kids to bed, which seems to somehow TAKE FOREVER AND A MILLENIUM THESE DAYS and by the time that was done, I’d be too tired to do anything but sit on the couch and look for old House reruns, which I can’t seem to find anywhere lately. Dammit.

So, I’d say to myself, okay, I’ll charge the camera battery tomorrow. And then I’ll blog something. HONEST I will. PROMISE. Total Freekin’ Pinky Swear.

And right now, I’m in my office and the camera battery is charging, but it’s not ready, so I have no pictures. But I felt like I sort of owe you some sort of an explanation of where the hell I’ve been all summer, and the answer is, quite simply:

I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR MY WATCH.

God help me, in between the normal craziness that’s an average day around here, what with all the new curriculum to be ordered and the myriad social events my kids simply MUST ATTEND and the ubiquitous dishes and laundry that need washing, that’s how I’ve spent my summer vacation.

I’d tell you more about all the OTHER things we’ve been doing this summer, but… well… wait a minute… I see a pile of stuff over there in the corner that I’ve haven’t checked yet and—-

Unfrazzling the frazzled.

Last week I took the kids through the McDonald’s drive-through. (I know, I know – a homeschooler eating fast food – freaky ain’t it? Next thing you know, we’ll be cursing like sailors and playing video games.)

Anyway. So, it’s dinner hour, and the kids are a bit of a sopping mess after swimming lessons, and RegularDad’s working late or bowling with his boss, or something, so I’m all: “Hey, who wants McDonald’s?” and reveling in those spare few moments when I am THE GREATEST MOM IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, and I pull into a mildly long line  at our local McD’s and wait a while.

Now, mildly long lines at the drive through don’t bug me all that much, because it gives me time to take the girls’ orders, and let me just say that the decision between a Hamburger Happy Meal or a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal followed by the agony of not being allowed to get soda because it’s not the weekend followed by the interminable silence that is my 5-year-old deciding between chocolate milk and apple juice can take a FREEKIN’ ETERNITY. So a long line can sometimes be a bit of a boon sometimes, is all I’m sayin’.

ANYWAY.

So, we get up to the speaker and upon hearing that age-old metallic garbled welcome-to-mcdonalds- can-I-take-your-order, I give the kids’ orders, and then I ask a question about something on the menu, something that’s just a dollar. I dunno what. Just something. And there’s this utter silence at the other end — like the girl in there fell into some BLACK HOLE OF UTTER DOOM AND OBLIVION because I didn’t just say And gimme a #4 with Coke — and then someone else gets on the line and answers my question and we move on to the payment window, and finally up to the next window where I’m handed a few bags of “food” and I pull up a little bit so the car behind me won’t be delayed, and CHECK THE BAGS.

Because long experience has taught me that you never just drive away from the McDonald’s drive-through without CHECKING THE BAGS. Because they always forget the sauce. Or the straws. Or the fries. Or something.

This time, HORROR OF HORRORS, they’d forgotten the TOYS!

MOM!!!!!!!!!! my 5-year-old cried. THERE’S NO TOY!!!!!!

(AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!! Let Loose The Hounds of Hell!!!!!!!!!)

What? I said. What do mean? No toy?

Then my 8-year-old said: I don’t have one either.

And so much for the drive-through. We parked the car and went inside and waited 10 minutes for someone to help us. There was only one register open, and the girl working that register was obviously, PAINFULLY new at this job. She had someone shadowing her, telling her exactly what to say, which buttons to push, where to find the apple pies, etc, etc, etc.

And you could SEE IT on her face: how frantic she was. What a nighmare her afternoon had been, and that the evening was probably going to be at least just as bad, if not worse. I suspected that if I were to elbow my way to the front of the line and wave my receipt and demand a couple of Happy Meal Toys for Girls, she’d have just collapsed onto the floor in a sobbing teenage ruin, and who needs that on their conscience?

So, I waited in the regular line with my two anxious daughters, watching this frazzled teenager learning valuable lessons about life and capitalism and the importance of a good college education. And eventually, we made it up to the front there and I showed her my receipt and asked for our toys and then we left.

“Thanks, Mom!” the girls said to me, skipping out to the car with their treasures. “You’re the BEST!!!”

They didn’t tack on that part about the WHOLE UNIVERSE, but that’s okay. The universe is expanding anyway. It’s better to not be compared to things that are expanding these days. I am 40 now, after all.

Tonight, I ran out to the grocery store to pick up salad fixings, some cauliflower, and milk (things that will definitely not earn me the GREATEST MOM IN THE ENTIRE EXPANDING UNIVERSE AWARD), and I jumped into the express line and proceeded to wait quite a while because someone up there had written an actual check to pay for her items, and it practically made the clerk’s head explode. He had to type in all these codes and numbers and it wasn’t working at all. He tried it three times, and he couldn’t get it to work. And he was starting to panic. He kept trying, and after every failed attempt, he’d look over his shoulder to where another clerk was working a line and say: “Hey man! I really NEED your help over here!”

By then I was doing that special crane dance: where you start stretching your neck around to see if anyone else is open, because this could take FOREVER. But the only other guy open was the guy that was going to end up over here helping this dude out, so why bother moving, right? Besides, it was the express lane. The lady in front of me had maybe 7 items. And let’s face it, a trip to the store alone is like a mini-vacation anyway. Why rush things? So, I waited. I read some of the Enquirer’s headlines. Patrick Swayze’s not looking too good these days. It’s very sad.

After a while, and without the other guy’s help at all, this dude managed to figure it out. He was so relieved! “You’ve got to hit the pound sign at the end,” he confessed. Ah, yes, we all nodded sagely. The elusive pound-sign maneuver. It’s gotten the best of all of us at one time or another, hasn’t it? But, we all smiled and cheered for him a little. We could tell he was new at this job. He thanked all of us individually for being so kind and patient. And when I whipped out my Visa card instead of a check book at the end, you could tell it totally made his night.

So, there’s me: being patient. Me: being nice.

Isn’t it nice?

yeah…

What I wish for, is that I could remember how to act nice like this when it’s the kids who are frazzled. I wish that I could remember that when they’re freaking out, it’s not at all unlike what these two people were going through. That in their little heads, there’s this weird buzzing sound, and nothing seems to be connecting right. And they don’t need me adding to their stress by being impatient. Or yelling at them and sending them to timeout.

That’s what I wish.

In which I envison a great many peanut butter sandwiches in the near future.

flu

Yesterday afternoon, I took my 5-year-old to the doctor because her cold was going on Day 8 and wasn’t showing any signs of improvement whatsoever.  We ended up getting the doctor that drives me batty, the one who reminds me a bit of Dr. House. He doesn’t limp, and he’s not so OBVIOUSLY rude to people, but he’s brilliant enough that he just does not understand how to talk to a 5-year-old during an appointment. In fact, he barely talks to the 5-year-old at all. He talks to me, and he says things like “Oh man, THIS is really gonna be a TOUGH one!” when my 5-year-old shows signs of distress at the thought of a stick or a Q-tip swab anywhere near her throat (which is so sore that she can barely talk or swallow).

What my 5-year-old hears isn’t so much that she’s the tough one. It’s that something will be DIFFICULT during this visit. Which translates into something will be PAINFUL during this visit. Her distress increases visibly.

What I think when I hear this sort of thing is: WHY did this guy ever get into pediatrics in the first place? What I want to SAY is “Dude, do you even HAVE children?”

What I wish is that I could have magically transported our entire pediatric facility from Colorado along with us when we moved, so that the girls would have the same doctors they’d had ever since they first popped out onto this unsuspecting world. The doctors that knew how to talk to them when they felt sick. The ones that looked right at them when they came through the door and gave them a commiserating frown/rueful smile and said: “Not feeling so good, huh? Well, let’s have a look-see.” and then just went ahead and did what needed to be done without pausing to comment on how difficult it might be, just transferring them from the exam table to my lap and encircling arms for things that might prove uncomfortable, and GETTING IT DONE.

But no. None of them thought uprooting their entire practice was a reasonable idea when I told them we were moving. So I’m stuck with this guy, who is apparently BRILLIANT and the ultimate Go-To-Guy when your kid has got some serious rare disease. But apparently, if your kid is just plain old sick, and happens to have some wax in her ear so he can’t really see if there’s an infection in there, and happens to have this aversion to Strep tests, he’s really not all that good.

And in the end, he simply decided Not To Do The Tests. He would give her antibiotics anyway at this point, so he didn’t see the reason for putting her through an ear cleaning and a Strep test that might or might not have resulted in a prescription for Amoxicillin. He saw how worried my kid was, and apparently didn’t want to deal with it. So, we lucked out, I guess, and just got a prescription. At first, I was all: Gee that’s nice of him. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. But then not ten minutes after he’d explained why he wasn’t going to do the test, he gave us a mini-lecture about how we couldn’t ALWAYS EXPECT to get off this easy. That NEXT TIME, she’d probably have to have the tests.

At that point I told him, as nicely as possible, that if he felt the procedures were necessary, we certainly would do them. That he was the doctor. That I relied on his professional opinion about these things. And that if my daughter showed stress or reluctance I was RIGHT THERE ON HAND, IMMEDIATELY AVAILABLE  to help her through it. That I considered it my JOB to help my child through difficult medical moments, just as I considered it HIS JOB to tell me what was required.

He gave me a prescription and we left. Without doing any tests.

I guess it would be prudent to mention at this point that I, also, was still dealing with the very same symptoms as my 5-year-old, which made it very hard for me to maintain any sort of perspective or patience regarding this whole doctor visit. And if he was any other doctor, I’d have called the office to complain when we got home. But considering that he’s the uber-brilliant guy there, I figure it would be bad karma to, like, alienate him or something. So, I took my kids, the prescription, their various Webkinz that they brought in with them, all my own personal cold symptoms and got into my car and left.

And this morning, still feeling pretty crappy, I decided to stop pretending I wasn’t really sick, and called my own doctor’s office. I told them I suspected I have a sinus infection, and they said to come on in. So, I took my kids, their Webkinz toys, some Goldfish crackers, and all my symptoms down to my doctor’s office a couple of hours ago, where I was informed by my kindly young doctor that it’s not a sinus infection.

It’s the flu.

“The flu?” I said to him. “Are you sure? I thought the flu would be one of those I-can’t-even-get-out-of-bed-because-of-the-utter-agony type things. I’m up and around. How can it be the flu?”

“Well,” he said. “Not everyone gets the exhaustion. In fact, it’s almost worse when they don’t, because they tend to think it’s just a cold and go about their business, and it takes longer to recover that way.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Did you get a flu shot this year?” he asked.

“Well… no.” I said.

“Definitely the flu,” he said, and started scribbling like mad on his prescription pad. “I’m gonna give you some Amoxicillin along with everything else I’m prescribing, just in case, but chances are, it won’t make a difference. Go home and rest.”

We’re home now. And resting as best we can.

Except for one event tomorrow that we simply cannot back out of, we’re cancelling everything for the next week or so.

I’ve decided that Mr. Uber-Brilliant Doctor Who Never Should Have Been A Pediatrician doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I’ve decided to treat my 5-year-old’s cold as if it were the flu. Sure, she’ll take the damn antibiotics. Just in case. But chances are, it’s the flu, and we’ve just got to get through it.

I’ll be back when I’m on the other side of all this.

Post traumatic holiday stress.

There should be a national law (and I am seriously considering contacting President-Elect Obama about this) that the week after you turn 40 should be a mother-in-law free zone.

One should be completely free to enjoy the dubious moments of hitting 40 — like your 5-year-old announcing it at the top of her very impressive lungs to the entire staff that teaches her karate (TODAY’S MY MOM’S BIRTHDAY AND SHE’S GONNA BE 40!) without the additional impending DOOM that is your mother-in-law not just coming to visit for 4 days, but also coming because she’s got a JOB INTERVIEW at a location LESS THAN AN HOUR AWAY FROM YOU.

And there should be some sort of legislation that would require her to refrain from duplicitous behavior. So that when she says to you and your husband that it would be really nice if you could bring the kids to see her mother, that really all you’d be agreeing to is bringing the kids to see her mother, not to some clandestine Large Extended Family Gathering that you just happen to figure out because she accidentally lets drop that Uncle Johnny will be there too, which leads you to inquire about all the other Great Aunts and Uncles and Various Cousins and Siblings-In-Law that may or may not be getting divorced or finally kicking that heroin habit, or whatever… the majority of whom think that You’re The Crazy One because you don’t send your kids to school.

And I’m not saying that there needs to be an official edict or anything, but it might be worth adding to standard books of etiquette that if you have this sort of situation happen, and you’re nice enough to Bite Your Tongue Till It’s Forked and still let your mother-in-law borrow one of your new turtlenecks to wear on her interview because it’s JUST PERFECT compared to the blouse she ran out and bought at the last minute that wasn’t quite what she’d hoped for but would have to do, and you wished her good luck and smiled as she dashed out for the interview that might land her the job that could possibly put her back within driving distance of you and your children FOREVER, and you also spent the majority of your week watching her play with the kids and keeping an EVER VIGILANT EYE on her so that she didn’t accidentally throw out all your pots and pans while cleaning the kitchen, while your husband — the son of the woman who has suddenly descended upon you and your kids and your house and possibly YOUR FUTURE — went to work all day long every day of that visit, that you should get foot massages from your husband for like — oh, I don’t know — ETERNITY?

Because, all’s I’m sayin’ is: I am the Queen of Exercising Restraint. I continually allow this woman, who once accidentally admitted she wished I was dead so she could raise my children instead of me, to come here and visit, and I don’t make RegularDad take time off from work. And I drink tea with her, and I laugh, and I tell her that it would be Just Lovely if she managed to get a job that would bring her back east to be near us, and I let her cook meals in my kitchen, and I bite my tongue when I catch her cleaning and I let it all wash off my back and then pretty soon, I help her find her things and give her a hug and tell her how wonderful it was to see her, and urge her to come again soon, and I assure her with adequate enthusiasm that we’re all Really Looking Forward To Seeing The Family this Saturday, and the whole time I’m doing that, every bit of my soul is guarded and closed off and I hope it doesn’t show too much.

And I smile and nod when my daughters tell me how much they love their Grandma. And I give them hugs when they cry when she leaves. And I remind myself Again And Again that what she said that time, about wishing me dead, was just One Of Those Things. That she didn’t really mean it THAT WAY. And sometimes, I almost believe it when I tell myself that.

And I hope that the girls never find out that Grandma said that. And I hope that they do. All at the same time.

But here’s the silver lining, the happy ending: There’s a storm coming. Finally. Some snow. My 8-year-old has been pining for some snow. And tomorrow’s the day. The flurries are already moving in, and by morning it’ll be a mess that will last all day and all night long. And tomorrow was the day we were supposed to go to the party that wasn’t supposed to be a party. So after all my mother-in-law’s manipulative maneuverings, we still may avoid most of the CRAZY. At least for now.

Winter, you are So Welcome Here!

On the mend.

crash

We’ve all seen the doctor and we’re all fine. The car’s in the shop, and the insurance people are doing their thing.  In a few days, Nana will get on a plane and end up in Texas where she’ll be RegularSis’s problem for a few days. And RegularSis — if y’all plan on calling us on Christmas Day, may I suggest a car ride while you dig for my number? It makes calling THAT MUCH MORE EXCITING!

Many, many thanks for all the well wishes. You guys rock!

And now back to our regularly scheduled holiday season.

It’s RegularSis’s birthday today, but I didn’t call her. Here’s why:

So, I decided to take the girls to see my mother today. We’ve been here almost 2 years now, and we still hadn’t managed to ever visit Nana at HER PLACE, mostly because she moves a lot, so it’s been hard to keep up with her and all her condos and houses and whatnots that she rents. Usually after about 6 months of living in one place, she’ll decide that the neighbors are All Out To Get Her, or that there are BUGS coming through the ventilation system and biting her in the night, or that…

well… you get the idea. So, she moves a lot.

Anyway. I’d been trying to get on over to Nana’s New House for almost a month, and after two cancellations and working carefully over the phone with my mom to figure out a day that would actually work for all of us,  TODAY WAS THE DAY. There was no way I was gonna cancel this again. So, I piled the kids and some snack bags into the minivan and headed out by 11:00. For once, I was on time, and the kids weren’t fussing. The 2 days of rain had ended, and the sun was coming out and drying the world and making things look cheerful. Hell, I’d even managed to not only REMEMBER my cell phone, but to have charged it all night over night.

Not that I ever USE the damn thing.

As we were pulling out of the driveway, I looked in my mini-rearview mirror and said to my 5-year-old: “Honey, pull on that seatbelt until it’s nice and tight… it’s too loose” like I’ve said to her for months and months and months now, and she dutifully pulled on it until it was tight.

Maybe 15 minutes later, just as I was merging onto another road, another car slammed right into the back of my van, seemingly out of nowhere. KA-BLAM!!!!!!!!

You’ve been rear-ended before, haven’t you? You know what it sounds like, yes? That loud hollow KRUMP! The weird way in which you suddenly realize you’ve been jolted badly, even though it will be quite a few minutes before you realize that the rearview mirror is no longer hanging on the windshield but has come THIS CLOSE to clocking your kid in the forehead and now rests on the floor in between the kids’ seats behind you.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” my 8-year-old asked, as I was yanking the wheel over to the right, pulling over to the shoulder. “MOMMY? WHAT WAS THAT?”

“Someone hit us,” I said, “but WE’RE ALL RIGHT. Okay?” I looked around at the two of them. Their eyes were so big and round and stunned. “We’re OKAY, you guys,” I said again. Then, after considering for a moment, I asked them: “Are you okay?”

And they both started to cry.

After a little bit of soothing, I got out of the van and went around to the back, where a woman was waiting. She looked to be about in her late 50′s. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and then I said: “You okay?” She nodded. “We’re okay. You okay?” “Yeah, we’re okay.” and I stuck out my hand and said, “Shake?” and we shook. “You came out of nowhere,” she said to me. I’d been stopped at a stop sign. My van is not equipped with a cloaking device, so I’m pretty sure we were VISIBLE the entire fucking time, but WHATEVER. People say stupid things when they’re at fault in an accident. I didn’t correct her. I just let it slide.

Her husband had been driving and he was still surveying the damage over at his front end while I shook hands with his wife. He wandered over pretty soon. By now, I’d moved from the back of the van to the side and opened the door so the kids could see me. I called the police. Then I called RegularDad. All of this on my rarely-used, often uncharged and forgotten cell phone. I was still on the phone with RegularDad when the police arrived and I was trying to write down my insurance information with shaking hands all while balancing a cell phone in the crook of my (already aching) neck.

The kids had recovered from their fear by now, and the excitement was setting in. They’d unbuckled themselves and had crawled to the rear of the van. They were gaping out the back window at the crumpled car parked behind us and generally test-driving life as Kids Who’d Survived A Car Crash.

The cop took notes and told us what to do next. There were no serious injuries, and the damages weren’t bad enough that we couldn’t drive away. The couple who had hit us were on their way to a wedding, of all things, so they drove off pretty soon, promising to be in touch, and I pulled off into a parking lot, off the main road so I could make phone calls in peace. I called my mother, told her we’d been in an accident and that I wasn’t sure if we could come or not. The kids heard me say that and immediately began to wail. “We Wanna Go To Nana’s!!!!!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

So, I hung up with my mom, called RegularDad back, told him I thought we could still go on to Nana’s, so (sweet guy that he is) he drove over to us and traded cars with us. I called our pediatrician’s office because the girls had each said in passing: “Wow, my neck feels funny!” and talked to the nurses about it, and we made appointments for both girls for Monday morning. I’m torn between concern that I shouldn’t wait until Monday and relief that we don’t have to actually go into an Emergency Room. I hate Emergency Rooms. With all of my heart and soul.

We drove on to Nana’s house and arrived only two hours late. We had a late lunch, and then the girls looked at piles of old photographs of me and RegularSis from way back when. For some reason, I’ll never understand, my mother had saved some pictures of me with probably every boyfriend I ever had as a teenager, and those were peppered in among the shots of me and the dogs, me and the horse, me at graduation, etc, etc etc. “Who’s this?” my 8-year-old asked, holding up a shot of me and some old asshole boyfriend I used to date.

“Mom!” I said. “GROSS! Why do you still have these?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This stuff was in storage for a while. I can’t remember what’s in there.”

I fielded quite a few cell phone calls all afternoon, from insurance people and RegularDad, and I was just starting to get tired and my neck was starting to complain even more, and I was ready to head back home when my mother said: “Hey, let’s take a drive into town!” “HOORAY!” the kids said, so I stifled my sighs and we all clambered into Nana’s car and headed on into town.

And suddenly, I was force-fed a trip down memory lane. That’s where the candy store was, that was our pizza place, and there’s the fountain but it’s closed up for winter, oh look the old theater’s still there, they just refurbished it because it was so moldy in there that people were getting sick every time they saw a show but it’s really nice now, and look! there’s the dry-cleaners where Aunt Susan used to work, remember that…

And I swear to God, the whole time she’s driving the car and pointing out landmarks, she’s simultaneously holding her cell phone with her right hand and flipping through her call history, looking for RegularSis’s new phone number. Because it was RegularSis’s birthday today (Hey, Happy Birthday RegularSis! Sorry I didn’t call you, but you wouldn’t fucking BELIEVE the day I’ve had!) and she thought we should call her to wish her a Happy Birthday. So, she’s driving down narrow, crowded streets and stamping on the breaks whenever another landmark from my crappy childhood comes up, and then after pointing it out, she steps on the gas again and turns her attention BACK TO HER CELL PHONE, and I’m sitting there in the front passenger seat (THE SEAT OF DOOM), not 6 hours out of an earlier car accident, asking myself: Oh for the love of God and All the Saints, IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING???

And then my 5-year-old said: “Aren’t there any toy stores around here?” and just as I was finished saying, “Hey! Christmas is two weeks away. The last thing you need today is new toys,” my mother said, “But there is a toy store here! A really great one!”

So we ended up in a toy store TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS where the kids took forever picking out a toy each because I’d imposed a $20 limit on them, and then I said to my mother JUST TO BE CLEAR: “Are YOU paying for this? Or am I paying for this?” because with Nana, you’re just never sure who’s picking up the tab.

She paid. She probably can’t afford it, but she paid.

So, after that, I told my mother that we really needed to get going, because RegularDad was waiting to take us all out to dinner. We were walking back towards the car, and the wind was picking up. It was cold. “Let’s just stop and see the Christmas tree lights!” Nana said, so we crossed to the square and ran through to where there was a tree with lots of colorful lights. “Pretty!” I said, “now, let’s go.”

“Doesn’t anyone want ice cream?” Nana asked. “Or coffee?”
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Who eats ice cream in THIS kind of weather?” my 8-year-old said, shivering.
“Mom, we’ll come back in the summer,” I said to her.
“Okay,” she said, and we trooped back to the car.

There was still a half hour of time left on the meter. “Well,” Nana said, “we’ll just have to sit here for another 30 minutes.” and she laughed a little at her little joke. But then, instead of starting the car, she spent a good 5 minutes digging through her purse, looking for God knows what.

“What are you looking for?” I asked her.

“My notebook,” she said. “I took it out in the store, when I was getting my money, and now I can’t…” and she trailed off, all while emptying the contents of her purse out into her lap. Then (mercifully), she held up a little book and said, “oh, thank goodness. Here it is.” and then she flipped through it, still looking for RegularSis’s phone number, but to no avail. “Mom,” I said, “we can call her later. We really need to get going.”

So, we started back to her house, but she took the long way back to show us the surrounding country side and her friend’s property, complete with horses and goats. It was getting dark by now, and I’d be driving back to Pennsylvania in the dark and in rush hour traffic, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Finally, we arrived back at her place. I rushed both girls from her car to mine and said a fast, fast goodbye, which means we were out of there in ten minutes — a personal record for us. Five minutes into the drive, I tried to dig through my purse one-handed to find my cell phone to call RegularDad to tell him we were late. But I couldn’t find it, and considering that we were in New Jersey and it’s illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving, I gave up. Two minutes later, my 5-year-old had a tantrum in the backseat because the toy she’d picked out didn’t have quite what she thought it did in the box. Forty-five seconds into that tantrum, I read her the riot act. The word “damn” made its way out into the air of the car. Things got quieter.

Suddenly my cell phone began to ring from somewhere in the depths of my purse. The word “dammit” floated out into the air as I groped for it again. I found it and managed to flip it open one-handed just as the last ring died away and the thing chirped out its signal that I’d missed a call.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!” I yelled, at the top of my lungs.

Instant quiet in the back seat. The kind that makes you feel like the worst parent in the world.

I managed to call RegularDad back and told him we were late and started blowing off steam before I could even stop myself, and he said: “So, I guess we probably won’t go out to dinner then?” And I was beyond the ability to even think about dinner. All I could think about was getting across the God Forsaken Delaware River and home to where I wouldn’t  have to drive a car, or be in a car, for the rest of the day.

We made it back home without further incident, complaint or tantrum. We took the kids to a diner for dinner. I ordered a  Bacon Burger with Fries, A Pepsi, and Chocolate Ice Cream for dessert. I didn’t make the kids eat a single vegetable. I lingered over dessert.

We’re home now and it’s well after 9:00 and the kids are still up. And they’re watching television. Lots and lots of television.

And now that I’ve gotten this all out for you to read, I’m gonna go put the kids to bed, and I’m gonna go have a nice hot shower and then I’m gonna make myself some popcorn and watch whatever’s on.

Because this day is DONE, my friends.

Happy Birthday, RegularSis.

I’ll call you tomorrow.

Poet, pushing 40, attends rock concert, loses favorite pencils.

Whoops, I did it again. Haven’t posted in a while. I’m coming down from a few not-so-glorious days spent in the bottomless depths of hell visiting with my in-laws. It’s kept me hopping, dealing with all the dysfunction, and it left me exhausted and questioning the very meaning of existence at some times. But after my mother-in-law (the one that wishes I was dead so she could raise my kids herself) finally left on Tuesday night, I collapsed on the sofa into a state of befuddled exhaustion, the kind that brings on that dreaded Super Loud BOOMING sound in my ears.

We did half-days of school work on Wednesday and Thursday, having taken off Monday and Tuesday for family visits. Although, now that I think about it, we went to the zoo on Monday, which can certainly count as a field trip.

Last night, though, I went out with a couple of other homeschoolin’ mamas I know, to dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe in Philadelphia, followed by a concert featuring a band called Rise Against, and about 3 other opening acts whose names I can’t remember. It was loud in there, and hot, and Rise Against played just fast enough to get me out of my In-Law Funk. It was just what the doctor ordered, if you ask me.

I will, however, confess that I seem to have reached that point in my adulthood where I no longer know how to really attend a concert properly. I was dressed fine – Dream Theater t-shirt and jeans, but I didn’t know that I’d be patted down at the door. And while I fully expected that they’d search my purse, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the fact that all writing utensils are forbidden inside clubs these days. The woman searching me pulled all my favorite mechanical pencils out of my purse — the ones I keep with me wherever I go, along with a small notebook, because I’m a poet and I do that kind of dorky thing — and told me I had to either go put them in the car, or she’d have to throw them out.

The car was a bit of a walk from the club, and inside the music had already started. So, rather than tell the two other women I was with that we had to go back to the car, I let the bouncer throw out all my pencils, and we went inside. Live and learn.

On the agenda for today: lots of extra coffee, a trip to the library to see some reptiles they’ve got on exhibit, and a quick stop at Office Max. For new pencils.

Hope your day is Just As Exciting.

Here’s a video of one of Rise Against’s more popular songs. (Sorry I can’t embed it; but every time I try, it says the video’s no longer available, so you’ll have to watch it right from You Tube.) The video has a violent theme to it, no doubt, but it’s still a great song, and honestly? After months of watching the presidential election fiasco and then spending a few days with the in-laws, it’s a pretty accurate metaphor for my state of mind these days.

Next Page »


About RegularMom

Doing my part to show the world that the home- schooling community is more than just a bunch of crazy fundamentalists. There's plain old regular crazy people who homeschool, too. Like me.

Email me:
regular_mom at yahoo dot com

Fair Warning:

blog-rating2

Home of the…

Proud recipient of…

The Legalaties

All images and written text on this blog is copyright ©2007-2010 RegularMom.

This means that all the stuff written on this blog is, like, MY stuff. As in: Not YOUR stuff. Don't take my stuff without asking, okay? It's rude.