It won't always be this way

We pack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and the kids and we head to the beach where we unpack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and let the kids have their way with rocks and bits of dead crab parts found while the baby tries to shove great handfuls of sand in her mouth and Chicky complains there's sand in her Goldfish crackers. Soon we're covered in sweat and sand and the rocks have taken their toll on our tender toes and we're tired and wiped out and the kids are cranky and we're cranky and we still have to repack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the leftover sandy snacks, the bottles with the dregs of warm drinks, the shade tent and the kids and we tell ourselves -

It won't always be this way.

At the ice cream shop, one girl is jumping out of her skin in anticipation, bumping into unsuspecting customers in her excitement, while the other toddles toward the busy parking lot. Ordering takes much longer than it should because we're scolding and admonishing and chasing, we look apologetically toward the college-aged girl behind the counter. Soon both girls are sticky from head to toe with a combination of pink and green ice cream and as a result we're both covered with ice cream too. Over their heads I say to him -

It won't always be this way.

At dinner, CC is not content to sit at the table, she needs to get down and make her own discoveries on the well trodden floor. Chicky whines for her supper. Why is it taking so long? she asks mournfully. The food finally comes and they pick at it like they weren't just starving a moment ago while we devour our food in shifts, first him then me. We leave a pile of discarded napkins and french fries on the floor behind us. As we're buckling both overtired girls in the car he says to me -

It won't always be this way.

It's been a long day and we get the girls undressed and ready for bed. We inhale the scent of their suntanned bodies, the salt in their hair. As we put her in bed, we ask Chicky what her favorite part of the day was. Everything, she answers emphatically, a contented smile on her face. Bedtime stories read, she holds tightly to our necks - I love you Mommy, I love you Daddy. So much.

In the quiet of her room I rock with CC in my arms. I pepper her silky hair and her rosy cheeks with kisses. She sighs contentedly and tucks her arms and legs underneath her while snoozing on my chest. I rub her back before finally, begrudgingly, placing her into her crib. She grabs her lovie and closes her eyes and for a moment I linger, watching the rise and fall of her chest before leaving the stillness of her room. I fall, exhausted, onto the couch next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. I'm quiet while I think about our day, the highs and lows, the difficulties and the triumphs. But most of all, I think about the last few minutes. I think about the love and the need, both theirs and mine. And I say to him with a heavy heart -

It won't always be this way.

BlogHer '10 or 20th high school class reunion? Decisions, decisions.

When BlogHer announced the date and location of next year's conference two things went through my head:

1. Yay! It's closer to home next year. A bunch of us New England bloggers can take the train together and bond over mimosas in the club car and get to know each other better by chatting in our large, comfortable, non-airplane seats. Probably via Twitter but you know, still chatting.

and

2. Hmm, that date sounds awfully familiar, like I've already planned something for that weekend. But that's silly, I never plan anything that far in advance. It's an entire year away, I don't even know what I'm doing next week. Pshaw. I'm sure it's nothing.

And I swatted that notion away like a pesky fly. Until last night when I was checking my Facebook page.

I don't know what made me check Facebook. I hardly ever check Facebook anymore. I mean occasionally when Twitter is down I'll run to Facebook like a fickle lover. I'll whisper a few sweet nothings and send them out into the ether, just to get my fix. But for the most part, the people I have friended on Facebook are either the people I already chat with in on Twitter, friends I see every week anyway, or high school friends I haven't spoken with in almost 20 years so...

Almost 20 years. Wow. That's a long time.

Twenty years. Twenty years?

Shit, my 20th class reunion is next year. I'm not looking forward to attending that reunion.

My reunion. My reunion? My reunion!

My 20th high school reunion is the same weekend as BlogHer '10.

Okay, that's funny.

It's like the universe is absolving me from having to go to my reunion and mingle with people I didn't really much for when I was a naive 17 year old and will probably really dislike when I'm a much more worldly 37 year old.

Hey, I've had my passport stamped at least twice. Maybe more. That totally counts as being "worldly".

But still, I weighed my options. My 20th reunion should be something I want to go to, right? I have this girlfriend who didn't go to hers, and every once in a while, she gets this really terrible feeling--you know, like something is missing. She checks her purse, and then she checks her keys. She counts her kids, she goes crazy, and then she realizes that nothing is missing. She decided it was side effects from skipping the reunion. No wait, that was prom. And if you get that reference we can friends.

On the one hand, I told myself, I could go for four days to New York City and hang out with people I genuinely want to spend time with. Okay, they're people I met in the computer but as far as I know they're not going to slip me a horse tranquilizer and harvest my vital organs. Although, I do have my doubts about a few...

But on the other hand, maybe I should put aside petty differences and hurt feelings and resentments and all that and bury the hatchet - so to speak because, you know, not literally bury the hatchet, even though I may want to take something sharp to a certain girl who used to be my friend before she stole my boyfriend, bitch - and maybe reconnect with the few people I actually liked in high school.

I gave it a lot of thought (five minutes) and actually came up with a pros and cons list. Ready?

"Should Tania go to the BlogHer '10 conference in NEW YORK FREAKING CITY or go to her 20th high school class reunion and stand in the corner and muse over what happened to that hot boy she had a crush on when she was 16 years old and he never gave her the time of day's hair and probably leave after an hour?"

Going to Blogher -

The Pros:

- It's in New York City and despite being just a few hours away I've never been. And yes, I've just admitted that I'm really that lame on the internet.

- Overwhelming, but in a good way.

- Late night parties, good conversation, and you never know where you're going to end up at 3am.

- SWAAAAAG: The steel cage match. Two people go in, one person comes out with a trial-sized bottle of laundry detergent.

- I like to squee.

- Where else can you gush over someone's business card and mean it?

- Seeing friends I only see once, maybe twice a year. Even the ones who live twenty miles away from me.

- *add something here about cultivating my craft and building business relationships and blah blah blahdee blah*

The Cons:

- The price. Wowza. I think I need my own street corner to pay for next year.

- Overwhelming, but I'm working on my social anxiety. One drink at a time.

- Exhaustion. Come to find out, I'm not twenty anymore. Who knew?

- Four days of squeeing when I'm generally done after two.

Going to my 20th reunion -

The Pros:

-

-

.....

-

- Um.

-

- I'm sure the food won't be too bad?

The Cons:

- Really? Do I need to write it all down? I have kids to take care of before they go off to college.

So after much soul searching and wringing of hands and rendering of garments, I've decided to go to BlogHer.

Who wants to hit the nightclubs at 3am? Because if I'm going, I'm pretending I'm seventeen years old again... And paying for the after affects for the next year. I'll need the company.

Let sleeping dogs lie. But if you insist on poking one with a stick be prepared for the dog to write about you on the internet

There are some parts of my past that I would rather forget forever. Nothing too horrible, I've never worked a street corner or anything. Just unpleasant memories that are better left swept under the rug with the rest of the dirt. So why is it that those are the things that always come to the surface like smelly sulfur bubbles? Can someone please answer this for me?

Like old boyfriends, for instance. Everyone has old boyfriends or girlfriends that they wonder what ever happened to. Those are the ones who, if they happen to contact you out of the blue after finding you on Facebook or something, you'd be happy to take a few moments out of your day to reminisce about the good old days with. Even, I might add, if the "good" old days weren't all that spectacular. Those hops and skips down memory lane are pleasant enough, if not a tiny bit disconcerting.

Then there's the other end of the spectrum - the just plain creepy type.

Guess which one emailed me out of the clear blue a couple of weeks ago. Go ahead, guess.

I dated this guy almost 20 years ago...

(20 years? I think I just choked on my tongue.)

... that for the sake of this post we'll call "Crazy Alex".

After I broke up with "Crazy Alex", an epically bad breakup where I feared for my safety more than a few times, I never saw him again and I have had zero desire to ever speak with him since. It was a relationship that never should have happened. The fact that it lasted the better part of two years is a testament to how stupid I was at seventeen - and even more stupid at eighteen because I was still with the guy. But in the spring of my eighteenth year I finally smartened up and dumped his sorry ass. Much to the delight of everyone who knew me, especially my parents. I'm surprised they didn't buy me a bedazzled flying unicorn that pooped puppies and jelly beans to reward me for finally getting rid of the guy.

Apparently he Googled me, which led him to my blog.

(Why yes, I am regretting posting my real name. Thanks for asking.)

And that, my friends, was a HUGE mistake on his part. Take note, lambs - if you had a bad relationship with someone a thousand years ago and you know they have a blog, do not, I repeat DO NOT, contact them or they will be forced to use your email as blog fodder.

We'll call it payback for every jealous rage he ever went on. Or making up for that time I was forced to throw a coffee mug (and stapler, and I think there may have been some dinnerware too) at his head and missed. And for the record I'm not proud of that. I have much better aim now.

Let's begin, shall we?

His words are in bold, mine are in snarky:

Well its taken me months to decide whether to write to you and say hi or just to leave it

(just leave it, just leave it, for the love of all that is good and holy, just leave it)

but here goes.
Hello

(Dammit all to hell. He never could take a hint.)

I found your blog one day, I will be honest I googled your name (*shaking fist at Google*) on a day that I heard a Cinderella song and you popped into my head, (that still happens on occasion).

(For the record, I have no idea what he means. I've never listened to Cinderella a day in my life. Really. And I never saw them in concert either. Um...)

I am so glad you have had a great life and are happy. congrats on the kids and I am sorry to read about your mom.

(Okay, it was nice of him to acknowledge my mom. Especially since she hated him with the power of 10,000 suns and she may have had a hit out on him.)

I have been married for 14 years now have two great step-kids...

(Right about here is when I started to zone out. I may have been humming "Nobody's Fool" but I can't be sure since I've never heard that song in my life.)

I guess I fall under the category of one of the "winner" boyfriends you had in your past that you wrote about, I definitely earned that title I was an ass.

(Bingo.)

sorry about that, I guess medication should have been prescribed earlier than 35. We have a...

(Something something, dog. Something, something. cat. Wonder what made him think I would care about his animals? Or his medication, for that matter?)

(Get out of my head. GET. OUT.)

I too stayed close to music I have been lead singer in a couple bands and worked as a bouncer at....

(Funny, I don't remember him being a singer. Or strong. I do remember him as being more than slightly crazy with delusions of grandeur, however.)

unfortunately lead singer syndrome led me into a felony charge that will never be clear for my record, but thankfully I have a very strong and understanding wife and family that stuck by me, another case of me being an ass...

This is where I was all, Wait just a second. Did he say "Felony Charge"? What does that even mean? Did he beat someone to death with a microphone? Oh my holy hell, who in their right mind emails an ex and casually mentions that? Hey, haven't talked with you in almost two decades. Did I mention I'm an ex-con? How are things with you?

*Head/desk. Repeat.*

I'm imagining him sitting down to write this and thinking Should I mention I spent some time in the big house? Eh, can't hurt. It's only amazing I didn't write back IMMEDIATELY and tell him all was forgiven and invite him over for Sunday dinner. Maybe make him my children's godfather.

There was more to the email after that, but honestly I think I blacked out.

You may think I'm being a little harsh, sharing this personal email on the internet, but I think he threw away any right to privacy when he contacted me out of the blue and mentioned he was a FELON.

Am I shouting? Sorry.

Since he's probably reading this, which is creeping me out more than just a little bit, I'm going to say this to him: A. - I'm glad you seem to be getting the help you should have gotten decades ago. I'm glad you seem to be in a stable relationship with a stable job. But what would make me very happy is if you were to forget my email address. Just pretend you never met me because I can't imagine you have any fond memories of that time. I know I don't.

Now I think I'm going to give my husband and hug and apologize for every time I screamed at him for not picking up his socks.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

What do memories taste like?

I remember my Mom making chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Always the same, chocolate cake and vanilla frosting in a sheet pan - the kind with the matching locking plastic see-through lid - never vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. Chocolate sheet cake with vanilla frosting.

She was not a baker, my Mom. The cake was probably from a box and the frosting pre-made. She didn't even care for baking, she probably had a new pan and wanted to get good use out of it, and the cakes were rare and always unexpected. But I remember that cake being the tastiest confection ever to cross my young lips. Even better than birthday cake.

Chocolate single layer sheet cake with vanilla frosting.

I've been playing that memory in my head a lot lately. I have no idea why. My Mom probably did a million and one other thoughtful things for us and I can't for the life of me remember any of those. Just the sheet cake, chocolate with vanilla frosting.

I've also been remembering how she never seemed to have time to help me use my Easy Bake Oven. Though I would beg her constantly to let me play with it, she never had the time to help me take it out of its box, assemble it and then supervise me mixing up the brownie batter and placing it under the hot light of the "oven". And she required that she be present when I was using it. So the toy was hardly used. I really resented her for that. I guess I still do.

Two memories, similar in theme but not having really anything to do with each other. And yet, they've stuck with me all these years, especially these past few weeks. If I think really hard I can remember other things about her as I was growing up but those memories don't come as easily. I have no idea why.

Chocolate cake with vanilla frosting and Easy Bake ovens.

I've been short with Chicky these past few weeks. Losing my patience quickly. My temper flaring for no reason. She begs me to play with her until I need to speak firmly that, no, Mama can't play in the sandbox with her and, no, Mama can't get on the floor and play with the doll house. And she looks hurt. Will she remember those times? Will she remember all the times I made her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, with cut up strawberries and pea pods, just because she loved them so or the pink cupcakes I made for her birthday? Will she remember anything from this time at all?

Will she remember the chocolate cake with vanilla frosting or the Easy Bake oven? I wish I knew. I guess we won't know until a long time, 20 or 30 years from now, and by then I'll have forgotten to ask.

The evolution of Chicky

2006 - Not quite 1 year old

2007 - Almost 2 years old

2008 - Knocking on the door of three

Chicky's birthdays always make me a bit reflective (Can you see me? I'm shiny.). I've got to pull out the old pictures and compare my little baby to the girl she is today. And as many times as I've done this over the past few years I'm constantly surprised at how old she's getting. Which is strange, because I haven't aged in at least a decade.

More Kate than Audrey

I haven't worn skirts with any regularity since it was fashionable to pair baby doll dresses and combat boots. I may have been a skirt wearer before but it's not who I am now. My husband is not pleased, he likes me in skirts, but I just don't feel comfortable in them. It's as if I'm wearing someone else's skin.

I am a child of the 70's so skirts - mainly denim jumpers with patchwork flowers in psychedelic patterns - were part of my regular wardrobe growing up. But then my parents sent me to Catholic elementary school, an institution where girls were expected to wear a skirt or dress every day and the boys (such the little gentlemen) would try everything short of pining a girl to the ground to look up said skirt. Though there were occasions when they tried that too, but let's just say I went to school with some tough little betches so it didn't happen often.

These little adventures in exploration were not fun for a burgeoning young lady on the cusp of puberty. After all, a girl does not want her first crush to find out that she still wears Wonder Woman Underoos. Our only guaranteed solace was those cold winter days when the girls were permitted to wear pants... But only if they wore a skirt over them. What that achieved I have no idea, but it did stop the boys and their quest for more insight into the female form.

Through high school, when every boy was trying to get up some girl's skirt, until college and the baby doll dress phase I did wear whatever was fashionable at the time - Madonna inspired mini-skirts, rocker-chic jean skirts, nouveau hippie wannabe peasant skirts - but as I grew older I became less interested in fashion and more interested in...

Well...

The state of my legs.

I was always the skinny girl with the stick-thin stems but there comes a time in every woman's life, whether she was super skinny or not (and yes, even Kate Moss if she laid off the heroin - allegedly) when time catches up with you. Or more to the point, with your body. I think I'm more self-conscious now than I was when I was 16, if that's possible. I think I'm just more aware. With age comes awareness but there also comes spider veins, cellulite and, the worst thing possible...

My Mother's thighs.

It's as if on the day of her passing she reached down from the heavens and said, "My daughter, my first born, the one who least resembles me in any way, to you I leave my legacy. That which has been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. I bequeath to you... Saddle bags."

Poof.

So much for those skinny legs that go all the way up.

I could still wear skirts, but they have to be very structured or extremely flowy. Any hint of lycra and I'll be bulging out every which way. A good pair of pants keep everything contained. I feel confident in a good pair of pants. And I can emulate my hero Kate Hepburn with my own affected New England accent saying I don't give a damn to the establishment. Although, there is no establishment like Kate's in the new millennium. Not exactly striking any blows for feminism with my ripstop capris now, am I?

Soon there will come a day when I won't have to worry about a toddler trying to hide under my skirt and I can go back to wearing something a little less casual than blue jeans. One day I won't care as much about the size of my thighs and I can just be me. But for now I'd like to run and jump and frolick without having to worry about flashing anybody a shot of my knickers. I'll leave that for the young Hollywood elite and their penchant for panty-less partying. I've reached an age where, though I don't particularly care for the look of my legs (and I haven't even mentioned the large strawberry birthmark on my left thigh) but I'm okay with letting everyone know that I have better things to do than shaving my legs every day. Verbally. (Doing my best Katharine Hepburn impersonation) I don't have to show you, you can just take my word for it.

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This post is a part of the Parent Bloggers Network and sk*rt - the new social bookmarking website for women, and the men who want to get into their heads - blog blast. I recommend that you check out Sk*rt and maybe bookmark some posts that you enjoy or some of your own. And, if you are so inclined, please vote for my post over there. It could win me some cool stuff. There's no Thigh Master on the list of prizes but I can get past that.

Let's get ready to RUMBLE

During my junior year in high school my best friend J. and I were entrenched in the fight of our lives. A war, if you will, of epic proportions. A race against time and convention. A battle against good and evil. A battle royale the likes of that has never been seen inside the rounded - yes, rounded - walls of our institution of learning:

J. and I versus our friends Chris and Peter (not their real names) to see who could get from our classroom to the cafeteria and through the line with our food first.

In one piece.

Three days a week J. and I had a class with Chris and Peter in the period before lunch. For some reason - a reason that still eludes me to this day - each of us felt the need to be the first to purchase rubbery hamburgers, overcooked mac and cheese or, the Holy Grail of cafeteria food, pizza.

Oh, yes. Pizza Friday.

Let's get it on.

This was a tag team competition: the girls against the boys. As soon as the bell rang to release our weary bones from the confines of our Biology class the four of us would sprint to the door. I'd tag J. - who would invariably take the lead, as she was a far faster runner than all of us - and Chris would be fast on her heels as I grabbed Peter in a full Nelson and wrestled him into submission before throwing him to the side to gain third place.

Soon Peter would come from behind and - wham! - toss me into the wall of the hallway, pass Chris and determinedly grab at J.'s shoulder in an attempt to slow her progress. Much batting and punching and, if memory serves, a few noogies would ensue. Meanwhile Chris and I would bring up the rear, furiously pushing at each other trying to get to the leaders. If one of us could get close enough to slow the leader our partner could take the lead, almost insuring victory. If only I hadn't worn my white leather boots with the fringe!

Gaahhh! The Vice Principal is camped out in the stairwell waiting for us! (Our reputation had caught up with us) He tells us to slow down or we'll get detention for running in the halls.

(In hindsight, I know he was smiling while he said it.)

We turn into well-behaved implings. There's much grinning and "yes, sirs", "no, sirs", and "oh no, sir, we would nevers" as we practically tip-toed past the man who had the power to destroy our potential college dreams.

But as soon as we're our of his sight the fight resumes. And now the four of us are even. A body slam here. An ear tug there. Hair grabbing (they fought like girls), tripping, a well-timed swipe at an armful of books that sent papers flying and left the unfortunate recipient scrambling on their knees to gather everything up. We were merciless.

And for what? Less-than-edible cafeteria food?

No, it wasn't for food, it was for honor. And for bragging rights, but mainly for honor.

Those were good days. Most definitely one of the highlights of my illustrious (snicker) high school career.

Recently I met up with my old friend Peter at the home of a new mom friend in my new home town (What are the odds? He's her brother in law! Not even joking about that one.) and we reminisced about the bumps and bruises we gave each other in the name of "honor".

Okay, and pizza too. C'mon it was pizza, people. Pizza.

We had a good laugh and compared notes about our old high school friends.

Have you heard from Chris? - No, haven't talked to him in years. I hear he's in California.

Are you still friends with J.? - I was in her wedding but we've lost touch.

Remember that time I threw you into the wall in the stairway and you fell down a few stairs? - Yeah, that was a good one. I still have a scar! You deserved to win that day.

The food itself was inconsequential. The camaraderie through combat was far more important. And I really miss those days when the race was more important than the prize - especially since "the prize" was lukewarm tater tots and Shepard's pie.

Mmmm... Tater tots. Yes, friends come and go but we'll always have our memories... And our tater tots.


Yes, there is life after tater tots. Check out School Menu and its parental counterpart Family Everyday, two sites that work together with School Food Services Directors to provide and promote healthy eating and physical fitness for kids and their parents.

The woman behind the blogger

Last night after class a co-worker asked if I wanted to go with her to a drop-in Rally-O class at another training center. I was all for it - since I've been slacking in actually working with my own dogs - until she mentioned that it was on Sunday evening. I declined as it is Mother's Day on Sunday. That was when it hit me.

It's Mother's Day on Sunday.

It's almost Mother's Day already?

Wow, that snuck up on me. Yeah, I've seen all the commercials and read a lot of blog posts about Mother's Day - I even wrote a Mother's Day post of my own for the Blog Exchange - but the actual day always seemed to be coming up. A way's away. Soon, but not now. Well now is almost here.

(There's a hint for you, Mr. C., you've still got a couple of days left until the big day. Don't blow it. You remember last year, don't you?)

I've decided that in honor of Mother's Day, the day we celebrate those women who bravely pushed a living being out of their girly parts and those who spent much time and effort adopting a child, here at Chicky Chicky Baby the rest of this week is all about Moms.

(Which is much better than me talking about my phlegm, don't you think? I will refrain from writing about the loogies I can hock up at whim, their consistency and color. You're welcome.)

I was recently tagged for a "10 things about me" meme by the suspiciously happy Smiling Mom (Seriously, lady, why are you always smiling? What's the secret?) and rather than talk about myself again I'm going to tell you 10 things that I think you should know about my mom.

Why should you care about my mom? First off, if you have to ask that than you can just go now. Seriously. How rude. But second, she was a woman that people just wanted to know and since she's not here with us this is my way of introducing you to the woman who I called Mom.

10 things about Grammy Chicky

1. I'm ashamed to say (ooh, there's a good place to start) that I didn't always call her "Mom". During my teen years, when my Mom and I hated each other, my best friend and I came up with a nickname for my mother. The rather cumbersome moniker "Creature with the Fangs".

We were so witty.

The name was eventually shortened to just "Fang". My friend and I thought ourselves not only terribly witty but also horribly clever for keeping this from her. Of course, my Mom (Fang) knew but she never said anything. Until years later when I was in my 20s, and we were on speaking terms again, and she let it slip that she knew. And she smirked when she said that she knew. It must of hurt a bit, hearing her first born call her names, yet she still found the stupid humor in a couple of 15 year olds trying to pull a fast one over on her and failing miserably. I can respect a woman who can laugh at her child being a dumbass.

2. She loved to dance. The woman was a dancing fiend. She wasn't particularly good at it but she was infectious. If she was dancing then you wanted to dance with her. Unless you were a sullen 15 year old, calling her stupid nicknames, and embarrassed by her exuberance.

At one of my uncles' weddings my mother was on the dance floor surrounded by people all of them doing the Twist. She was so busy giving that dance her all that she didn't notice that she had Twisted herself right out of her slip. When she did notice she just stepped out of it, kicked it to the side and kept on dancing with all of her family cheering her on. She didn't have time to be embarrassed, there was dancing to be done. It's been almost 20 years and that story still gets brought up at family get-togethers.

3. Mom had just turned 20 when she had me. She was just about to turn 24 when she had my sister. When I asked her why she had us so young Mom told me that the only thing she had ever wanted to be growing up was a mother so as soon as she could she started a family, and that simple fact used to bug the hell out of me. A mother? Just a mother? No other, greater, aspirations? A year or two before she died, after spending almost two decades working as a secretary for a Catholic elementary school, she told us that now that her children were grown she really wished she could have been a teacher. I think she would have been a great teacher, but at the risk of sounding cheesy and selfish, there's a part of me that's glad we didn't have to share her.

4. She was obsessive, almost anal, about keeping a clean house and she was not an animal lover. In this way I am my father's daughter.

5. Mom wasn't the type of person who was quick with a dirty joke, though I suspect she secretly liked them as much as the next guy, but she had a streak of gallows humor in her. She always said when she died she wanted to be buried upside down. So every who came to visit her grave could kiss her ass.

6. "Sun worshiper" isn't a strong enough term to attribute to my Mom. As soon as the weather got warm enough you would find Mom floating on a raft in the pool or lying in a deck chair soaking up the sun. By the end of the summer, thanks to her Portuguese heritage, she'd be as brown as a nut. Also in this way I am my father's daughter. Damn English genes.

7. Mom had a gap between her front teeth that was never fixed. Since she was one of eleven children there wasn't the money for dental work and she was sometimes ashamed of it. Not that it took away from her beauty. But, consequently, she didn't smile that much in pictures. But when she smiled, either in real life or in front of the camera, you felt like she had just given you a gift.

And if you feel like I'm falling into a pit of cheese let me just tell you that when she wasn't smiling she sometimes looked like she was about to bite your head off. In this way I am my mother's daughter.

8. After a long, unsatisfying marriage that ended badly (and that's all I'm going to say about my parent's relationship) my mother - a huge Red Sox fan - finally met her soul mate, a wonderful man who just happened to be a Yankees fan. Ain't that a kick in the head? At her funeral he gave the most beautiful speech and in this speech he mentioned how that year - 2004 - should be the year that the Red Sox would finally win the World Series. And I think he was genuinely pleased when they did. Now that's love.

9. Whenever he wrote her a note or gave her a card, my Mom's boyfriend would end it with the words "Here, There and Everywhere". I can't listen to that song without crying.



10. She wasn't the best mother, she wasn't the worst mother. She messed up a lot and I didn't make things easy on her. But she would have been the best grandmother ever.


It's sort of hard to wrap up a meme like this one gracefully so I'm just going to move on to the tags. I'm tagging Redneck Mommy, Sarah, and Lawyer Mama.

Two

My beautiful girl, today you are two.

Never could I have known how far someone could evolve and grow in just 365 days before you came along. Your legs have lengthened, your belly shrunk, the baby fat seems to have melted away and that infant that I knew has been replaced with this almost-child. In the past year you've learned to walk and talk, to brush your teeth and use a spoon and fork all by yourself. You show empathy for your peers and affection to friends and relatives. In this large world you've begun to carve out a place for yourself. A place that is all yours, separate from me.




I have just a few important years before you let go of my hand in earnest, but until then I'm going to hold onto it tightly. The casual observer may not notice how a two year old exerts her independence, but I see it. Today you want to get out of your stroller so you can roam unassisted, tomorrow you'll be going off to school and the day after that you'll be preparing for college. It happens that quickly. But today you still, for the most part, hold my hand. You need my help in almost all facets of your life. And I am here to help you. For as long as you need me I'll be here for you.



A terrible tragedy happened yesterday and that might be why I'm so quick to look ahead at your life instead of concentrating on your accomplishments to date. But the loss of those children, so full of promise, might be just the jolt I need to remind me to savor each and every day I have with you. One day you will leave for college and I will no longer be able to linger over your shoulder, making sure you cross the street assisted, that you're eating right, that you get your daily allotment of hugs and kisses.

You haven't made things easy for me, but every time I'm ready to throw in the towel I have to remember those students in Virginia and how they were once wonderfully frustrating toddlers. When they were young their parents picked them up when they fell and skinned their knees and kissed their boo boos. Their parents tucked them in at night and watched the rise and fall of their chest as they slept. Their parents wished and hoped and sacrificed for them so that they could get an education. That education that would take them one more step away from their childhood.

I do not want to dwell on tragedy, but instead celebrate this messy complicated life that I have been given to watch over. Yours. My daughter's. I'm sorry to say that most days I don't know what I'm doing, but I still take my job very seriously. And that job is to love you and care for you for as long as I'm given the opportunity to do so, on special days and mundane. Through tantrums and sleepless nights. Messy faces and eskimo kisses. I'll take all of it for as long as I can get it.



Today you are two. I will try to remember to take things one day at a time if you will allow me to catch up when time gets away from me. And let me hold your hand on occasion.




Happy Birthday to my ocean child with the windy smile. I love you.

More about me that you didn't really need to know

This is a tough time of year for me, with the anniversary of my mom's death just passed and my daughter's birthday coming up - not to mention the whole Easter - I'm a lapsed Catholic but I'm still morbidly interested in religion and I can't stop talking about it Gaaaahhhhh! - thing and the arrival of 50 degree temperatures...

(I know, you're oozing with jealousy. Fifty whole degrees! That's cah-raaaazy!)

- I find it really difficult to come up with posts that aren't made up entirely of exploitive pictures of my kid and YouTube clips. So when Mama Tulip offered to "interview" bloggers I jumped at, nay, dry humped the chance to have someone else do the thinking for me.

Try getting that image out of your head. Ooh, you like that, don't you? Take it, take it, take it...

Um. Hi!

Mama Tulip is just lucky she lives up in da Cah-nah-dah (as my friends from Bouctouche would say) because chances aren't the only things I would have molested. No, I joke. I respect her too much for that. I'd wait at least an hour after meeting her before I would proposition her.

Anyway...

These are the questions she asked me. With my less than spectacular answers.

1. What was the first blog you ever read? Do you still read it?

Oh man, talk about getting started on a low note. This is so boring. The first blog I read was Dooce. That's like getting your cherry popped by the quarterback or something. So cliche. But after reading a few of her entries I was totally hooked and I ended up reading all of her archives over the course of a couple of weeks. I'm a dork. But those entries did inspire me to start my own blog shortly thereafter. And the world is not any better for it.

2. Did you go to your high school prom? If you did, describe your dress. If you didn't, tell us why.

Yes, I did go to my senior prom. I went to a few senior proms actually (I wasn't a slut, really), but for my own I went with my boyfriend at the time, Psycho Andy. Psycho Andy was just that. Psychotic. He was three years older than me and just a bit touched with the crazy. But we had the best fights. I'm talking throwing stuff at each others heads, jumping out of moving vehicles-types of fights. But my prom night was, alas, extremely boring. Except for the dress. I had no business wearing a white, strapless prom dress since I was so incredibly skinny and had no boobs to hold up the bodice, but it was so beautiful I had to have it. My parents spent a ridiculous amount of money on it (for the time and our income) and I felt like a princess, even though there was nothing "princess" about it.

I'll post a picture of it when I'm feeling less lazy and less self-conscious of my skeletal shoulders.

3. Did you have pets in your house growing up?

I had one dog growing up. My mother was not a pet lover, not to mention a bit anal in the cleaning department, so we were not allowed to have anything with fur, feathers or fins. When I was twelve or thirteen my dad took me and my sister to a friend's house and we picked out the cutest white German Shephard puppy from a new litter. Unfortunately, my mother was not let in on this plan. To say she was unhappy with my father's choice to add a puppy to our family would be the understatement of the year. But we whined and cajoled and mom finally let us keep the dog. We named her Suki. I loved that dog.

With Suki around I learned how to train my first dog. Obedience-wise the dog was a complete failure. But in the trick department that dog was a star. I taught her to play dead by "shooting" her with my finger and saying the word "bang". My father, to this day, tries to claim that he taught her how to do that. He's sadly mistaken. That was all me.

We fed her the worst food, she drank copious amounts of beer when on outings with my dad, she spent her days tied to a long line attached to our garage. We did everything wrong with her but I learned so much from her. Sometimes I wish I had her back. I'd like a do-over.

4. Tell us one thing that you hope to achieve in your lifetime.

It's no secret that I'd like to start my own business working with dogs. Having my own business is something I've dreamed about for awhile and it's time for me to get off my tuckus and get something started. Working with dogs and their owners brings me so much joy - and more than a little frustration - and I know I've got something to offer to this sometimes saturated market.

I've come up with an idea that doesn't require a brick and mortar facility (for now, the ultimate goal is to have my own facility) and I wish I could share it with all of you. It kills me that I can't write about it here. I'd love to have your input because this business targets people like you (hint, hint) but I fear the Google, so for now I'll have to keep it on the down low. Once things get rolling I'll start leaking some information and don't be surprised if you get an email from me asking you probing questions about your relationship with your dog and your kid's relationship with your dog (Again, hint hint. Do I need to hit you with a brick or have you figured it out yet? Just keep it out of the comments because the Google... It watches me.).

5. Fess up: do you follow celebrity gossip?

Unfortunately, yes, I do follow celebrity gossip. I have an unnatural fascination with Perez Hilton and TMZ.com. Not to mention Gawker, Defamer, and the Inside Track. I'm waiting to hear the results of Anna Nicole's autopsy and who the baby daddy is. I can't wait until Katie is out from under Tom's thumb (heh). And I think it's only a matter of time before Britney comes out with her own PPD book.

What? I'm a bored housewife. What do you expect? I'm a cliche.

But I did not sleep with the quarterback.



If you'd like to be "interviewed" by me leave me a comment (and make sure I have your email address) or send me an email and I'll come up with five questions specially designed just for you.

What a difference a year makes

Looking back...

March 2006.

Big eyes, big cheeks, big power over me.

March 2007.
Same big eyes, slightly smaller cheeks, same big power over me. Especially with her bed head and the beginnings of a shiner under her left eye.

My baby will be two years old in just a few weeks. I barely remember her as that small infant. Where does the time go and how do I make it stop?