A couple of years ago, Kady asked me for my permission to post something I wrote as a guest blog on Mom2MomKC. Flattered, I said, yes. As there was an open blogger spot to fill, I offered up my services, and thus began my time as a featured blogger on this site.

Honestly, my life didn't really change that much. Every once in a while, a friend of mine would text me. "Your blog is in the paper!" So that was exciting. I had something extra to add to my resume, so that was cool. Other than that, life went on pretty much the same.

I love graffiti. I always have. I don't mean your average gang tag or property defacement, no. I'm talking about cute or funny scrawlings on bar bathroom stalls, carefully placed artwork on the table at the coffee shop, wanna be murals, and guerilla Banksey-style street art done in a flash by the light of the moon.

So when I saw "YOU ARE LOVED" spelled out in clear plastic cups on a fence over a walkway while driving down Southwest Trafficway a few weeks ago, I smiled. It wasn't graffiti, necessarily. Maybe it wasn't good for the environment, either. But I'm sure it wasn't legal. I was all alone in the car, so I didn't have anyone to squeal about it too. But I smiled, ear to ear. It could've been an art student, or a high school student, or just someone that doesn't want you to forget that you are loved.

I'm crazy about both of my kids, but I don't always feel like Marc and I get to just hang out together like we used to when he was little. For a while, it was just Marc and I. Then I married Mitch, and not long after that Charlotte was born. Maybe I'm spread a little thin sometimes, and it doesn't help that he's at his dad's half of the week also.

Lucky for us, some free time popped open. Mitch took Charlotte to meet up with Gramma so she could spend a few days with her. That left a good couple of hours for Marc and I to be alone before Mitch came home.

Charlotte got her first real haircut this week!

It was bound to happen, of course. She had been growing it out for three and quarter years. We cut her bangs twice, but that was just a little trim. Her hair was all the way down to her bottom. Washing it took a long time, and brushing it took even longer. We couldn't leave the house without putting it some variation of braids or pigtails, because if it was down it would get caught in her coat zipper or her carseat buckle. Mealtimes generally ended with pulling some sort of food out of the ends of it, and she would cry and scream and wail whenever we finally convinced her to let us brush it. But anytime we suggested cutting it she would say no. She loves her hair.

Generally, I don't make New Year's resolutions. I tend to run in the other direction from traditional things that I find sort of senseless. I've always thought, you know, if you're gonna make some sort of a change, why wait until some arbitrary date? Why not just start right away? And people don't keep those things anyway, do they? So I don't usually make them. Usually, my resolutions are just one, and that's to just keep on keepin' on.

But this year, our whole family made some resolutions. There are some things I'd like to differently anyway, and why not use a fresh new year to start some fresh new habits. I know, I know. New Year's Day is really just any other day. The only difference is in the fourth digit in what we decided to call our year. But heck, why not? There's something refreshing about making a date and holding to that. Why not?

When I was growing up, we were poor. I don't mean that we just didn't have as much as other families. I don't mean that we struggled. I mean we were poor. My brother and I were raised by a single father with limited education. Skilled in his trade, he was able to start his own business. The pay was terrible, but at least he was able to be with us as much as possible. I remember my childhood being extremely happy and sad at the same time. It was happy because I had the most loving father in the Universe who was willing to sacrifice so much for us. I was sad because some of those sacrifices meant wearing t-shirts that said "Megan" on the back and shoes that were broken in by someone else.

Christmas was especially challenging. My father rarely was able to afford to get us much. Even though our birthdays weren't really near Christmas, we had to sometimes have gifts that counted as both Christmas and birthday gifts. We did have aunts, uncles, and grandparents that came through, however. We would get presents for other people, too, and one of my favorite things to do was wrap them! Dad taught me how to tear only half of the little paper backing off of bows, leaving the other half untouched so we could use it again next year. We wrapped presents very carefully and opened them carefully also so that the paper could be used again. I was very good at this!

Something awful happened last week, and I'm doing my best not to talk about it. When I read about the shootings, I was actually looking at the news story on my cel phone in my own children's school, ready to pick them up. I cried. People stared. I told them I was just reading about Connecticut, and I swear to you another mom failed to hold her own tears back. It was one of those, dark, immovable moments that sank your heart like a stone.

And the moment hasn't moved since. It seems I can't stop for gas, or go to work, or get on the internet without my eyes, ears, and mind being filled with words and images about Sandy Hook, or gun control, or policy.

"So is your tree up yet?" I asked my dad on our phone call the other day. Our tree went up a few days after Thanksgiving, late for us. It usually goes up the day after.

"Nope," he said, matter of factly.

I think I'm going to stop reading so many mom-blogs. I really do. I know, I post on a blog. But that's not what I mean. I'm not talking about this site. I just spend way too much time looking at other mother's beautiful children, clean homes, craftily crafted birthday parties, and beautiful meals. I think, actually, I spend too much time on Pintrest. 

I don't do any of that stuff. Heck, I consider myself lucky if I can get my three year old's hair brushed and my eleven year old to remember his socks.

It was my birthday this past Sunday. I turned a ripe and delicious 35 this year. That's 35 journeys around the sun. 35 servings of birthday cake. 35 Christmases and 35 Thanksgivings. It's the 35th anniversary of parenthood for my father, me being his oldest.

Wow, 35 years of parenthood. Good job, Dad.

It was just spaghetti. But it was really, really good spaghetti. It really was!

I love to cook, but it's mostly my husband that cooks at our house. His schedule at work has changed, however, so it's been up to me to cook dinner for myself and the kids on the weekends. I'm completely okay with this, because it gives me a chance to get creative in the kitchen.

My sweet, darling boy turned eleven years old last week. I remember it like it was yesterday when I was screaming in agony, without painkillers, pushing with all of my might, only to have him forcibly evicted via emergency cesarean anyway. Stubborn kid.

It was the highlight of my life, actually. I'm making it sound worse than it was. I had always wanted to be a mom. Eleven years ago, Marc was born and made that dream come true. 

You're reading this on Wednesday, but I'm writing it Tuesday night. I don't know who the president will be just yet. Election coverage is filling the silence in the background. I'm nervous.

This is one of the few elections that I haven't brought at least one of my children to. Usually, I bring at least one of them. And I vote a lot! Every chance I get. Today, though, I needed to get it done before work. Marc is with his dad this week, and Mitch decided to take Charlotte to school so I could go vote. I was there alone.

Before it hit, I heard it referred to as "Frankenstorm". Then I heard that the hurricane's name was Sandy. Now they're using appropriate alliteration by calling it "Superstorm Sandy". Whatever you want to call it, though, it's pretty bad.

I opened up my Facebook homepage yesterday and my entire newsfeed was dominated by photographs of flooding on the east coast. I almost didn't believe it, at first. I've been fooled by pictures before. Surely these are from Katrina, or some storm in some other country. But, no. They were current.

When I was sixteen years old, I babysat everyone's kid. I babysat the kid on the corner of my block. The kid across the street. The boys across town. The new baby our neighbors had.

With all of my experience, I was absolutely sure that I knew exactly how I would raise my child when my time came. I was sure of it. I would give advice to the moms of the kids I babysat, I was just that confident. I can only imagine what went through their minds when I did that. I was, in fact, a babysitter well into my... well... thirties I guess. I guess I'm still doing it. What can I say? I love sittin' on babies. 

Did you watch the debate? I watched it. I'm not exactly undecided, but I watched it anyway.

I just couldn't help myself. Part of me wanted to be able to know what I was talking about when I discussed it with my students the next day. Part of me really needed to understand what I was getting myself and my children into by voting for Obama.

"Let's go to a pumpkin patch," I said randomly on Saturday at around ten o'clock. That's how I roll, you know. I have a chronic illness. Illnesses, actually. I haven't blogged to you about Lupus yet.

It's mild Lupus. Don't worry. I've got a good seventy or so years left in me. But I'll get into that later.

When was the last time you had a sibling so excited about your birthday that he couldn't sleep? This is what happened with Marc and Charlotte. 

It looks like Mitch and I were able to keep Charlotte alive for another year. Our sweet little baby turned three years old this past week. She's not a baby anymore, that's for sure! She's not a toddler, either. No, she's all about Barbies and My Little Ponies now.

"Are we going to school?" my little Lotte asks me every morning. She's three years old next week, so she's still young enough to love school.

"Yep," I tell her every morning. Or, at least Monday through Friday.

I have been reading a some blogs about simplifying life lately. I've also been watching a lot of episodes of Hoarders ever since it came up on Netflix. One of my favorite bloggers, Leo Babauta, posted a blog recently about things you can live without. That blog and Hoarders got me thinking about what I can live without in my own house. In the past, I had always liked the idea of being a minimalist person, but when I talked about it out loud I'd say "Me? A minimalist? I'm a mom!"

I mean, how do you live a minimal life if you have a nine year old with every toy ever made and a toddler with grandparents (and parents) who buy every baby gadget on the market? I mean, how?

Every year for the past ten years I've listened to stories about where people were during the September 11 attacks. Almost all of them have been sad tales that have touched my heart, even when they weren't delievered by the best storytellers. Every year on this day I hear a new story about how someone was at work and heard it on the radio, or at home and their husband called them, or they were taking their children to school.

But, until today, I've never heard someone say they didn't remember.

How was your weekend? Ours was great! We went down to the Lake of the Ozarks and met up with some family. "This is real Missouri," I told my husband. "We don't really live in Missouri. We live in Kansas City. These trees, this lake, this is really Missouri."

When I was a kid, if there were woods nearby, I was in them. If there was a lake in the vicinity, I was swimming in it. My bare feet were torn by rocks and sticks because I was always too stubborn to wear my shoes. And there was hardly a tree I wouldn't dare attempt to climb.

"We found a raccoon!" they said, as they ran from the backyard to the front.

Marc was having a sleepover with a couple of friends. Charlotte was running with the big boys just like she was one of them. She knew no different.

"MY son will NEVER shoot a gun," I said. "Not while I'm in charge."

Ooh, I do not like guns. I don't like shooty things of any kind. I just don't. It's difficult for me to explain it. I guess I just believe that guns are tools that serve only one purpose: to kill things. When Marc was small, I would never let him have weapons of any kind. I wanted him to be a pacifist, like me. Weapons are not peaceful.

We took a trip up to Des Moines this weekend to visit Grandma. It was time for the Iowa State Fair, and my mother in law, Diane, talked us into going up for it.

"Will there be rides?" Marc asked. Of course there would be rides, silly. It's a fair! And, aside from the funnel cakes, the rides are my personal favorite thing about fairs.

Ha! I sucked you in! And now you can't stop reading.

But honestly, I've been reading and talking about Dan Cathy and Chick-fil-A all week long. I've argued my points in support of gay marriage so many times that I'm belching out rainbows. I've even ranted a rant so ranty that I have at least one family member who will no longer talk to me.

I don't know what happened. My little Charlotte was in high spirits when she woke up Thursday morning. She put on her pants like a pro, sat still while I brushed her hair, ate all of her breakfast. She laughed and giggled all the way to school in the car. I was off of work that week, so I drove back home to hang out with Marc.

We were right in the middle of an Xbox game of Sonic: Generations, when the phone rang. It was the school. It was that phone call. You know the phone call I mean. The one every parent hates to get.

My dad and my brother came to visit this weekend. They've been doing this every summer since my dad's divorce. I love it when they come here. There's just something about being around my dad that makes me feel normal.

Now, I'm not talking about "normal" in the traditional sense. You know, the kind of normal where you're just like everyone else, or at least how everyone else appears? I don't mean the kind of normal you see in episodes of Parenthood or those commercials for bathroom cleaners. That kind of normal doesn't exist. No.

Don't worry, I fixed it.

So, I was sitting here on our couch this past Saturday, waiting for Marc to come home. His dad was bringing him back after a fun filled week in Florida (lucky!). I had my laptop on my lap, passing some time on the good ol' internets, when I noticed in my Finder window that there were a couple of other users on our unsecured wifi.

Do you ever notice that when someone has a baby, there's always a group of family members celebrating their very own titles? Sure, the new mom's a mom, but her mom's a grandma! And her dad's a grandpa! And her brother's an uncle!

And I'm an aunt!

I've been having a week of low self esteem. Does this happen to you? It happens to me occasionally. I'm okay with it, though. Life is hard, and we're human beings after all. We're not robots. We're not computer programs. It happens, and I just let it run its course because I know it's only temporary. In a few days, I'll remember that I'm pretty much the most awesome mom that ever was!

In the meantime, however, I'd like to offer a few affirmations to those fellow moms who might also be feeling a little low at the moment:

I'm not one for road rage. No, not usually. This is surprising, considering how much time I spend on the road. But I stay pretty calm. Not a lot bothers me. No road rage here.

But parking lot rage? Oh, parking lot rage is in a class of its own!

I am so exhausted.

It is 11:30 pm on Tuesday night, and we've all only been home for an hour. Marc had an 8pm baseball game and all of us were in attendence.

"Did you practice your violin at your dad's this week?" I said to my ten year old virtuoso.

"No," he said. "I'm sorry." His voice was sullen. Did he think I was mad at him? Did he think he was in trouble? He has never been in trouble in all his life. Well, you know, not in the usual way. We do things a little differently at our house. Sufficed to say, he's never been in what you would call "trouble". It's not how we roll.

When Marc was two and a half and his dad and I were getting divorced, I felt a little nervous about whether or not he would adapt. I know he was just little. However, our custody plan was joint, and he would be spending equal time at each home. I was nervous.

"Do you think he'll think it's weird?" I asked my friend and co-worker. "I mean, that he basically lives in two homes now? Do you think he'll be confused or something, not being in a family that's normative?"

Do you see that handsome fella in the picture? That is not the face of a fourth grader, my friends. No, no. That is an emerging Fifth Grader that you see up there!

Field Day is the end-of-the-year sendoff at my kids' school. Every year, the Phys. Ed. teacher turns the parking lot and playground into an array of competitive games in which no one keeps score. They toss the bean bags, balance the water balloons, hop through the hula hoops, and sit under the parachute mushroom.

Mother's Day has always been really weird for me. At school when I was a child, every year, the teacher would have the whole class make a gift for their mothers for Mother's Day. I had to do whatever the craft was, too, even though I didn't have a mom. I wasn't going to just sit there and do nothing, you know?

Then, that Special Sunday would come around, and I'd have this thing I made. I would give it to my Gramma some years. Some years I'd give it to my dad. You might think that this would just be my own kind of normal, to not have my mother around. But it never felt normal. I knew that having a mom was the normal, and mine was the weird. Sure, I got sad and cried sometimes. Wouldn't you?

I don't really like sports. I don't know why. I can't really explain it. It's not like I had some traumatic sports-related experience. It isn't as though I find something fundamentally offensive about them. I used to play softball, actually. And basketball. I guess I just get bored watching sports on TV.

However, the men in my life have always loved all sports of all kinds. So, when my brother and neice came to visit this weekend, we did something that most proud Americans do. We went to the ball game!

"I could just get him his own cel phone!" I said jokingly to a mama friend a few years back. I don't remember what the details of the conversation were, but I think it had something to do with my son calling her son an awful lot from my cel.

I was joking, of course. A seven year old certainly has no business having his own phone.

Did you all hear about the dad who sent his son to school wired to record teacher bullying? It was horrible. This poor little 10 year old boy is autistic, and his teacher proceeded to tease and belittle him in class every day. His father was livid, and exposed the teacher via YouTube.

Before that, I heard a story about a teacher caught sexually abusing several of his students over many years. I was so disgusted, I could hardly even listen to the rest of the story.

"Death is that state in which one exists only in the memories of others; which is why it is not an end." -Tasha Yarr, Star Trek TNG

An old high school friend died yesterday. 

I don't understand. I'm a healthy person. I eat pretty healthy. Okay, well, I drink a lot of pop. But I also drink a lot of water so get off my case! I don't eat a lot of meat or fried foods. I almost never eat drive-through. I get excercise and plenty of sleep. I have hobbies and a social life. So why is my body a wreck? I may never get an answer. I've been dealing with being sick most of my life.

This time, however, it almost ruined Easter.

It was easy to pick something to blog about tonight after the night I had. It was horrible! Terrible! Frightening!

Okay, it wasn't really that bad. It's just that we have had several nights in a row of Charlotte not going to bed. She's not doing it right! She's supposed to give everyone goodnight kisses, and then her dad is supposed to take her upstairs for potty, teeth, jammies, story, and bed. Instead, it's been potty, laughing, teeth, crying, laughing, running away, jammies, running away, story, where's my puppy, where's, my lady bug, bed, screaming, crying, screaming, and collapsing in exhaustion.

For those of you who may not know, there is this magical event that takes place in Kansas City only once a year. That amazing, magical event is known as...

...Planet Comicon.

Have you seen that documentary Waiting For Superman? It doesn't really make teachers look that great. Okay, that's not really a good summation. It doesn't really make the entire educational system of the United States look that great. I mean, it's hard to be a good teacher in a faulty system.

We watch a lot of documentaries at our house (because we're nerds). Mitch and I watched this a few weeks ago one night, and it left me in tears. I won't tell you which part. Spoilers.

It's Saturday night at about eight o'clock and we're in our usual Saturday routine. Mitch had just taken Charlotte upstairs for bed, Marc was sprawled out on the living room floor with Legos, and had my laptop on my lap looking at Faceb-- uh-- doing important research on something important. I can't remember what. Nevermind that.

So anyway, it was a usual Saturday evening when we heard a knock upon our door. The only person it could possibly be is our neighbor, so Marc hops up and answers it. It's not my neighbor, I realize, as I hear a man's voice asking for Mom or Dad.

As per Marc's request, it's time I let all of you know something. Marc hates ogres.

And why shouldn't he? Pesky things. Always stomping around in dungeons, wreaking havoc and making it so very difficult to defend the crystal.

Who here remembers when I got into that car accident and we replaced our totalled compact car with a super rad minivan? Remember how excited I was?

Well, the honeymoon is over, my friends.

Mitch and I had a date this week! Don't be jealous. 

Picture this: You and your partner walk into a restaurant that has patrons patiently waiting their turn for a table. You give the host your name, and he tells you it'll be twenty-five or thirty minutes. You don't even bat an eye, and you wait patiently and quietly with the others. When you're finally at your table, you peacefully peruse the menu and make your decision. The server comes and takes your order, and you order only for yourself. And you order a beer. A beer! And no one interrupts you. You make it through your meal with no spills, no tears, and no cracker crumbs under the table. You walk out of the restaurant happily and easily to your car, and enjoy a quiet drive home.

I'll never forget first grade when I handed out Valentines to my classmates in Mrs. Anderson's class. I'm sure they were something paper with Barbie or Care Bears on them. They could have been Strawberry Shortcake. I really liked her. I don't remember, actually. Nor do I remember any of the other Valentines the other kids handed out. Heck, I don't even know if this was first grade or third. I've had a lot of wine since then.

What I do remember, however, are Heidi Pruett's Valentines. In fact, despite the fuzziness in the other areas of my life, I remember her Valentine clearly: a white paper doilie with a red construction paper heart inside, and a handwritten note in the middle. "Happy Valentine's Day! Love, Heidi".

Earlier this week my son said something that left my with jaw literally hanging open. Not figuratively. Literally.

"You know, mom," he said definitively and without reserve, "I like Star Wars a little more than Star Trek."

They oughtta just not have taxes.

Well, okay, not really. But that's how my husband and I felt, at least, after we got home from filing ours. I am all for taxes. We need taxes to pay for things like roads, schools, police, fire department, parks, social programs, and what have you. I get it.

Marc has a Nintendo DS. It's a actually a 3DS, the one with that has a 3D screen. It's pretty neat, actually. The games are fun play in 3D, you can download more games directly to the device, you can chat with other friends who have the same device, and you can watch streaming Netflix on the tiny little screen.

It also has tiny little speakers that get very loud and hit a certain register in my ear that creates the sensation of a nail being pressed into my eardrum.

I'm going to go ahead and piggyback off of a topic from the Mom2Mom forums (see "Who does breakfast this way?"). You see, I'm not like one of those moms you see on television. Nope, not at all. But I'm not ashamed to admit that I've often wished I was.

Okay, not often. But occasionally.

At some point in all of our lives, we've been to the grocery store and we've seen the four year old girl with the binky in her mouth. Maybe you looked at that girl and felt sorry for her that her parents let her have it at such an old age. Maybe you gave those parents a gross look, or maybe you didn't because even though you were judging them, you didn't want them to know you were judging them. Or maybe you looked at that four year old girl with the binky and didn't think a thing of it, because you were toting your own five year old son around the same store with a similar binky. And maybe, just maybe, another parent looked at your son and tried to suppress the judgmental stare they so desperately wanted to give you.

Welcome to the politics of parenting.

I did it. I dropped my baby off at Montessori school today for the first time. I have been spoiled, really, with getting to be home with her as much as I have been. Thanks to forgiving work schedules and extremely helpful friends, we've managed to avoid costly child care situations and optimized our time with her, and I'm so very grateful.

But, she's two years old now. Also, our work schedules are not what they used to be and while our friends have been super-helpful, she really needs somewhere to go every day.

Right now, I'm dreaming about what it would be like to have a potty trained child. There would be no more diapers to change or wash, no more butts to wipe, no more stink coming from the diaper pail. Never again would my daughter sit on my lap, reminding me with her leaky diaper that I should have changed her an hour ago. Never again would I have to get frustrated because yet another diaper cover's Velcro has worn thin. It would be the end of washing peed in clothes and changing leaked on sheets if I had a fully potty trained daughter.

However, while a potty trained child is my dream, the potty training process has been a nightmare.

I have to admit, I love the holidays. I really do! I love how families, neighbors, and friends come together over food and drinks. I love how gifts are exchanged representing the respect and love we have for each other. I love peppermint, egg nog, and Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra caroling together. It's a tradition of community and friendship, and of celebrating wintertime.

And presents.

My acceptance into Avila University was unofficially official. When I spoke the representative on the phone, she urged me to get that last necessary item, a letter of reference, on her boss' desk as soon as possible so I could get enrolled. That's all I needed for grad school, and I was in.

I don't know what happened to that letter that I requested from my UMKC professor. Maybe it got lost on her desk. I'm not upset about it, and I'm glad in a way. I've decided not to go to grad school after all. I called the very nice advisor at Avila this week and explained my situation, and asked her to not to consider me after all. She was very understanding.

I didn't have a family for a couple of days. That's right, they ditched me. Marc was with his dad an extra day for Sunday, and his usual Monday and Tuesday. Mitch left with Charlotte on Sunday afternoon to visit Grandma in Des Moines. For three days, it was just me and the cats.

I have to make a confession here. Every once in a while, I think about what it was like when it was just me. Just think, mind you. I love having a family. But sometimes I think about how I used to have the freedom to hang out at the coffee shop all day long, or at the bar with my friends all night. I used to spend hours at the bookstore with no small children to entertain. I used to have the whole bed to myself, and no one ever ate my leftover Chinese. I could do the dishes when I got around to it. I could put my soap where I wanted to put it. The house was as quiet or loud as I wanted it to be, and the television was mine all mine!

Last year, I tried a little writing challenge called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. The challenge was to write a novel, technically 50,000 words, in the 30 days of November. That's about 1667 words per day.

I gave it my all, I really did. But I was sick a few days, it was Marc's birthday, my birthday, Thanksgiving, and I had to keep up with my job. Excuses excuses. It doesn't matter. I failed. I was a big, fat, failure. Too bad, too, because I really liked my story. I made it about halfway through, and then after November I kind of abandoned it. My husband tried many times to convince me to finish it. I wrote a little on it here in there over the last year, but nothing substantial.

So, I'm taking the kids to Illinois for Thanksgiving. It's just the kids and I. My husband has to work. I'm brave, I know. And I've come to realize something: going home for the holidays is not what it used to be, and never will be.

I'll have been living in Kansas City for 16 years this January. When Thanksgiving came around that first time after I moved out here, it was a no-brainer that I would go back home and be with my dad and brothers for turkey and stuffing. Of course I wanted to see my aunt and uncle. Of course I wanted to hang out with my cousins and my friends. It was no big deal; I just hopped in my car and drove for six and a half hours to Woodhull, Illinois, slept on my dad's couch for a few days, and drove back to Kansas City. I did this at Christmas, too.

Marc turned ten years old this week. He's so handsome and smart these days. I know I sound like a sappy old fool, but I swear he was just a sweet little doll-faced boy snuggled in my arms yesterday. Ten years sounds like such a long time, but it's not!

As usual, we had a party at our house with his friends. He insisted on a Bionicle party. If you're not familiar with Bionicle, don't waste your time learning. They were Lego toys that aren't sold anymore, except to collectors on eBay and ToyWiz.com. In fact, Marc and his friends may very well be the last generation of Bionicle geeks! It's really hard to plan a party around a line of characters they don't make anymore. No Bionicle-themed plates or banners for us. I had to get creative. But I think I pulled it off!

"Okay," my Facebook status said on October 25th. "We're home with our new-to-us car! How long will it be before the new car smell is replaced with the old milk and french fry smell?"

It was a clever status. People "like"ed it. My friend Mel, who lives around the corner from us, posted her reply. "I was wondering how long before spray paint or a busted window."

Parent-teacher conferences are fun. For me. They were fun for me when I used to be the teacher part of parent-teacher, because I loved all the kids and loved talking about them. They are fun for me as the parent part of parent-teacher, too. Marc has always had good ones. Praises are always about his wonderful math scores, high reading level, and fantastic behavior. Concerns are always lazy spelling, nearly incomprehensible handwriting, and his difficulty focusing. We work on these concerns, but they always need improvement.

This time, however, when his teacher asked us if we had any concerns, I didn't hesitate. I learned something earlier today that happened to my son this week. Now, Marc doesn't always tell us what's going on in his life right away. Sometimes he sort of... forgets. Then, he randomly spews them at us at illogical times. The other day he randomly told his dad that a couple of girls were picking on him.

You should know something about me. I've always hated mini vans. I just have. I want to say that it's because they guzzle down gas and I'm an environmentalist. But in all honesty, they're pretty average on gas mileage. I want to say that they evoke a stereotype of momness that I don't want to be part of. I don't want to drive a van just because I'm a mom and I'm supposed to. But that's not fair, either. Mini vans are handy when you have kids.

The truth is that they are big, difficult to drive, and very uncool looking.

Well, Halloween, you've done it. You've snuck up on me. Congratulations.

I don't know what happened. I mean, it's so perfect every year. October 1st hits and the decorations go up. Each year is more elaborate, you know. It started with a ghost on the front door and evolved to cotton cobwebs and plastic spiders all over the porch. Then, last year, I added shrouds, goulies, ghosties, and zombies that came out of the ground.

There was a march on Sunday. I took Charlotte with me. Marc didn't want to go. The poor kid has to come with me to every single protest, so I didn't complain when he bowed out of this one. It was me, Charlotte, and my wonderful friends Georgeanne and Lisa. The four of us marched 4.4 miles from Liberty Memorial to the Plaza and back. I have the blister on my toe to prove it!

There was only one annoyed driver. I think we were in her way, but that's the name of the marching game. Everyone else who drove by, or who stopped at green lights to let us pass, honked, waved, smiled, and flashed us the peace sign. I didn't see a single cop until we marched back, and they only stopped because some of the marchers were in the street.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows? I know why. Because rainbows are visions, but only illusions. No, it's true. It's just like the song says. Rainbows are really real. I know, because I see them all the time. But have you ever actually experienced a rainbow with any of your other senses? Can you touch a rainbow? Can you hold it in your hands? What does a rainbow smell like? Is it salty?

Grown ups are kind of like this. When I was a child, I knew what a grown-up was. A grown-up was a person who has finished growing. A grown-up was tall and wears big socks. A grown-up lived in their own house and paid bills, bought gas, and cooked dinner. Grown-ups had jobs and were always complaining about the president.

I'm not really sure how I feel about disconnecting from Facebook. It's been a real part of my life for such a long time. It was a difficult transition in the first place. I had a Friendster profile way back when until I realized how much more fun MySpace was. Then everyone abandoned MySpace and I was forced over into Facebook. I resisted at first, but it wasn't long before I was checking my page two or three (or ten) times a day. I was a social networking fiend, for sure.

This last week I had to admit that I was stressed out and depressed. Depression is a funny thing that creeps up on you and you don't realize you're actually depressed until curled up in a ball on the couch, tears streaming from your face. It was the car accident that did it. It was just the last straw. I can handle a lot of stress. I'm pretty good at it, really. I'm all zen and stuff. But getting injured in a car accident that totaled my car was just too much for me to handle.

I'm a pretty good person, I think. I try to be nice and live a good life with respect for others. But I'm having one of those "why do bad things happen to good people" moments.

About a month ago, I was given a new prescription med. It left me overly sedated and unable to function, and I was laid up on the couch for a couple of days, at least. Try explaining to your two year old daughter that you can't play chase because you're too doped up! It's not easy. I thought that was bad.

This week in the Engholm-Mitchell-Thomas household, nothing happened.

Nothing exciting, that is. Nothing to speak of, really. Thursday and Friday were pretty uneventful. We had pizza together, and we hung out on the couch together. I didn't do any yard work. I did work a little extra, but that's not exciting. Marc spent the entire weekend shooting arrows in the backyard and playing Superheros with the neighbor. Marc found some grasshoppers. There was a bike ride.

I love animals. I love the little furry ones, and the tiny feathered ones, and the growly ones, and the big leathery ones. All of them. I used to volunteer at a pet adoption and animal rescue once upon a time, which is where my animal rights activism really thrived. I was a vegetarian for the longest time because of my affinity for the little creatures. (Why I eat meat now is something saved for a different blog. Moving on...) 

The Kansas City Renaissance Festival started this weekend. Marc and I have been looking forward to it for a year! Diane, my mother-in-law, came down from Des Moines and the two of us took Marc and Charlotte. Marc dressed up as Link from Legend of Zelda, complete with sword and shield. We had turkey legs, of course. We watched a magic show and went on a search for fairies and princesses.

I wish I could tell you about all about the good week I had. We got a new pet bird. My husband started a new job. But these things are not nearly as interesting as my trip to the ER. 

I've told you before that I have Fibromyalgia. This is a chronic illness that causes widespread pain and fatigue. I have pretty much been treating myself for the last couple of years. Medical doctors just want to use antidepressants, and I've had really bad experiences with those. I've been using diet, exercise, meditation, and dietary supplements to keep the pain and fatigue under control, and they've been helping. But it's not enough. I decided to break down and try the doctor again.

As most of you know, Marc's father and I are divorced. Our attempts at continuing to coparent despite our separation have been mostly, and pleasantly, successful. That's not to say that we don't have our differences. We are divorced, after all. But regardless of our feelings toward each other, I would venture to say that we parent together pretty decently. Provided, that is, that we live in separate houses.

The other day, I picked Marc up from school during one of his dad's weeks and took him out for ice cream. Why the heck not? It was the last day of the first week of school. The boy deserves an ice cream with his mama. Then I drove him back to his dad's house to drop him off.

Just before the last school year ended I wrote a little about bullies. I was concerned that my son's fierce resistence to school may have been the result of him being bullied. Before this new year started, I sat him down and had a conversation with him about it, and he was finally able to admit it.

It doesn't seem as though the person doing most of the bullying is at his school this year. Still, we had a talk about how to deal with kids when they pick on you. Marc's first reaction is generally to cry, then he tends to withdraw completely. A couple of times I've seen him stand up for himself, but not often.

It's that time of year again. You know what I mean. It's time for fresh number two pencils and packs of wide-ruled notebook paper. I admit, I love the smell of brand new back packs. Love it! It's also time for new school clothes, which is something we intended to buy this weekend specifically because it was tax-free in Missouri.

I love when things are free!

My day generally begins around 6:20 am, when Charlotte lands her little toddler feet on the floor of her room and then runs them into mine, over to my side of my bed. I try with much futility to get her to fall back asleep in our bed. When I finally give up, I land my own feet on the floor and moan. After changing Little Lotte Sunshine's diaper, I trudge down the stairs where Marc has already made camp in front of the television with a bowl of cereal and a blanket. I get Charlotte a cup of milk and some ridiculously easy belly filler for breakfast, then I lay on the couch and nap for another hour or so. Then I get up, make coffee, eat something, and force myself into some clothes. By that time, there are only a couple of short hours left before lunch.

You see, I just don't hop out of bed, get dressed, cook a nutritious breakfast for my family, and start the day with a smile. Heck, sometimes I don't even get dressed, much less really eat something. I have Fibromyalgia.

I'm totally feeling sorry for myself.

It's no secret that I'm looking for full time work. I have been for a year and a half. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore my part time teaching job. But it doesn't pay the bills. Our family needs me to make a full time salary. I'm not asking for much, just enough to keep those disconnect notices out of my mailbox. During the last month or so I've been looking much more seriously than ever, but there just aren't that many out there.

My dad and brother came to visit this week! This is really an amazing thing, because my dad doesn't leave my small hometown of Woodhull very often. That he came 400 miles to the big city is really something.

I'm so glad they came, for the obvious reasons. I just love spending time with my dad, and I don't get to spend nearly enough time with my brother. But I'm also glad because I don't think I could have had the following experience without Jerry Engholm around! Are any of you short on inspiration for lectures on why you should get good grades in school? Read on, my friends. Read on.

"I don't really like being a stay at home mom," I said at the library's story time with extreme honesty.

The other two women I was with, both stay at home mothers, looked at me in horror. You'd have thought I had a giant cancerous mole on my face and no one wanted to be the one to point it out.

I was at my friend Jenny's house a couple of weeks ago chatting about life and whatnot when a commercial for a 20/20 special came on her TV.

"Oh, I want to see that! Did you hear about her?" Jenny said.

New York voted to allow same sex marriage this week! As supporters of gay marriage, my husband and I were pretty excited about that. That now makes seven states that recognize gay marriage if you count D.C., and we all just think that's pretty wonderful. Even Marc.

We were talking about it the other day at our house since it's been in the news. "What are you guys talking about?" he asked. He asks that a lot.

A few months ago, a friend of mine became pregnant for the first time and asked me what the hardest thing about being a parent was. I didn't really know what to say. It's not easy being a parent, and there are a lot of challenges. But I couldn't really pick one thing that was the hardest. It wasn't temper tantrums, though I have been driven to tears having to watch those. It wasn't sleepless nights, though I have been driven to tears with those as well. I told her it was hard leaving them with babysitters because I miss them, even though I found that to be kind of cheesy. But it is hard. I miss them!

However, after today, I've realized what the hardest thing about parenting really is, and it isn't leaving them with a babysitter. No, no. It's finding a babysitter.

Two years ago my hair was getting a little long, so I went in for a haircut. I actually ended up chopping it all off and donating the 13 inches to Locks of Love, an organization that makes human hair wigs for kids with cancer who can't afford to buy a wig. I loved the experience so much, I decided to just become a hair farm. I would grow and chop, grow and chop, all for Locks of Love.

Two years and 11.5 inches later, I chopped it off again.

I share custody of Marc with his dad, which means Marc lives with me half of the time and with his dad half of the time. You can imagine how important my time with him is to me. It's as precious as gold! To adjust for workplace responsibilities, I have the pleasure of having Marc with us every weekend. I just want to give you an idea of what a typical Saturday and Sunday is like around here, and please understand that it breaks this mama's heart sometimes to see him go from my sweet little baby to big, big kid.

Marc tends to wake up much earlier than everyone else on days when there is no school. Lately, he's been getting up so early that when we come downstairs in the morning, he's gone.

I have been absolutely dying to write this blog! I had to put off talking about it because, well, these things take time. I've been in a creative rut lately, but my friend William Peck over at Metaphor Media provided me with a kind of outlet I never would have thought of on my own: acting!

That's right. This mama is an actress! Well, an actress of sorts. Well, I didn't act so much as represent. This mama represents!

Sunday night, Charlotte was all snug in her bed. I took Marc up to bed shortly after, and then came down for my usual ritual of Facebook, Netflix, and chattin' with my hubby. It was typical. Not much to report. Until I read something a friend posted:

"Bin Laden dead! Finally! Go USA!"

What if you were going along your merry business, and ran into a friend of a friend. Let's say that in conversation you told that friend of a friend that you were, for example, a vegetarian. Now, your friend's friend feels very strongly that vegetarianism is very unhealthy and the only way to be truly healthy is to eat meat of some kind. Then, that friend by proxy says "I'm so sorry for you! You clearly don't understand how unhealthy that is. Here, let me buy you a steak. And you are more than welcome to have dinner with us any night. I can teach you how to cook meat."

Would you be offended?

Hi. My name is Valorie, and I'm a gamer.

Okay, I'm not nearly the gamer I used to be. I used to do little else. I'm telling you, I had carple tunnel from holding a controller at one point. But, hey. That's teenagers for ya.

"Will you make me something to eat?" I ask my handsome husband as I stride in from work at nine in the evening.

"What do you want?" he asks me. "There's not much to eat."

"Hope you're having fun in Chicago without me. Feel free to not come back."

That was what I posted on my husband's Facebook wall on Friday morning. Harsh. Cold. Wrong. After that came a few snidely placed comments full of bitterness and anger. It was like we were both looking for a reason to publicly shame each other. And then it happened.

"Mom, what's Libya?" my little boy asked while munching on his nachos.

I did my best to explain. I really did. I tried to explain about 9-11, Afghanastan, and Iraq. He knows about all of them because we don't hold back information in this household. I tried and tried to explain what was happening in Libya and we even got online to look some things up.

I almost forgot to write my blog tonight. Do you want to know why? I'll tell you why.

This morning, I couldn't get out of bed. Maybe it was because I was up for close to an hour last night with Lotte, and then couldn't fall back asleep after that. Maybe it was the livid and wild dreams I've been having. It could be that the last three days have been extremely exhausting. But I couldn't get out of bed. The clock glowed 7:15, and my sweet Lotte Sunshine (that's what I call her) was sitting up in bed, looking at me and giggling.

I remember my first tax return. I was seventeen years old, or sixteen, I'm not sure. Okay, maybe I don't remember it that well. But that's not the point. The point is, that first tax return was like found gold to me. As soon as I got that check from the federal government, I was off to the mall! Every year after that I looked forward to that magical time of the year. I've never made much money, so I've always gotten a tax return. I really didn't understand how it worked. I was just grateful. Then, I had kids.

It's still a magical time of the year, but it's magical for different reasons. When I was childless and single, I looked forward to the shopping trip that inevitably came with the yearly return. When I became a mother, I looked forward to something different.

I have to be honest. When I was pregnant with my son, I desperately wanted a girl. His father promised me that it would be a boy. His family hadn't produced a daughter in over 50 years, and still hasn't. I held out hope, even when the doctor showed us the sonogram. Boy.

But I love my boy. I'm a total tomboy, and come to find out the two of us have a lot in common. We both like video games, Doctor Who, science, and Legos. I really don't like that girly-girly stuff, so I didn't have to worry about frilly things filling my house. I wanted a girl, but I loved having my boy!

I was in a chat room recently. I know, that’s so 2001. Get over it.

The room is supposed to be for chronic pain support, but as it often happens, the topic veered off course. This time, it was to the topic of children of divorced parents. As the child of divorced parents, and as a divorced parent myself, how could I not chime in?

My husband, Mitch, has been unemployed for over three months. In that time, my daughter went from baby to toddler, and it dawned on me the other day that I've never been alone with Toddler Charlotte. At least not the entire day, and in the capacity that I was alone with her today.

Today, Mitch started his first day at his new job. This has been a blessing for the obvious reasons (stability, health insurance, not being homeless), but it also solves a problem I didn't think we would ever have: too much togetherness.

My son, Marc, had begged me for years to give him a sibling of some sort. He didn't care if he had a brother or a sister. Either one would do. Finally, the day came, and I was pregnant with Charlotte. He was eight years old, and so very happy.

Of course, we had that all important talk of how the baby got in my belly. We also had discussions on what I needed to do to keep the baby safe until she was born, from how I need to eat healthy and how I very much need my rest. Marc was constantly telling me to lay down. I guess I looked tired. One time, he caught me drinking a Mountain Dew. He said "Mom! You can't have that! Pop is bad for the baby!"

On Monday morning I walked into the doctor's office and leaned against the receptionist's desk for support. "I have an appointment today," I told her weakly. Doctor's offices make me nervous. "Valorie Engholm: E-N-G-H-O-L-M."

The kind receptionist clicked and clacked on her computer. She asked for my payment, and as I gave it to her, a nurse came out from a nearby room. The receptionist handed my debit card back to me and I signed the receipt as the nurse called out "Valorie?"

You know what co sleeping is, right? It's when a sweet little baby snuggles up with you in the middle of the night to keep warm. It's pretty wonderful.

There is a funny controversy surrounding the act, however. Now, I'm not a co sleeping activist. It's none of my business where people choose to sleep. Similarly, it's no one else's business where our family chooses to sleep. But this discussion seems to pop up in conversation a ridiculous amount. I'm either doing my kids a disservice by co sleeping, or I'm doing them a disservice by not co sleeping the right way. At any rate, we do what we do because it works for us. I want to share with you my own bittersweet stories of elbows, baby pee, and curling up all nice and tidy.

I have this belly fat. When I laugh, it jiggles like a bowl full of jelly.  Well, it’s not really fat.  It’s that extra blob of skin women get after having a baby.  It's a bulge that makes itself known in every shirt and blouse in my wardrobe. It's noticeable enough that I occasionally get asked if I am pregnant. My answers include: "No, just fat”, "I had my baby a year ago, this is just her leaving-the-womb present" and, "Yeah, I'm pregnant with a six-pack of tacos and too many margaritas." I’m not offended when others ask me if I’m pregnant even though I’m not. It's completely understandable. I have skinny arms, skinny legs, I'm tall, and I have this protruding blobby belly.  Sometimes I do wish I could wear some of those cute tops that younger girls wear which show off their belly buttons. But trust me, no one wants to see my belly button.

A few summers ago, some woman had been sitting on the front steps of her apartment building every day for about two weeks with a clothes rack and a jumble of shoes.  Every time I would ride by on my bike she would shout at me: "Come check out some of these clothes!" I took pity on her one day. She looked lonely, and, to be quite honest, I was also a little tired of getting yelled at. When I approached her, she smelled like vodka, and she looked at me like vodka. She picked up this very cute plum-colored shirt and said in her alcoholic drawl "Here!  This'll look nice on you. You like this, right?"

Before you go any further, my beloved blog patrons, I caution you. This is a deeply personal blog post. But for some reason, I trust you with the following information. I've never been one to hold things back, and have, in fact, been chastised for my need to share. As it is, I was asked to blog here about motherhood, and so I shall. You have been warned.

There's a local Kansas City radio station. Maybe you've heard of it? It's 96.5 The Buzz. They have a morning show called Afentra's Big Fat Morning Buzz. I don't listen to it every day, but on the days I drive Marc to school or on the occasion that I have to work in the morning, I always tune in. I can't help it. Afentra is honest, open, and real. She's not afraid to talk about how she doesn't shave her legs. She reminds me of me, just a little. (Especially the legs part. Oh, don't roll your eyes! You all know you hate to shave!)

A while back, I changed my username on this site to "coffeezen". This was before I decided to sound more professional around here. You know. Last week? But there was a reason why I chose this name, and I really feel like I should explain it to you before I get to the real story in this blog entry.

As we all know, motherhood can drive a person completely insane. There's the cleaning, the laundry, the surprise laundry when your child has an accident at preschool, the lunch making, the finding something kid-friendly on television, the playdates, the futile attempts to plan anything, and the list goes on. Like any good mother, I strive forth with diligence. However, I would not be able to strive forth if I didn't have the one thing that helps to clear my mind and bring me a moment of blissful peace: coffee.

I wouldn't say that I'm an overbearing mom. I'm not really a hovering kind of mom, either. Not necessarily. I don't think I'm controlling, really. I think I would say I am, if anything, a needy mom. Hm. No, that's not it. Maybe I'm a clingy mom. Maybe I'm an undercover spy. An undercover mom?

When my son was born, I really didn't want to have to leave him to go to work. However, our financial situation commanded my income. My way around this was that I found a job in the same building where Marc's child care was. This was my entry into the world of Montessori, as well as the world of teaching as a whole.

#3. Don't Can It!

Before a soda can gets to the store... before it has soda in t... before it's even a can, it is part of the earth!  Soda cans are made of a metal called aluminum.  It is very important to us.

I have a book here at home, 50 Simple Things Kids Can Do to Save the Earth, by The EarthWorks Group.  When I was a teacher, I would copy the pages each week on the back of the weekly newsletter.  In light of a recent thread I started about global warming, I felt there was a need to dig this book back out again.  One person checkmarked the choice on my poll saying that they believed in global warming but didn't know what to do about it.  This blog is for that one person, and for everyone else!  Show these tips to your kids, your friends, and your kids' friends!  It's not that difficult to make a difference, but these little things make a huge impact in reversing damage we've already done!

#1: Recycle Glass

I was washing my sugar shaker today as it had gotten a little yucky over the last round of use.  I try to wash it every time it becomes empty.  As I was washing the little plastic tab that said "Nestle", I was pondering the nature of my sugar shaker.

You see, when I got divorced, some of my kitchen items went with me and some stayed with my husband.  Regardless of the fact that I'm the coffee drinker in the house and use way more sugar, the sugar shaker stayed with him.  Rather than buy one, however, I just reused a Coffeemate creamer container.  I washed it out, tore off the label, and filled it with sugar.  I've been divorced for 5 years now, and I'm still using this sugar shaker!  No, it's not gross.  It's actually in really good shape!  It's a pretty durable plastic container to be quite honest.  I know, I know.  I could have bought a "real" sugar shaker for a dollar or so, but I'm like that.  I reuse stuff.  It's not about how much stuff costs, it's about how much I hate throwing perfectly good items into the trash and sending them off to landfills.

For instance, rather than continue to have my then-toddler's plastic drinking cups break or get gross inside and have to be thrown out, I would buy the juice in the plastic containers and reuse the containers as cups for him.  They were going to be thrown out anyway, so I didn't feel so bad if he let a glass of juice get disgusting because I was too lazy to do the dishes and I had to throw it away!  They are very durable, not easy to break.  In fact, he's 7 now, and I still do this!  A friend of mine misunderstood my reasons for doing this and bought me some "real" glasses made of actual glass.  My husband broke half of them within a year!

A spaghetti jar is my toothbrush holder.

I use old newspapers to clean my windows instead of paper towels.  Leaves them streak free and shiny!

Does anyone else reuse items like this around the house, or anywhere else?