I Swear It's True

So this is what I get for not blogging/reading for long periods of time: I was nominated for an award and I didn't even know it!!!  Hello?!? That's my first one ever, and it's been sitting our there for  a month...my mother would be mortified at how late this thank-you note is:

Thanks to Little Ms. J for mentioning me in her Creative Blogger Award post.  She thinks I might have creative thoughts to offer in the challenge to give SIX LIES AND A TRUTH about myself. After you read them, all of you are supposed to guess which is the truth, and which are the things I creatively invented in my little head.

So here goes:

1.  I was suspended from a private school twice in the 8th grade, for smoking in the bathroom.

2.  I finished graduate school on the Dean's List, with a 3.9 GPA.

3.  My mom taught me to burp the alphabet forwards and backwards, Sometimes, we do it together at parties.  She taught Jack how to do it, too.

4.  I was arrested for disorderly conduct in my early 20s, while out partying with friends.  We were drunk (duh) and disturbing the peace. I spent the night in a jail in Santa Barbara and had to hock my moped to pay the fine.

5. I'm a closet Halo player, even though I outwardly hate computer games of any kind.

6. In 12th grade, I was impeached as President of the Pep Club because I was too bossy and too lazy. How can you be both?  

7. I balance my bank book in my head and am rarely ever wrong.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Seriously: you try it! I hereby nominate

Whispering Writer at Airing my Dirty Laundry

Joanne at I [Heart] Arugula

My new BF, Heidi, at Some Mad Hope

ED at Eternally Distracted, who, I'm certain, will find it nearly impossible to make up anything we won't believe.

Thanks again, Ms. J; I'm honored!

BOOK REVIEW

Some Kind of Normal
by Heidi Willis

I knew less than nothing about diabetes when I opened this book, and to be honest, didn't have much of an interest in learning. But I was immediately taken in by the story of Ashley, Babs Babcock's 12 year old daughter, who is slowly being eaten away by the disease. I became so entrenched in Babs' own desperate search for knowledge and understanding that I actually paid attention to all of the medical details, as if I might be able to help her myself.

From the moment this heart wrenching story opened, I fell in love with Babs, through the voice that Willis has given her. Willis has a tremendous gift of dialogue, and a way with dialect that I have seldom experienced. Babs is one of the most realistic literary voices I have ever read; there is no way to describe it but raw. And so human, it almost hurts. I often felt as though I were reading a dear friend's diary, instead of a novel. She puts up no pretenses, and apologizes for nothing, yet still manages to doubt herself more than she ever needs to.

The characters in Babs' life are remarkably true also; from Travis, her faith-bound husband, to Logan, her steadfast, yet wayward son, to Dr. Benton, her angel in disguise, Babs asks - no, demands - that we know them all as well as she does, and that we love them all with her same intensity. And she leads us to discover that the story isn't about diabetes at all, or about controversial research, or really even about faith. It's about the love a mother has for her children, and the strength we find within ourselves to get up every morning and hope again, when we're certain there's no hope left.

In moments of panic and desperation, Babs will make you laugh out loud with her honesty and absolute simplicity. But don't be fooled by her candid humor; you're going to need the Kleenex, too.

I love this book.

It wasn't one I would have chosen on my own, though. Heidi is friends with my friend Karma, and the last time they were together, Karma got me a signed copy. I started following Heidi's blog then, and we became cyber friends. Her book was still on my TBR list when I heard she was coming to visit, in RL! I thought, Crap! I better read that book! I don't want to be sitting there at the dinner table faking an intelligent conversation!

And I am so glad I did.

Jackyl and Hyde

As much as I love him to death, my kid's a walking contradiction.

On Monday, he got in trouble twice at school.  Once for coming in to finish a test and then not actually doing it, at all, but bothering all the kids around him instead. The second offense was to move his desk away from a girl he didn't want to sit next to.  Sounds innocent, even responsible, don't you think? Yea, me too. Then I heard the other side of the story - the teacher's - and I had to agree that scooting one's desk repeatedly and loudly during a quiz, and giggling while one does it, and drawing attention to oneself deliberately in the process, wasn't exactly responsible. Anyway, so there he was, busted again.

As a result, he has to stay after school tomorrow to finish the test. And, his consequence at home was that he was grounded until that test was done. Fair enough.

That was until I realized that he still hadn't found the $70 pair of Converse basketball shoes he lost a week ago. Crap! Now I have to impose the consequence for that, too!  So, figuring he's already grounded this week, I decided to have him work off some of the cost of the shoes, since he didn't seem to be making much of an effort to look for them.

When he got home from school today, I told him this, and I suggested that since he was dying to go outside, he could wash my car.  Good lord, you would have thought I'd said he should clean a septic tank barehanded.  He started crying and stomping. In between sobs, he'd spit out "I don't want to wash the car."

Everyone together, now, what was my response?

"I didn't ask you if you wanted to wash the car, I asked you to do it." Firm, yet calm.

But the meltdown continued until I left the house to find solace in the little nursery down the road.  After all, it was a gorgeous day and I could be outside planting, not in here, listening to this temper tantrum.

When I got home, the car was almost finished.  I was so proud! I thanked him, then gave him the rest of the Pay Off the Sneakers List: clean the cat box, take out the garbage, empty the dishwasher.

Waaaaah!!!!!  It starts up all over again. Throws himself on the couch. Sobs into my silk pillows, snot and all.  I ignore him; after how many years of this parenting thing, I'm finally learning the art of not escalating a situation.

Finally, he calms down.  He does all the chores. I even hear him singing at one point.  When he's all done, I let him go outside to shoot hoops for a bit.  Alone, of course.

I sat down for a few minutes to think about how I should handle this stuff in the future.  How am I going to help him become more responsible? Stop throwing fits when he has to do things he doesn't like? Oh my God! Is he going to end up a delinquent too??? Will he ever be able to accomplish anything ???

But just as my own tailspin began, the one where I take one bad moment in the present and transform it into an entire lifetime of bad behavior, I had to regroup and make dinner.

After all, we didn't want to be late to the Awards Ceremony at school.  You know, for Honors Society: where the members all maintain at least a 3.5 GPA, participate in a community project, act as leaders and role models for their peers and generally shine above the rest of the world  behave well and achieve great things.

And there he is.  The same kid who tore half his room up in protest of basic manual labor, who couldn't get his shit together in class and got himself a detention, showing us his Honors Society Certificate.

Go figure.  At the end of the day, he's a pilar of society.

Keepin' Busy

Ahhhh...lapsing again...just haven't had much to say lately. This doesn't excuse my not reading, though, so please don't ditch me if I haven't been over to your blog in awhile.  I got a little nudge from my friend Karma, who has a gazillion other things to read beside my blog (she's finishing her B.A.) but who dropped me an email asking why I hadn't written lately.

Actually, I've sort of been busy. I've been working, for God's sake. Like, at a paying job, outside my home.

Twice I've subbed. Two whole days so far.  Frankly, I'm exhausted.  Have you ever taught kindergarten?  See, you know what I mean.

But I've also been doing my Julie McCoy thing with Kim's Book Signing and having a blast with that.  I love saying "I have a meeting", like I'm going to a glass-walled conference room on the 30th floor of some swank building downtown, where someone will bring me coffee and croissants while I impress bigwigs with my Powerpoint skills.

In reality, I'm walking over to Kim's house, to sit with her and her staff - that would be her friend Jacqueline, her hub Josh, and me -  around her kitchen table, each of us with our own travel mug of homemade coffee, scribbling notes on lined notebook paper and mostly shooting the shit about her trip to Hawaii.  (I've not once asked to hook the projector up to her TV; they don't know what they're missing.)  Seriously, though, we have planned an awesome day and I can't wait! I love being friends with a Practically Famous Author.  

And I've also been carting Jack and all his buddies all over the place from basketball to baseball and back again, and cheering like a lunatic at all the games - even though I appear to be the only mom doing it so loudly. Whatev. They need support. Last week, they lost 51-24 and I had to drive home with three teary-eyed boys in the back seat. 

I love that my kid is an athlete, though.  I'm all about being the soccer mom (God I hate that word) and their biggest cheerleader.  I was not, in any way, shape, or form, an athlete as a kid. In highschool, I couldn't even make the cheerleading squad because I thought all you had to do was yell and smile. I didn't realize you couldn't be fat and completely out of shape.  Total discrimination, I say. But I digress. 

Because of this, I kind of taught myself was forced to hate athletes.  It was the only defense I had against feeling like a total slug. As I got older, though, not being into sports became one of my big Life Regrets, especially now, when I struggle every day with staying active and eating healthy.  So when I popped out this kid who lives and breathes physical activity of all kinds, I felt like I had an opportunity to get it right.

Wait.  That came out wrong. That just painted me as the Mother Who Lives Vicariously Through Her Son, which I so am not.  I'm not sure I could be, if I tried. I guess I'm just enjoying sports for the first time in my life, and not feeling like I have to hate them all because they're out there and I'm not.

How can I live vicariously through Jack's sports when half the time I have to ask him to explain what he's doing out there?

Me: Are you playing point guard today?"

Jack (with great patience) : "Nope, Mom, not today. Today I'm a quarterback.

If Only He Had a Pair of Stolen Nikes....

How I wish I were quick enough (and technologically savvy enough) to grab my new phone that takes really good pictures and capture Jack in the car yesterday. But, aside from the fact that I was driving, I didn't think quickly and the moment was gone.

First, let me share with you one of his most annoying habits: changing the radio station no more than a minute and a half through any given song. If I didn't already have ADD, this would give it to me.

So as we're driving home from wherever, he's switching back and forth between five or six stations that - mind you - are all playing the same songs, and the volume is up way louder than I would have it, if I were to be in control of Car Music. Which I'm not, because I try to be a nice mom, and I try to choose my battles carefully these days. Car Music is not on my list of Really Important Things I Need to Control. And, when it's a song I like, I crank the volume, so really, who am I to complain?

He's "singing" along - in quotes, because Jack only knows about five words to any song. I believe this is why he changes the station...his lyric bank is a little low and he doesn't want anyone to catch on.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I see his head bopping like he's a Hilltop gangsta, and I turn to see if he's doing that fake driving thing, you know, with one hand on the imaginary wheel...? Like this:


Evidently, that's what you do when you listen to music these days. I think it's the new air guitar.

But he's not gangsta driving, because his left hand is covering his ear and I think there's something wrong because his head is bowed low, almost into his lap, and his right hand is flailing around near the window like he's having a seizure. I turn fully, to make sure he's ok, and that's when I wish I had the camera phone ready.

He's fine, I see. He appears to be completely engaged in mixing some kind of sick tunes on his imaginary turntable set-up, with his left hand covering the pretend earphone (better sound definition) and his right hand squeaking the invisible record back and forth to make that eee-eee-eee sound of a perfectly good vinyl LP being ruined.

Sort of like this:




Only, not.

Joannie Rochette

I would have stayed up all night just to see this.

And I thought I was done crying.

A Moment of Hope

It's been four days since this happened, but I haven't felt much like sharing it with anyone until now. I did tell MC, since I had my counseling appointment on Tuesday and the minute I got there, I couldn't really talk about anything else. Then, of course, as soon as I opened my mouth, I just sat there and cried the entire rest of the hour. I suppose MC's office is a really good place to be if I'm going to melt down like that.

I ran into Matt on Monday, outside the highschool. If you're new here, you can read this and this to catch up. I haven't seen him since Christmas, when he stopped by unexpectedly to deliver gifts to Jack (not to anyone else in the family, mind you). He just appeared on the doorstep (with his dad no less!) as if it were perfectly normal for them to pop in on Christmas Eve. They didn't stay, but the brief foyer gift exchange was awkward enough for the whole month.

On Monday afternoon, I was killing an hour between Jack's basketball and baseball practices, and thought I'd grab a snack at the market. As I passed the highschool, I saw Matt walking along the sidewalk, all by himself, an hour after school let out.

Seeing him, I was struck with a profound sadness...much different from the anger and resentment I have felt in the past year. I was sad that he was all alone - not even any Emo/Goth/Criminal friends walking with him, not a girl, not even a teacher. Or a cop. Just Matt, all by himself.

I wondered where he was going, and why he was there so late. I wondered how he was getting home these days, since he wrecked his car in November and his Dad lives a half hour from here. I wondered what I would say to him if he would let me, if .... and then I started bawling and had to pull into the parking lot of the grocery store to get it together.

MC and MC2, my therapy partners, and I are working on feeling things. I'm supposed to let myself cry when it hits. Up until now, I've been pretty good at fighting it, because I'm sort of afraid that if I start, I won't be able to stop. I'm afraid it will become a full on breakdown, and I just can't afford that right now. I've got another kid to take care of.

But I went ahead and felt for a few minutes. I felt sad and helpless and very much like a failure, although I'm not supposed to blame myself. It's not always that easy. I sat in my car and cried for a bit, then I took a deep breath and said a prayer for him, and me, and all the moms and kids out there who have lost each other.

When I pulled back onto the road, I was looking for him. I hadn't really seen his face the first time, and I just wanted to see his face. Suddenly, he was there, sitting at a table outside the Starbucks, and before I knew what I was doing, I pulled my car into the parking lot and walked up to him. Before I could talk myself out of it, and before I could devise a plan as to what the f*%# I thought I was going to say to him.

"Hey," was a decent start.

He took his earbuds out and said "Hey," back, which I thought was a groundbreaking next step.

And our conversation went like that, about one word at a time, for a minute or two. Then I asked him if I could sit, and he let me.

I asked him if I could buy him a cup of coffee, but he said no.

Oh, I forgot. You don't need me.

He was waiting for his train - the one that doesn't come until 4:40, two and a half hours after school lets out. The one he takes every day since he lost his car.

He asked me what I was doing, and I told him. Then, without thinking, I asked if he wanted to go watch the end of Jack's practice, and he agreed.

He agreed to be with me.

He still didn't want a drink, or a snack. I wanted so much to give him something, but I settled for the company, gladly.

We drove in an awkward semi-silence over to the middle school; I asked him weird, distant questions about the classes he was taking. It was better than nothing. At the gym, we stood ten feet apart and watched practice until it was over, and the excitement of his little brother discovering him there eased us up.

Jack introduced him to all his friends, who said things like, wow, you really are tall! and I laughed inside. I was too afraid to laugh out loud, to be a part of that relationship, the only one he hasn't severed, afraid I might ruin it for Jack. Still, I giggled as the 6th graders craned their little necks to see what 6'3" looks like.

When it was time to go, the little guys piled into the back seat and Matt sat up front with me, chatting with them. We drove him to the train station, where Jack got out and hugged him. They exchanged I love yous, then Matt leaned his head back into the car and said,

"Thanks for the ride."

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

Oh yes, he did.

And then he was gone. It wasn't all better. It wasn't anywhere near normal. But it was nice.

And I was back in my real life, driving 12 year olds all over tarnation, pretending that I didn't ache every day for the first born son I somehow lost and didn't know how to find.

Maybe it's just like that. One tiny little baby step at a time. One awkward meeting that feels like strangers talking at a bus stop.

One moment.

Four words.

Post It Note Tuesday

It's Okay. Today.

I'm going to try something new. I stole this idea from Whispering Writer, over at Airing My Dirty Laundry, who stole it from Glamour Magazine. They have a section called "Hey, It’s Okay" - a list of a bunch of things to be okay about. I really like this, because I'm working so hard on trying to be OKAY with everything in my life/head/heart and to stop judging myself for everything I say/do/feel.

I don't want to be a total copycat, though, so I won't call it "It's Okay Tuesday", like WW did. It'll just be "It's Okay". Today.

It's Okay to cry at everything Olympics-related, even the commercials.

It's Okay to soothe the tears with chocolate. Like Cadbury eggs, maybe. Just sayin.

It's Okay to have the First Episode of Season 2 of Glee marked on the calendar.

It's Okay to not want to be a teacher anymore, even though it's the only job for which I seem to be qualified.

It's Okay to not Tweet or Twitter or whatever it is, and to not even know what it is, and not even care.

It's Okay not to watch the Kardashians or The Jersey Shore or The Bachelor, even though the rest of the civilized world is doing it.

It's Okay to boss other people's kids around, if they're doing something inappropriate or dangerous, and you're the only adult around. It takes a village.

One More Year of Semi-Sanity

The Jackster turned 12 on Friday. When did that happen???

I think he had a pretty stellar birthday weekend, all in all:

• A three-day diet of sugar, chips, soda and sugar


• A hockey game with a signed birthday card from the team and his name on the scoreboard


• A sleepover with his buddies.

8:00 on Sunday night and he's already sound asleep. And I'm right behind him.

Happy Birthday, JMan. I LOVE YOU!!

Little Letter Tuesday

Too much for a Post-It Note, so today is a Little Letter for Tuesday.

Dear Kirstie Alley.

Fat Actress. Jenny Craig. Oprah. New show: Kirstie's Big Life. Why is it that, ever since you left Cheers, your career - your entire identity - revolves around the size of your butt? And we wonder why women are obsessed with their bodies. How about you focus on talent? Or intelligence? Or even your kick-ass hair, for God's sake. Please, get off the scale and move on.

Your friend,
Tam

To Recomment or Not to Recomment?

Thanks for all the supportive and funny comments this morning. I was giggling to myself as I scanned those poems, thinking, 'Is this endearing, or totally embarrassing?' I was perfectly at peace with Dorky, with a capital D, then a bunch of you thought it was endearing. Awww! Ya mean I'm not as big a geek as I thought? I love you guys!

Now that I'm in the 100 Club (I'll be getting my lapel pin in the mail, right?) I have a couple of questions. The more I read & write, the more I learn about this medium, and there are still a lot of little things I'm not hip on. Like giveaways. If anyone wants to give me the lowdown on how that works, that'd be great.

But let's talk COMMENTS.

I love the whole concept of commenting. I think it's fabulous validation for putting yourself out there, and a big motivator to do it again tomorrow. And I love that sometimes, it's a topic-specific, insightful, sympathetic response, but sometimes, it's just a little high-five for being brave enough to read your paper out loud to the class. I don't mind the "Great post!" comment one bit. It makes my day to know that someone out there stopped in and said hi.

What I'm a little unsure of, though, is the commenting back to the commenters who've commented to you. The ReCommenting. Some people do it, some don't. Is there an etiquette to this? I rarely recomment here because I think it's a touchy area.

You kinda have to recomment to everyone on the post, don't you? Like when it's Valentine's Day in elementary school - if you don't bring a card for everyone, you can't bring cards at all. You can't just recomment to the comments that warrant recommenting. Someone is bound to end up in the coat closet tucked in between the smelly lunchboxes, crying her eyes out. And she'll grow up to find herself running from therapy sessions to AA meetings and back, and ..... I'm just guessing that's how it would turn out.

So, are you a ReCommenter?

Do you have a policy? Or am I neurotic and no one else gives a shit?

And what do you say to "Great Post!" ?

At some point, doesn't it become akin to writing a thank you note for a thank you note? I mean, when does it end? How do you know if you're done?

To everyone who has been kind enough to visit, read, and comment - or not - for now, I'll just throw out a big blanket thanks.

Yeah, I know, some of you deserve more than that.

It's ok, I won't go to recess without you.

My Humble Beginnings

First of all... Thank You to Joanne, for bringing me to the page in the first place, and for getting me here every day since, especially when I couldn't do it alone...
...and to all the readers who honor me with your time and your comments, who write remarkable blogs of your own that inspire me in so many ways.

~~~~~

I've been writing since I was a little kid. Even though it was my brother who wrote that story - in second grade - about the detective with the Porsche, the one that my parents had "bound" like it was a real book, I kept doing it. I read like crazy and then tried to emulate my favorite authors.

There was this whole Erma Bombeck period, a Shakespeare stint, even a stab at *ahem* trashy romance. But my big thing was poetry. I fancied myself a bit of an artist that way, all the way up through college.

A couple of months ago, I found a Poetry Anthology (I made that up) I had written in the 5th grade. It was bound with thread and leftover wallpaper from my pre-teen bedroom. It was also written in - get this - calligraphy. I think the official title was "Poems by Tammy", although over the years, the front cover has seen some wear and the piece of construction paper I vaguely remember being glued to the front has been lost.

Here is what's left of my first bound edition.








Please be nice if you choose to comment on the fact that, at the age of 10, I was a little unclear on the order of seasons.

I think it's time I really did get a job. I mean a paying job, outside my house. Not that what I do around here as a SHM isn't real; believe me, it is. But some days I get really bored, which feeds into the whole reason I'm drinking the Wacky Water lately.

A few weeks ago, Kim Derting asked if I would help plan the day for her Book Release on March 16th. Of course I said I would, because planning events is one of my very favorite activities ever. But this isn't my profession, or my own small business. This is Kim knowing that I'm all bossy and Julie McCoy and shit, so things will get done. So now I'm on the Official Planning Committee, but since no one nominated me for Chairman right off the bat, I'll probably have to make up a little campaign flier for our next meeting.

You think I'm kidding, don't you? You think I couldn't possibly be that Rachel Berry-ish. But I am, sort of. I'm all over this new project, partly because it's fun to do, partly because it's way cool to hang out with a published author, and partly because it's totally surreal to be - even remotely - put in charge of handling her fans at Borders next month.

But I'd do this for any friend. I think what I'm enjoying more than anything is that I have a purpose. Something to do, something to get done, on a time schedule. In my current world, would anyone care if I didn't get the laundry done today? Jack would've taken his PE shirt, dirty and wrinkled and stinking to high heaven, right out of the laundry basket and worn it without a second thought today. As it was, it did get washed, but he might not even have noticed that it was clean had he not had to pull it out of the dryer himself as he ran out the door.

Three weeks - maybe a month - ago, I took all the pictures off my picture wall, with all good intentions of remodeling my photo gallery. That's as far as I got. Everything needed to complete this is still sitting under the end table, the wall is still bare, and guess what? No one cares! Not one word about when this project is going to get done. No supervisor leaving me snippy emails about my lack of follow-through, no coworkers complaining that they're tired of tripping over the crap in my in-basket.

I know that many of you envy that kind of day-to-day To Do List, and I am, without a doubt, extremely fortunate to be able to work at my own pace. But I've forgotten how motivating it is when someone else is depending on me to meet a deadline. Must get done = Will get done. I like that.

On another note, I'm excited to report that, in addition to working on a task I enjoy, I may be able to attribute part of this drive to the new Remedy. One week of the magic potion, and I am feeling fabulous. No, really, I mean this. I can tell the difference. Not a drastic difference, like I'm a whole new person, but a noticeable difference in specific things: I am sleeping better, I am eating better (by choice) and I am drinking & eating less (without struggling). I am calmer and less weepy, and I'm about 75% less tired during the day than I was a week ago. The best way to describe it is that I feel softer.

One more week with this one, then I go in for a remedy tune-up and some diet/nutrition counseling. It's the best I've felt in a really, really long time, without taking Ambien, or being drunk, or both. I'm definitely a believer now.

Thanks for the ideas on what to do with my next (100th!) post. I love that there are so many people out there who agree that it's a big deal! Still not sure what I'm going to do and I'm a little stressed about it....

...see? Rachel Berry really is my role model.

Oh, wow! I'm about to reach my 100th post! (This is #98.) As I read other blogs I notice that some writers seriously celebrate this moment, others don't. Some people do big giveaways, which I would love to do, but I don't know how that all works. (Oh sure, I could ask around, but who wants to look like they're not blog savvy? I've been writing for nearly 100 posts now, for Pete's sake!) Some people actually celebrate with family and such. No one in my family reads my blog, so if I baked myself a cake, they'd all just think I was weird. And if I opened a good bottle of wine, well, no one would notice.

Soooo....not sure what I'll do to mark the day. I feel like I should do something. I'll have to give it some thought. What did/will you do?

Doctor NOT

I could have gone to Med School, but I didn't. It had nothing to do with my 2.7 highschool GPA or my inability to pass a science class of any kind beyond the 9th grade; it wasn't because I can't pay attention to anything for more than an hour, let alone eight years. Mostly, I didn't go to Med School because I'm a wimp.

I don't faint at the sight of blood (like my Dad, I understand) but I get really queasy if I have to witness an injury that requires anything more than a blob of Neosporin and a couple of bandaids. I do ok with my own kids when it's not too bad, but once I've turned over my First Responder duties to the next guy - husband, friend, medic, doctor - I'm a complete wreck. If they're seriously hurt, I tend to freak out way more than necessary and scare the crap out of them. Like when Jack flipped off his skateboard, hit the pavement face first, and broke his two front teeth off. He was fine until I actually looked at the teeth (he wouldn't take his hand off his mouth), at which point I screamed "OH MY GOD!" and nearly fainted. He wasn't crying until then.

These are indicators that I've chosen the right career path, I think. Or at least that I didn't definitely, absolutely, choose the wrong one. And today, I got a little unexpected confirmation:

Did anyone catch the segment on The Today Show this morning, about the live birth? (Let's not even ask why we are watching a live C-Section on my morning show. It's pretty much the only news I watch, and I really hope to gain some worldly info while I'm tuned in.) There they were, filming the birth of this baby, not on TLC, not on Lifetime, not even on the flippin' Surgery Channel, but right there, on Channel 5. And Dr. Nancy, the new Dr. Oz, is in the delivery room with the parents, and her commentary goes something like this:

" Ok, "Susie" is ready to go, her lower womb has been opened up and oh! there was a big squirt of amniotic fluid there! "

O.M.G! Stop it! Not only are they talking about squirting amniotic fluid, they're showing it to me! Oh please, please, please let it be time for Al and the weather, or even Willard with the birthday thing. Don't make me leave Matt for George.

I think childbirth is amazing and beautiful, don't get me wrong. And I get that we were just witnessing the Miracle of Life. But maybe a little heads-up would have been nice. Like: Warning, Non-Doctor Types! Blood and amniotic fluid up ahead! This would be a good time to go blowdry your hair!

A powdery little bambino, all wrapped up in a cute little blanket, would have been plenty a miracle for me.

PS. Wanna see Jack's teeth? Heads up....

Post It Note Tuesday

He Needs Me - Really

I love the stuff kids say sometimes. I always think I'm going to remember their words, or I think I should write them down, but I rarely do either. I'm going to make a better effort, though...so here's my attempt for today.

I'm sitting with friends the other day, talking about how Jack likes me being a Stay Home Mom. I said, "He's just like his Dad. He doesn't necessarily need to be with me, or talk to me, or interact with me in any way, he just needs to know I'm here. Then he's fine." I smile lovingly at him, as he half-eavesdrops on our conversation.

"I know," I continue, "that when he comes home from school, he's going to be out the door again within minutes. But he comes in just to make sure I'm here first." My heart is swelling with this knowledge I have, of how much my kid needs me....

"Actually," Jack pipes up, "I just come in to put my backpack away."

Right. I knew that.

Disney's Hot Ticket

FYI: I really don't give the Magic Potion that much credit, although yes, I am a nut. Duh! Why would I be trying this in the first place?!? However. I am feeling pretty darn good, third day in a row.

I was just reading a post on Janana Bee about The Rock -er, Dwayne. She's upset with The Rock for going "all Disney" on her. I can understand; she's an old WWF fan and this turn on his career path must be excrutiating to watch. But me? I'm personally grateful for the staff over there at the happiest place on earth. I was not a WWF fan at all, so I never knew who The Rock was, really, until they sucked him over to the dark side.

Janana thinks Dwayne's lost his hotness. Hello?!? Ok, so he's not all guns and sweat, like in the old days. But I have to sit through a lot of brain-rotting movies, because I'm a Mom* (i.e. Paul Blart - I wince just typing it). Sometimes, these movies claim to "appeal to adults too!", but what they really mean is that there might be a smidge of cleverly disguised adult humor, or a Stop Global Warming subplot.

Really? You want to appeal to Moms who take 11-year-old boys to the movies? Don't get in my way with politics or wit.

Hand over the popcorn and give me The Rock.

* Don't start with me. I know I don't "have to" take my kid to these movies, that I could take them to the Natural History Museum or enroll them in Scouts instead. Let me live in my fantasy that seeing all the popular movies and eating at McDonalds makes me a Good Mom.

Fun Fact about me: I have a wierd thing about teeth. I hate brushing them because it makes me gag. (But I do it anyway, twice a day, just so you know.) I can't even watch other people brush their teeth, that makes me gag too. You know how, when your kids are really little, you have to brush their teeth for them? Eeew!! I think my boys could brush their own teeth before they were potty trained.

So you can imagine how a root canal would sit with me, huh? Never, ever had work (beyond cleaning) done on my teeth, and I thought I was home free, at my age. But no. Last September, I called my cards too quickly and learned what an endodontist is. The day of the surgery, I went for the full sedation package, just short of knocking me totally out and staying overnight in the hospital, but I was still a nervous wreck and hated every minute of the entire day.

And today, I had the privilege of getting a redo on my root canal from last fall. I won't sicken bore you with the details of why I got to do this, but I will say that it was waaaaay better the second time around. Which, for the record, does not mean to suggest that one should always do a root canal twice. Not even kinda.

But guess what? I didn't freak out beforehand, like I did the first time, when I was shaking like a scared puppy, even though I was sedated enough that I couldn't move out of my chair, or remember my own name. I didn't get all chatty on the way there, like I do when I am insanely nervous about something. And, when I got home, I didn't get nauseous merely from the thought of what had just happened in my mouth.

Today, I easily conversed with My Endo (we're tight now), Dr. Susan, about why teens shouldn't have cell phones, right before she disappeared into my mouth and left - wait for this - stitches in my gums. I had taken a sedative (duh! I'm not stupid!) but wasn't all hooked up to an IV like last time, my will sitting on the table next to me, waiting for my wobbly, dying signature, just in case. And not once did I gag or shudder, before, during, or after the fact. I even looked at the stitches in the mirror when I got home. You have no idea how not me that is.

You know what I'm going to say, don't you?

Yep.

Magic potion's working, methinks.