Ben wondered aloud to me, the other day, whether I thought God cries when he says the Pledge of Allegiance- because he does such a good job. I honestly did not know how to respond...though I'm relieved to see that his self-esteem seems firmly intact, despite any poor parenting he has received from me.

You may be shocked to learn that I found a Vienna Finger growing hair in our basement family room this morning, while vacuuming. I just stared at it for a while, not recognizing its original form at first, then wondering if it was more of a testament to my poor housekeeping than the oblivion of my offspring or vice versa. Either way, I was totally disgusted, though it does make great fodder for the blog. Happy Saturday everyone.

A friend of mine from the neighborhood quit her job as an attorney, recently, to be home full-time with her kids. She lamented the other day that she's not getting anything done- and how she thought her household accomplishments would be so much greater. Ah-the legend of the productive stay-at-home mother.... you know the one- she knits and eats bon-bons in her sparkling clean abode...such laughter emanates from my bone-tired soul...

My two older kids, Lily and Liam, returned to school on Monday, and that left Ben and Seth to accompany me on my walks through the cemetery. I hypothesized over the weekend that the hardest part of my journey would be the additional fifty-four pounds to push, not counting the extra weight of the double-jogger. Well, I'm here to tell you folks- the physical labor couldn't possibly compare to the misery of my son's diarrhea of the mouth. I know that a good mother would never say such a horrible thing- I should be shrouded in gratitude for the gift of my son and his conversationalism. A better mother would have an entire diatribe devoted to the cuteness of her offspring. I, however, will confess a very strong temptation to wallop my little boy in the head as he asked the following, over and over again, for an hour- "why they die mamma? what that mamma- there bones in there mama? why they put hearts in the ground mama? is there skin in there? when we going home mommy? mommy- you bring money? we going to the coffee shop mommy? I can walk mommy? How many more days until kindergarden mommy? mommy, when the kids coming home, mommy? mommy what all those flags for? why we needs soldiers mommy? what a soldier? mommy, all those people soldiers? what that balloon for mommy? MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMY- WHEN WE GOING TO BE DONE cause I'M BORED?

the days of zen with my peaceful infant strolling along have come to an abrupt end. i love my children, but give me a break- i just want to hear myself think while i sweat through the hills of Pittsburgh. Just one hour of quiet meditation Lord. Please.

I love the book Charlotte's Web by E.B.White and I have a special affinity for Charlotte the spider. I think I learned the word "Salutation" from reading that book in 4th grade.

Anyway, as I have noted here more than once, I walk every morning, about 4 miles in my community here in the Burgh. I make it a point of saying "Good Morning" to everyone who passes, mostly with positive results (sometimes the teenagers, who are used to being ignored I'm sure, seem a little startled). I got inspired to do this by a woman whose name escapes me, whom I met through La Leche League in 1998, six weeks after Lily, my first child, was born. I remember walking the paths of Arlington, Virginia with her and watching, in disbelief, as she greeted every passerby as if we were in some friendly neighborhood from the 1950s (and we ALL know that No. Virginia, as well as all its counterparts in DC and Maryland, can be less than cordial, as far as cities go). I'd spent my life in that hurried-big-city-living-tunnel, where you rush around not really seeing anyone- just your destination.

Well, as I ventured into the local cemetary for my morning laps, I noticed an older gentleman on the path and shouted a friendly "hello" as I strode by with the jogger. He said "hi" in return then continued to talk, so I ended up huffing and puffing the remaining two miles alongside this eighty-two year old man. He told me about his vacation and his kids and grandkids, while I mostly listened and added an "Oh" every now and again. I was amazed at how little I had to slow down to keep his pace (which says a lot about one of us...). He told of how his wife and parents are buried there and he comes to walk in peace most days of the week. I took one less steep hill than normal because I didn't want to interrupt his story. We parted ways at mile three, as I headed for home.

So here's to salutations and new friends.

A dear friend of mine is going through some difficult times,so though we are currently away on vacation, I took a day off to meet her and just hangout. We mostly took it easy, discussing books, men, movies, music- you know, the best parts of life. Occasionally, once her kids got off the bus and arrived home, I would put my hands together in the shape of a shark fin and chase them around her bedroom, pretending to be jaws, while she gave me a makeover (she can apply eyeshadow like Van Gogh put paint to canvas-) and put my hair in curlers (yes, curlers). Soon her mom, whom I haven't laid eyes on in a couple decades, stopped by to see me, and all three of us were nearly bent over at the waist, laughing so hard about the dumb things we used to do. Laughter IS good, isn't it?

And, oh, by the way, the curlers were a huge hit (gasp!). Her children told me, many times last night, that my hair looked crazy, though for a second I thought I resembled a slightly more robust, if just a bit shorter, Marilyn Monroe. Of course, most kids haven't a clue who that woman is so they just looked at me like I was a nut, especially when I started in with my rendition of "Happy Birthday Mr. President..."

According to my friend, Kim Rhoton, who has a master's degree in education (and reading), and whose wisdom I can count on anyday of the week (regarding my "mother bear post" ) children should be encouraged to read at grade level or below for fluency-so that lady in the library the other day, who screamed at her daughter for wanting to check out "baby" books can go stick it somewhere.

Whew- that felt good and now I can go to bed.

Night Night everyone.

Tonight we received our last scheduled meal. I would like to throw out into the blogosphere the gratitude of my family for all of the support we've received, in the form of warm dinners, since crisis hit in April. You will NEVER know how MUCH food at the right time has made such a difference in our lives. Healing has come easier for me knowing that my parents, my husband, and my children were well nourished, while working so hard to keep me going.

TO:
The Gbur Family, Bonnie Dougherty, Stacey Walls, Leah Roth, Kathryn Duchin, The Erdely Family, The Manes Family, The Merricks, Jennifer Denizuk, Kristina Daniels, Mary Swindal, Lynn McCabe, Kathy Lingley, Jodi Yurcich, Michelle Brado, Kim Rhoton, Karin Turkovich, Jen Haberberger, Alyson Daniels, Betty Nave, Val Baer, Laurie Sapp, Susan Speer, Mandy DePasquale, Amy Wells, Tamara Grant, Karen McElhaney, Lila McNulty, Casey Henry, The Tetlow Family, Natasha Williams, and Donna Dinardo.

THANK YOU

You may find this project at Mrs. G's place, which I totally came upon by accident this morning while surfing some of Danielle's blogroll.

I joined and will be walking the hills of our local cemetary shortly, come hell or my children. I've actually been doing this jaunt for about ten days now, determined to lose more weight than I care to admit and mostly to get in such good shape so that i can push two of my four children, in a jogger, while running up the Pittsburgh hills (and win a gold medal in the next olympics for the sport of babypushing uphills). As I tell my offspring all the time, "practice makes perfect."

So if your happy-slappy (thanks to heather kahsay for that term which I so love- Hi Heather) needs a boost, and you can't afford to have it done surgically, join in with Mrs. G and her many fans, including me!

I got a book from our local library this morning- upon recommendation from my friend Bonnie- entitled "Get Your Act Together," by Pam Young and Peggy Jones. As I sat in the dental office, waiting to have my teeth drilled and my jaw contorted into positions it was not ever designed to be in, I flipped open the pages and found this rather clever piece of poetry, which I thought I'd share to begin tonight's post:

Ordell Daily was an organized soul.
No one could match her skill.
The crack of dawn was her rising time,
Her day was a routine drill.
Showered and dressed in less than ten,
Breakfast in just under three.
Dishes cleared, the dusting done,
She knew she wouldn't be free
'til the table was set for dinner
And the bathrooms were sanitized,
And the plants in her terrarium
Were properly fertilized.
And the pile of ironing nagging her,
Just a blouse and her hunsband's shirt,
Were pressed to their perfection
And put away so they wouldn't hurt
The streamlined look in her laundry room,
A sight not seen by most;
With its white and shiny counters
And appliances she could boast
Were cleaned on the inside,
Polished on the out
Twice a day with the right amount
of elbow grease and Lemon Pledge.
She'd even polish the window ledge,
Then back upstairs to make the bed,
Brush her teeth while her prayers were said,
Vacuum carpets, check the clock
Exactly time to wake the flock.
"Get up, kids, it's time to rise."
Back downstairs to bake some pies.
At eight when the kids got on the bus,
Her day had just begun
She didn't waste a moment,
But worked straight through to one,
At one she ate an apple
While she wrote a menu plan,
Answered several letters
Then off to the store she ran
She never had to look for things
They were always in their place
Her hair was always perfect,
She had makeup on her face
She never missed appointmentsAnd she'd always get there early
Tardy wasn't ever part
Of her vocabulary
That's why its' so ironic
That when her name was in the news
A synonym for tardy
Was the word the writer used.
The column in the paper said,
"Ordell was thirty-four."
She left behind a tidy home
From the ceiling to the floor
Ordell never played in life,
She worked to her demise.
The writer named the funeral home
Where the "LATE" Ordell now lies.

I already love the book- it's for people like me- right brained- capable of throwing a terrific party for the world, at the drop of a hat, but can't keep a schedule to save their lives.

I have wanted badly, in my life, to be one of those "Ordell" people, as referenced above. I know a few like that. I used to think the key to happiness was to have a spotless home, spotless kids, and precise order to my world. But the truth is- folks like that really aren't that much fun to be around- they are much too distracted by their need for perfection to be all that present-a little nutty really (if I may pass that judgement). After a decade of imperfect parenting, housekeeping, and living, I have come to realize that balance is the key- somewhere between the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-wrinkled-pants girl and the anal-retentive nutjob is the answer.

Today a woman, whom I've never met in my life, drove up to the house, walked onto my front steps and asked me if I would be interested in selling her my home (I tell you no lies). She said that she and her husband had lived in a "McCann Cottage" (the style of architecture of our abode) a long time ago and that they were looking to relocate back to the Burgh and find one again. They are rare- only about nine in our town of many historic homes, of all different styles. With a smile, and a fine feeling of contentment, I exclaimed that "no, I was not interested in selling but that I would gladly let her take a peek inside if she was curious as to what we'd done with the place." Thrilled beyond words, this stranger followed me throughout my home, taking pictures, as I marveled to myself, laughing out loud even, that I was allowing this person to behold the chaos of every square inch of my existence- dirty laundry scattered about, crusty bread pans on the counter, a half-eaten pineapple splayed open on the cutting board (from two days ago), toilets unflushed, lights burned-out, beds unmade...your general housekeeping nightmare. And you know what, I didn't care. My heart didn't palpitate, my pores didn't break out in a cold sweat, I didn't start making excuses for the mess- I proudly took her on the tour of the place and just let it be.

I am a mother of four children. Today I woke up, unloaded the dishwasher, took my four children to a strip mall twenty minutes from my house to drop two of my children off at sewing camp, drove twenty minutes back home, answered three emails, took four phone calls, loaded the dishwasher, took a shower, told Benjamin fifty times how many minutes he had until his playdate, drove him seventeen minutes to Mikey's house, stayed with him twenty minutes while he sobbed that he didn't want me to leave, printed directions to my dental office, narrowly escaped to my van which I promptly drove to a gas station where I pumped a mere $30.00 worth of gas so I could drive forty-five minutes in stop and go traffic to sit in a chair and have three of my teeth drilled and filled, drove another forty-five minutes, shopped for some back-to-school clothes for three of my children, bought a shirt for my husband to wear on our vacation, drove fifteen more minutes home, after talking to Benjamin on the phone and arranging for him to stay at his playdate longer (because he was begging to), picked up my twenty-three pound son and held him while I walked a woman I didn't know through my home and admired the pajamas that my children had sewn at camp this morning- all at the same time. Where in all of these hours might one find the time to create the Better Homes & Gardens look that may put me in that more perfect light? Nowhere. And its not important. And one day, when my kids have gone away (to college, to the Peace Corps, to outer space), I will have all the time in the world to tend to my landscaping and sweep up the dustbunnies from the corners of my bungalow. But for now- I'm a mom. And that's going to have to do until I can figure something else out.

I grabbed a book today that I'd heard good things about- "The Three Martini Family Vacation." And, of course, my usual ADD-Happy-Slappy was sitting on the sofa multi-tasking during the synchronized diving and men's beach volleyball- trying to read a little of what has turned out to be a most hilarious diatribe of parenting- and one I could've written myself (if I was slightly more talented and less bogged down with...you guessed it...parenting). If you've nothing better to do, as the summer winds down, or if you also have trouble doing less than five things at once, you may want to check it out- its good for a laugh (one of those "oh-my-goodness-i'm-going-to-pee-my-pants" kind of chortles), and for some hard-core validation for all the things that have irritated the hell out of you (that nobody warned you about) since you became a mother, and advice you wish your sadly misquided pals and family members would heed.

And, oh, on a less hysterical but incredibly empowering and hopeful note- here's a photo that my good pal Lila emailed to me earlier today. I think it speaks for itself- Wake up World- Girls Rule!

In my constant quest for health and well-being, and after consulting with an endocrinologist a couple of weeks ago about my PCOS and post-partum depression, I committed to spending an hour every morning walking outside. This morning Benjamin decided that he needed to be with me at all costs, so he agreed to ride his bike as I ventured the four miles on the trail of a local park. Of course, we had to stop to pee in the woods (Ben, not me!), get about five drinks of water from the fountain, adjust the bike seat, adjust his helmet, dialog about how far we'd gone and whether or not we were done yet (we've only gone a mile, mommy? ugh!!! i wish we done mommy- when we can turn around mommy?!!!).

When Ben was two, my parents bought him his first "real" bike (non-tricycle style) and he took off like a lightning bolt. My Dad nick-named him "Ben Armstrong". When he begged us to take his training wheels off a month ago, we did and he got on his bike and rode up the street- no practice, no wobbling- he just went. So, needless to say, despite his complaints to the contrary, the four miles we traversed this morning were actually very easy for him and when we were done- we both cheered and he determined that his next adventure would be longer ("mommy- people actually ride ten miles? that possible mommy?").

Hooray for my happy-slappy gettin' healthy. Hooray for Ben Armstrong.

"Ben Armstrong" and brother Seth- hanging tough for four miles with their determined mommy.

Liam, my precious boy- admiring the koi in the pond of our library's courtyard.

I took Liam, my seven year-old son, to the library this afternoon, so he and I could do some reading in peace. If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you will know that Liam, though incredibly intelligent and skilled for his age, has some diagnosed neurological "issues" which affect his reading and writing abilities. He has to work about ten times as hard as his peers to put his thoughts into words on a page or to read words in a book.

As we sat together on a couch in the children's section, a rather snarky mother came over to her child, located about five feet away from us, and began yelling about how the books she was reading were for babies and she was not going to be checking them out. My first instinct, out of love for my son, and knowing how those words must have made him feel, given that he was struggling to read one of those "babyish books", was to kick that insensitive wench in the teeth- in addition to feeling sorry for her poor daughter, having to face public humiliation over her choice of reading materials, of all things.

Being a mother and loving your children is wonderful, yet so hard at the same time. More than anything in the world, I just want my son to be happy and feel good about himself. I know that his brain functions as it does for a reason and that he, like his sister, will succeed in academic areas in his own time. But I worry so that his self-esteem, in the meantime, is plummeting and that his confidence will carry such scars that he'll have bigger burdens to carry in the end. As he prepares to start second grade, I agonize over his place in the public school system, and damage control- there is so much pressure in this town to perform at levels which not all are ready for at the same moment in life. I hesitate to hand him over to an institution which doesn't seem to respect the uniqueness of our children- it is aimed at molding the masses and Liam does not fit that mold. He has more imagination and fine motor skills than I can relay with words- skilled at arts beyond most of his peers- none of which matter when the eyes of the world he spends six hours of his day in are focused solely on reading, writing and math- and standardized test scores. There are fabulous benefits to living in an area where the schools are aptly funded and the teachers highly trained and motivated. My daughter, who is going into fifth grade, is thriving in every way and I so appreciate her educators. But things were not always this easy for her and, the difference now, is mainly, that she can tow the line effectively and pass the tests, while keeping her individuality and self- assurance. I long for the same results for all my kids- that they feel happiness as they define it in their own minds- not as determined by a sometimes effective but heavily flawed education system.

As he reads to me, and I watch him struggle to form the sounds on his lips, I ache inside and long to make it all okay for him. I am the mother bear and he's my baby bear, and protecting him is harder than I ever dreamed it would be.

Here's a nifty tool from the NY Times, in case you are Olympic Obsessed like the Sombar Family. Wahooooooooooooo!

Lily, Liam, Granny (my mom), Tom, and I are sitting captivated by the opening ceremonies for the olympics. Other than wanting to punch my son, who's jumping on and off of my furniture like some sort of primate, I feel the same excitement that I have always felt, for as long as I can remember, beholding the pride of the athletes and the unity of the games. I used to stand in front of the mirror, pretending to accept my own gold medals- (quite a long time ago- you'll be relieved to know. now, as I stand in front of the mirror, I'm just hoping to see a little less belly or imagine myself with an expertly crafted facelift).

The kids and I have been following the build-up for this Olympiad for weeks now, reading the articles on several American competitors, with fervor, especially Dara Torres (the 41 year-old mom) and the Maryland native Michael Phelps. Benjamin has already decided that he will be swimming his way to a medal in the near future, and has been flocking to the local pool nearly every day since watching excerpts of the Athens games on the "NBC Olympics Channel". Unfortunately for him, he fell asleep before the ceremonies were aired, so he's snoring through this spectacle as we speak (and not jumping off the furniture with his very misbehaved, and soon to be mamed, brother).

This is such a moving and educational event for us all- as we read off the names of the participating countries and debate the continents they're from, then move on to the economics and dedication of some of the less populous teams- amazed that countries such as Eretria, whose per capita income is $130 annually, could be marching with such grandeur- even more so than those countries, such as ours, of great wealth. What a beautiful world we live in and how remarkable to see humanity displayed together, even during times of such strife as we live in now. We've also had quite a few laughs, such as the thought of me moving to the country of Gabon- figuring I might have a chance to make their team (currently composed of only a handful of people)- where any medals won are rewarded with promises of mansions and "untold riches" from their ruler of 41 years. I just need to pick my sport (speed walking? is that really a sport? THAT'S IT PEOPLE- I COULD BE A SPEED WALKER- I'D BETTER GET MOVING!!!). Of course, I could always send Ben in my place, to some far-off, developing nation, forced to train eighteen hours a day....believe me, this may become a reality as he proves himself to be more of a pain in my happy-slappy everyday (i.e. "Benjamin- please come in and put napkins around the plates, for dinner..." "MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMY- ALL I EVER DO IS WORK WORK WORK AROUND HERE!!!".) LOL

I've been marveling at the beauty of the male athletes, much to Tom's chagrin. I've also been saddened at the reminder of the tragedies in Darfur, mentioned during the procession of competitors from the Sudan, and stunned at the oppression of female athletes from the Middle Eastern countries, such as Saudi Arabia. Granny has complained many times now, that the procession is not in alphabetical order, as it was in prior ceremonies, Lily is trying to figure out the answers to her first fifth grade homework assignment (yes, sent in the mail for her to complete before school officially begins), and Liam is desperately attempting to keep his eyelids from fluttering into dreamland, wanting to catch a glimpse of all of the "spanish speaking countries" (he loves spanish class). Tom is just trying to strategize how to increase our bottom-line by injecting either his wife or one of his many offspring into the extremeties of olympic competition, chuckling every five minutes over the countries represented by so few athletes that we surely had a chance on some continent, somewhere.


Benjamin the big "Phelps Phan" and future freestyle medalist. Liam, the cyclist and triathalon contender (along with our neighbor and "Ben's wife" Molly).
Lily- with incredible potential as a fencer.




All and all it is a mesmerizing and notstalgic night for me- one which is proving to be a great end to a somewhat difficult Friday.

P.S. If you too are following Michael Phelps, here is a schedule of his participation:

Today my mom and I took Lily and Benjamin to buy new backpacks and lunchboxes from Kohls. While in the midst of a crowd of senior citizens, near the lingerie department, Ben yells "hea Lily- do you think this lady has a butt?!!!" and he proceeds to pull the underwear off of a manequin. Nice.

I spent a good portion of my adolescence intertwined with a girl I'd met in sixth grade- an only-child, like myself, and a person with whom I very quickly discovered that I could not live without. She was my night and day-my soul's twin, somehow separated before our earthly lives were born. Many of my deepest joys- my life's belly laughs, were experienced by her side.

This morning I woke up longing to be with her- aching to cry into her arms- to feel the safety of days long gone. We live states apart and having a more tangible relationship right now is next to impossible- but the spiritual connection exists at a level that is so real and almost incomprehensible to my human brain.

I remember the hours we spent laying around in her aunt's basement, or on her front porch swing, or in her poster-filled bedroom, telling stories to one another about how magical our lives were going to be- when we were married to so and so...with our 2.5 kids and rockstar lifestyles. It never occured to me, then, of course, that I needed to insert some drama into those plots- a little heartache here, a little depressive illness there (chuckle).

On days like today I think we'd both rather be fourteen again, just for a minute. When we didn't know how hard things could be and we had nothing better to do than dream.

Won't you look down upon me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day
My bodys aching and my time is at hand
And I wont make it any other way
-James Taylor "Fire and Rain"

It is hard to even think about, much less, post about the events of the past week- staring down at my nightmare in type form- frightened to death that it will come to life again just because I am putting the words onto the page. I had a serotonin "overdose" (from a mix of my normal SSRI anti-depressant and the amino-acid 5HTP- a "natural" supplement prescribed to me by my well-meaning acupuncturist)on Sunday the 28th, sending me back to the Emergency Room for the sixth time since April. Though I was discharged six hours later, after it was determined that I would not proceed into a coma or other less-than-conscious state (typical of serotonin syndrome), the side effects were horrendous and mimicked what I had suffered through three months earlier, while withdrawing from a popular but mistakenly prescribed anti-depressant. For seventy-two hours I battled hard against something called akathesia, where I could not lay down or sit for more than a few minutes without thinking I was going to jump right out of my skin. So I walked...and walked...and walked...for miles and miles. Then I sobbed...and screamed...and thought I was dying. I tried to have acupuncture but I couldn't sit still. I tried to meditate but I couldn't sit still. I begged Tom to help- but he couldn't. So he and my neighbor, Donna, just kept me going- kept me alive. Tom sat in her livingroom, as I paced from one end of the house to the other, begging them both to promise me it would end ("what if this never goes away? please tell me it's going to go away...I can't live like this...I just want it all to be over". ) At one point, Donna just shook me and told me I had to stay alive and we were going to get through- that I just needed to hang on another day. I didn't think I would make it through another minute- but I did. And it was awful and horrible and frightening and worse than anything I've ever had to endure in my whole life.

Now I am sitting here, a week later, and I feel mostly normal, though the trauma of these recent events sits just under my skin- where I can feel it rising every so often and it scares me that life could be this hard and nothing but living through it will make it any better.