Well, as some of you readers may know by now- my children are on the slow boat of a variety of motor skills and speech. Seth, my one year-old, being no exception. So here we are, at twenty-one months, and his only utterance thus far has been "mama" or "dada"- your typical vocabulary for a baby. Well, today, folks, Sethy made his vocal debut......

AND HIS FIRST REAL WORD WAS:

DIRTY!!!! DIRTY!!!!! DIRTY?

Yep, people, my son decided that the most important thing he had to convey, in his life, right now, was "dirty." And he said it three times today: when I missed a spot wiping off his high chair, when we walked out our front door and he glimpsed under the table on our front porch (it is littered with a variety of natural clutter such as dead leaves, pine needles, dust, dirt), and when he spilled water on his shirt and was attempting to "clean" it with a towel.

Now, friends, I'm not sure what this concludes about me, but I've decided that it must be one of two things: 1) I have officially passed on the OCD gene to my poor toddler, who now finds his environment so disdainful that he must speak the actual word to let me know or 2) I'm not nearly as clean as I think that I am and I'd better get to work.

Ah, these moments do make you laugh.

Seth, cleaning the floors with the dust-buster, at seventeen months old, before he could even walk.

Our very favorite kitty Belle passed away last night in my arms at the Vet Hospital. I had waited there in an exam room, holding her, for about two and a half hours, after discovering her panting in our livingroom around 5 o'clock yesterday evening. I had suspected that something was wrong several weeks ago, once the weather had begun to improve and she refused to leave our house, but after changing her food and watching her, she seemed to improve dramatically and I let my suspicions rest. She had spent yesterday morning and afternoon in her usual way, begging for her food first thing in the morning, then lounging around the house and on our porch, enjoying the sun, and occasionally escaping from the clutches of my one year-old, to her chagrin. I could not have imagined the turn of events which were to take place shortly thereafter.

After calling the vet to explain my concerns with her sudden distress, I raced through my home to find shoes and keys, I carried her to the van in a towel while Tom piled all of the kids in the back and we raced to have her examined- they immediately noticed that her gums were pale, which was the first sign to them that the prognosis would not be good. Lily and I cuddled with her, rubbing her head, waiting for the bloodwork results to come back. I called a friend to cancel our date, though she insisted on coming to sit with me, relieving Lily to go home with Tom and the kids to watch a movie and eat dinner. Shortly thereafter the Dr. came in and told me that Belle had feline leukemia, with horrible anemia. At that point I needed to make the choice of medicating her to get her comfortable, with the best case scenario being that she'd live another couple of years, or euthanizing her. My first instinct was the medication route, until the Dr. reminded me that Belle would no longer be able to go outdoors- and then I knew....her quality of life, in my mind, was completely caught up in her freedom to frolic about in the sun, and without this privilege, I felt that I could not force her to be a cat that she wasn't- but I couldn't wrap my mind around letting her go until a half hour later when the Dr. returned with the news that Belle's condition was worse than they originally determined and that her immune system was completely shut-down. So, in the arms of my friend, I enveloped our wonderful kitty in as much love as I could give, as she buried her head in the crook of my arm and laid her paw on my chest. I felt that she was giving me a gift- nuzzling me to say "thank you" for the life we had offered her when we chose for her to come live with us from the cage where she resided in the shelter. And then she was gone.

I arrived home to grief-stricken children, especially Benjamin who proclaimed her his favorite cat, at least once a week, and to Lily who had accompanied me last night and held her in the towel for such a long time.

We will miss her dearly. Since adopting her a year and a half ago, she had scampered about our yard, exterminating what seemed to be the entire population of chipmunks, moles, and vols in the South Hills of Pennsylvania. She was a gentle girl who loved everyone she met and who tolerated much torment at the hands of my one year-old Seth, never biting, scratching or hissing at him, despite his over-zealous petting of her fur.

Good-bye sweet kitty.

Today I am the guest blogger for Fitness Friday at The Wii Mommies Cool Mom Guide To Fitness!

As the weeks wind down, and we approach the month of April, I am constantly reminded of my frightening days, trodding the path of post-partum depression, nearly one-year ago. Forever burned into the deepest corners of my soul, I recall the hours I spent retching, pacing, crying, rocking, praying, and feeling utterly alone and scared, thinking at any minute, my spirit would be devoured by the sheer hopelessness that had invaded it. Just being alive had become so horribly painful- it is difficult to describe with words. Almost three hundred sixty-five days later, I can say that I am wiser for the trauma I experienced....that I know myself better than in all of the thirty-some years prior to the last one....but the fragment of wisdom that stands out, far beyond any other, is the importance of taking care of myself.

As mothers, most of us have found that, from the minute we first gave birth, life as we once knew it was over, and we, for better or worse, had to rise to the challenge of being responsible for the life we'd brought into this world. And, for most of us, we have proven overly capable of completing this task, using one style of parenting or another. Though some mothers I know are remarkably successful at remembering their own humanness and the magnitude of their needs, as women, as mothers, as people- molding the souls of our future- I believe that they are in the minority. For most of us, our own fulfillment in life, right down to basic hygiene, is sacrificed by this insidious philosophy we've chosen to buy into- you know the one- that the more we give the better we are. And for a fraction of mothers, this is enough to cause or exacerbate the very illnesses that actually prevent us from caring for our children at all. I, for one, am constantly finding myself at the end of my day, without having showered, put on decent clothing, brushed my teeth, eaten a nutritious meal (sitting down), checking e-mail, or calling a friend. And further down the list, I put off exercising, having no energy or desire even, to move my body, though I'll quickly start a tub of laundry, then spend the last hour of my night folding another one. The crime in this, friends, is that, after eleven years of self-neglect, I've found that this pattern of ignorance does not work and creates within me a self-loathing that infiltrates all that I think and do, and leaves me far less capable of giving than I realize.

This week I've instituted some measures, which are, by no means, remarkable, but on a very personal level, may prove life-saving. I forced my naked body in front of the mirror, Sunday evening, and as I poked and prodded at those regions for which I feel nothing but hatred, you know the ones- the layers of fat around the middle and the stretch marks, and the rolls....I started to challenge those thoughts, and I whispered words of love and encouragement to this body which has brought forth four very amazing children. And I made the commitment to practice loving this earthly vehicle, which carries my spirit to and fro. I began the act of praise, rather than punishment, lauding my belly for housing, my hips for birthing, my breasts for nurturing, my arms for carrying, my feet for walking floors and hallways and miles and miles to playdates and back. I thought long and hard about the rejection I've forced upon my body for its current state and I've decided to empower myself to care of it, as it so deserves.

So I've invested some money, which I would have otherwise spent on markers or goggles or candy, or DVDs, in organic lotions, and lovingly applied them to my weary skin each morning after showering, and each night before retiring, on time, to bed. And I've carved out a measure of space, in all of my upcoming days, to move my body, in a positive and purposeful fashion. Not to bring one of my children to school or to carry my crying baby, not to dance the hokey pokey for pre-schoolers, or chase a basketball with my six year-old. But to remember what it was like to feel invigorated by the release of energy which, will, in-turn, produce a domino-like effect on my weight, and then on my emotional well-being.

Hopping on the wii-fit, while the baby is napping, I squint and half-close my ears, as it mutters "obese" after my body-test. Really, friends, I think I'd rather be hearing on CNN that the world is ending, than to be forced to ponder that word, as it relates to my curves. But I press-on, knowing that the first steps are the hardest, and facing our demons is a most necessary act in releasing them. And these are baby steps, folks, not two hours of grueling exercise which will leave me dreading the next day, and quitting immediately- but thirty minutes- (fifteen focused on strength training, and another fifteen on aerobics). Then I fix myself a heaping bowl of dark leafy greens, assorted veggies, simple protein, and a little sauce, and quietly revel in the glow of accomplishment and the gift of having taken time to nourish me- well, mii.

the mice go to Giant Eagle, splurge on fun foods and juicy fruits, and picnic in the living room for dinner. This is a tradition that I've practiced since my hubby started traveling more often for his job. I take the kids to the store and let them choose one snack (something reasonable- I vetoed the fruit-roll-ups because of the food dyes and their tendency to make certain humans in this household a little manic), a fruit or veggie, and we spread blankets and have a yummy buffet when we get home. Tonight's culinary delights consisted of goldfish crackers (2 bags- one for Liam and one for Benjamin), ritz bitz for Lily, green apples for the three big kids, peaches too (I am such a push-over people- ha!), grapes and over-sized strawberries
for Seth (the berries were surely fertilized with some disease causing chemical but I caved because they looked soooooooooooooooo delicious). All of this makes my evening go a little smoother, single-parenting the four, and gives the kids something of a change of pace.

I truly hate when Tom goes away- I always find myself sort of anxious the morning he leaves, not knowing how things are going to go and whether I'll be able to get through the day without cracking. I lament rather often that I didn't sign up for this gig- the "business-trip widow" role, but in truth, I'm just thankful that my husband has a job that provides for our family. These are hard times for lots of Americans and I am grateful for the income, despite the hardships sometimes.

Now that we mice have played, I'm ready to curl up in my big bed, eat my "special treat" of a big leafy green salad with wild salmon and pecans, fold some laundry (the never-ending chore), watch American Idol ( I cannot help myself), and get some much needed sleep.

Liam and Benjamin, covered in crumbs from head to toe- evidence that they had fun watching the game, and pilfering various non-nutritive foods from the snack bar- the MOST IMPORTANT part of this adventure, right? Mark and Missy Kozar, their daughter Erin and friend Theresa, celebrating the big win with the crazy Sombars....Yahoo!
The Big Score Board announcing the win- a close 67 to 58
The coveted trophy and "Lebo Team" net, proudly displayed after the game** The awe-inspiring Coach Oldaker**
Senior Lebo Girls accepting team trophy **
The Champions! **



Well, the roadtrip was lengthy, a little hair-raising, but mostly fantastic because the game was "edge-of-your-seat" the entire four periods and the Lebo girls got 'er done- finishing off the season as State Champs, with a 31-0 record. They made history on Friday and I was so proud to be a part of it, along with my oldest three kids.

**photos courtesy of Julie O'Hara

I just couldn't tame my wild side. We're leaving in fifteen minutes for Penn State! Here's to road trips, girls basketball, and my adventure-loving family. HERE WE COME LEBO, HERE WE COME!!!



P.S. I just had to write one of those "just in case" wills, since Lily is riding up to the game with a girlfriend, and Seth is in the care of a trusted soulmate. It seems morbid to plan for the custody of your children, in the event of your untimely demise, but as a parent, you want your kids surrounded by those whom you love, who love you, who will love them as their own, and who will keep your memory alive, should you leave this earth while they are young. Separate travels demand this- life is so unpredictable.

Our awesome community of elementary kids, teachers, and parents held a rally for the LEBO girls basketball team, giving them a great send-off to the State Championships at Penn State. These are the moments I am so proud to live in this town. GO LEBO!!!

Coach Oldaker (Liam's second grade teacher, too!) getting off the bus to receive the well-wishes of her biggest fans...

Last year the girls team made it to the finals but lost. They plan on cleaning up their "UNFINISHED BUSINESS" tonight!!

Tom and I have always flown by the seat of our pants- all fourteen years we've been together now. For the most part, this has been a very positive characteristic of our relationship- our willingness to just head for the hills, with an eye toward some adventure or another.

The LEBO girls' basketball team is going to be in the finals at Penn State tomorrow and I'm trying very hard to resist the urge to just pile all the youngins in the van and follow this incredible group of young ladies to a win- but the reality is that my home needs attention, my children need to run around in the sun (which has FINALLY decided to make its presence known here in the Burgh) and my soul needs some peace. Right now there are blue and gold balloons lining the main street leading by the kids' school and at 3pm today there will be a big send-off parade, where all of the kids, teachers and parents will line the road and cheer on the bus carrying all of the high-school girls and their coach ( Liam's second grade teacher), Mrs. Oldaker. It is both exciting and moving to be a part of such a great community which supports its young people with such fervor.

Part of learning to live with ADD is understanding my tendency to wander and what I must say to myself in order to focus on the important things in my life at this time. Half of me says that having fun with my kids while supporting a local team is important- the other half says that making our house a more functional space so that I am more successful at my job is the #1 priority.

Ah- negotiations. I think I like the old Judy better.

Shawndra passed away yesterday afternoon, as did my cousin Gary, both from cancer. Sometimes it seems to me that this incidious disease is taking everyone...

Tom has continued to soak in the time he got to spend in splendor with his children last week and is pondering a life over-haul as a result. These moments of his, where he has radical visions for our future, cause me to sit up straight and really listen because they are few but significant. He spent several hours with me on Saturday talking of the value of holding Liam's hand for days, through the paths of Disney World, and how he doesn't want these moments to slip away due to a rat-race life and a living guided solely on financial stability/success. He loves his children like no other and I know that every word he pronounces on these grounds is precious and comes from days of soul-searching known only unto him.

Life is short and unpredictable. I treasure that we have lived our lives thus far with great passion and fervor and I feel priveleged to be married to a man who is committed to savoring the souls of his offspring rather than the tangibles of what a wealthier lifestyle could provide.

The reality of loss leads me to reexamine my priorities and I am here, yet again, wondering if my time and energy is being spent in ways that are worthy of what matters most...

I'm no fan of flying, people. I've allowed this fear to come in and out of my life over the years, beginning in the winter of 1982 with the crash of Air Florida on the 14th Street Bridge in Washington, D.C. I can remember watching news of that disaster for hours on end, gripped by the rescue of the few survivors, from the icey Potomac River, but also struck with the idea that air travel can end in tragedy, and for someone deathly afraid of heights and falling- this is no joke. I was eleven years old then, and the images of that day have never dulled in my mind. I flew to Colorado with my mom, about six years later, to see my dear aunt who was dying of cancer- it was the day after Christmas and I can remember sitting on the tarmac as they de-iced the wings over and over again, adding to my already panic-stricken mind, a sense of gloom and doom. But as the years went on, and my wanderlust began, I flew many times, alone, to destinations all over the US, to see friends and family, with little fear- I actually began to love the take off and landings, and the times in between where I could relax, listen to mix tapes and read. Then I started having babies and we stopped taking major vacations for a while. So the fear crept back and I've had a few flights since where I have sobbed uncontrollably during times of turbulence, much to the dismay of my husband- who flies regularly with no hesitation.

This particular trip was easier on my mind due to the fact that it was planned and implemented by Tom so I had few days to think of the upcoming journey. But, as always, drama seems to follow us wherever we go... so our first eye-rolling experience came via a passenger, seated next to Liam, whom the entire cabin affectionately called Al Cohol. Al plopped himself in the aisle seat next to my eight-year old son and proceeded to grumble and mumble about having to sit with a kid, his mother, and baby brother, and wasn't that just his luck. Then he warmed up, with another drink (he'd admitted to having five prior to boarding), and had a grand old time educating Liam on the differences between Tanguerey and Beefeater Gin, as well as heavily recruiting him to join the Marines (all of which Liam took in stride, without so much as a blink in Mr. Al's direction). Now if only that were the end of the story for us.....

The major trauma of the vacation was Southwest Airline's slight screw-up of losing our luggage. Yep- friends, our whole family vacationed at DisneyWorld, to the tune of thousands of dollars, in the SAME OUTFITS DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY. And they still have no clue where our stuff is- a whole eight days later. Where do suitcases go, people? Do they wander around to different cities in search of a better time? Really- how hard can it be to take baggage, accurately labeled for its destination, throw it in the belly of the 747, and have it arrive safely in the proper airport? Apparently this is a feat I don't understand because as of Friday, as I was sobbing to customer relations about the stress I'd undertaken throughout my magical vacation, and all they could do was apologize and announce that they hadn't a clue as to what city our bags took off for or when and if we'd ever see them again.

My philosophical meanderings on this mess will come in another post- but suffice it to say that everytime one of Disney's employees ("cast members" as they are referred to on campus) would inform me that the Magical Express (Disney's bus company which escorts families to their resorts and is responsible for gathering all luggage from baggage claim and having it arrive in the respective hotel rooms within three hours) could not locate our posessions- then instruct me to "have a magical day" in the most sickeningly sweetest of voices, I felt like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon's Family Vacation- and pondered hauling my happy-slappy right over to the front desk and knocking someone's head in.

Now I am off to read some scripture where I will meditate on a more peaceful response to mishaps...

Good Night Dear Readers...I'm happy to be back

We arrived home from our magical yet exhausting and somewhat stressful journey to DisneyWorld this afternoon (more on that later). I vowed not to go on-line tonight, knowing how overwhelmed I would be with email and with the even greater temptation for me to divulge the many wonders and set-backs of the last seven days.....but I caved in a while ago, needing to check on Shawndra. After a day of screaming and crying (into the humid air of Orlando, at the airport, in the airplane, in my bedroom), I found myself humbled at the news of her flight toward the finish-line and took comfort in this verse, from the book of Matthew, posted to her blog site:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" Enjoy today, let God handle the rest!

So I'm going upstairs to finish watching "The Karate Kid" with Liam and Tom, then I'm going to whisper sweet-nothings to my patient husband and get some much needed sleep.

Unbeknownst to my children, tomorrow afternoon we are boarding a flight to Orlando destined for....you guessed it...Disney World. But this is not a simple story to tell, and certainly not one which rolls easily off my tongue. This is a bitter-sweet surprise, planned exclusively by my husband, until three days ago when I demanded to know what the heck was going on- and he confessed.

This has been a difficult twelve months for my family. In five weeks, it will have been a year since my life came crashing down on me and I sputtered out of control and into the hospital for nine days of hell. My husband was about to turn forty and as my gift to him, I had agreed to set aside money for us to go to Disney World, a place that he holds dear to his heart and one where he desperately wanted to return to and share with his kids. We'd spent months pouring over books and websites dedicated with extreme obsession, to the big ol' mouse, and we were very excited to be going away as a family. But after my fourth trip to the emergency room in three days, and with what appeared to be my impending inpatient admission, Tom reluctantly called Disney from a payphone in the waiting room to cancel our trip- just five days away at that point. We were both in tears, yet too scared from the events of the days leading up to that point to care about anything but my survival. They would not refund our money, which we'd spent on flights, accomodations, food, special shows, but they agreed to credit us most of what we'd incurred, should we choose to reschedule.

I am happy for my kids that we are finally going to be making the trip and I'm thrilled for my husband who has stood loyally by my side during this nightmare. They both deserve the days we will spend together, in silliness. But I cannot reach this point without thinking of the trauma of last spring (and summer), the suffering souls I befriended along the journey, and the unsung heroes who made living possible. I think of my roommate who cared for me in my most dire moments, brushing my hair and putting on my make-up to help me feel somewhat human in the most inhumane of circumstances. I think of my parents who lived with us for months on end to keep life going around here, of Wendy who called EVERYDAY, without fail, the payphone on my floor at the hospital- to be sure I was okay, and to let me know that I was loved, and to all of the friends and neighbors who kept my whole family afloat with meals, gifts, rides, playdates- you name it- they gave generously, on a daily basis, for more than one hundred days.

I will carry you all with me, in spirit, tomorrow, as my life comes full-circle and I am given a second chance where there appeared, at times, to be none. (I'll also be carrying my Klonopin as I am deathly afraid of flying). :)

I blog much the same way I wrote papers in college- I compose volumes in my head and then can't seem to get it all down "perfectly", become frustrated, and quit. I post only about a third or less of the feelings I actually want to express- the rest is consolidated into mush which sits somewhere in my muddled brain until I unearth it again for some other cause.

So this evening I have committed to putting some thoughts out into the blogosphere, regardless of how uninteresting or incomplete they may seem- otherwise, you may not hear from me for weeks and that may communicate that I have somehow left the planet or just given up- neither of which is likely, at least that I am aware of.

I have had a tremendous couple of weeks- filled with those "Oprah-esque" light bulb moments that are rare but so powerful when they occur.

I got my hair done this morning. And as I left the salon the owner commented on how I was carrying three books with me on my way out- "funny," I said "they are all about living with ADHD." We had a good laugh- and really, people, who in the world would bring more than one book to a hair appointment, which would last no more than two hours? Me.....without even a second thought- because that is how I live- everyday....

I have ADHD...this is not a recent revelation. I was diagnosed, three years ago, after a series of testing and a lifetime of obstacles that had left me exhausted and depressed. At the time, I believe I pushed the label to the side, intent to just get on with life- we'd just relocated to Pittsburgh from Maryland and I had a lot on my plate. But having a fourth child, a year and a half ago, opened the flood gates to the many deficiencies in my various coping mechanisms, used since the birth of my first child ten years before. And the hormonal fluctuations of my post-partum days only worked to exacerbate my inability to organize my thoughts, my home, my children, my life. And so here I have remained, sometimes in a hell that is difficult to describe and even harder to live with.

ADHD can be seen in many ways- a defect in normal brain functioning, or a gift, or both. Those of us adults who have this diagnosis are often extremely creative and productive beyond normal human capacities. I have had those times- witnessed by many of you who read this blog. But I have also fought for years to complete projects, both in my scholastic and work lives- not for a lack of motivation or competence but for the actual ability to follow-through. Many people, including a doctor whom I saw last week, are perplexed as to how someone with such deficits could get far enough in life to be successful at anything ("if you had ADHD you could not have completed college," my new psychiatrist insisted".-uh, yeah right, lady- and I guess you have zero experience in this field, thank you very much). What you must understand, though, is that as a girl, and one who was pretty well-behaved, compliant and fairly intelligent, I went unnoticed by teachers who had their hands full with boys who couldn't sit in a chair for more than five minutes and who were, at times, belligerent and violent. Having spent the bulk of my elementary years at a school in a low-income, at-risk neighborhood, my failure to complete assignments was almost irrelevant given that I was charming, thoughtful, and providing the verbal evidence of "learning" that the teachers were looking for (as some of my peers, in the meantime, were punching authorities and putting their fists through plate-glass windows- you can see now why I didn't even make it onto the radar screen of "trouble.") By sixth grade, when I was transferred to a "better side of the tracks", I started to struggle somewhat with staying composed, though, again, I was still thriving in enough areas to avoid ruffling many feathers (except for my kissing escapades in the coat closet with Michael Grubb- my dreamy sixth grade boyfriend). I won the spelling bee, I wrote interesting stories with my vocabulary words, and played well with the other kids. Middle school was back to "ghetto" education which, again, provided me quite the "invisibility cloak" (sorry for the Harry Potter reference- I couldn't help it). High School was a different story, however, our new home located in a town which allowed me to attend a school for science and technology. But my smarts only got me so far- as I was surrounded by peers who were equally as gifted or greater. My grades weren't terrible- just average- good enough to get into marginal colleges but low enough to keep me from the honor society (a real blow to the ego in a school where a good portion of kids were "gifted and talented", and sliding easily into their honorary positions). College was an uphill climb, all my papers getting turned in late- with A work getting B's and lower due to failed deadlines and jumbled organizational skills. I graduated finally, skidding just several points over the 3.0 mark but never really fulfilling my potential, changing majors about twelve times (seriously) and leaving unsure of my future. I succeeded in being selected for "Teach For America" a very competitive program for graduates without education degrees- joining many Ivy Leaguers and super-intellectuals, solely based on my interview. With admissions more stringent than Harvard, one would think that I would have felt some sense of fulfillment, but the days ahead would prove to be more of a challenge than I was able to face, and I left the organization filled with shame and self-loathing, from which I have never quite recovered. Truth be told, it wasn't the nature of the children I was charged with (thirty-eight fourth and fifth grade students in such a crime-ridden area of Baltimore that we could not have outdoor recess for all of the drive-by shootings), or the broken system I worked for (dimming my faith in a government who would allow racism and class ism to permeate and break-down the institution of public education, and proving the failure of the civil rights movement to equalize the level of education provided to America's children), but my complete inability to keep an organized classroom or an organized plan for leading one. I started my days heaving with anxiety, knowing that I was ill-prepared to properly care for the minds I was given six hours a day- most days I was lucky to find my glasses or keys- there was NO WAY I could create and follow lesson plans and earn the respect of three dozen children-especially not on six weeks of rather bleak training, involving more avant Gard seminars ("how to make your own paper") than basic teacher boot camp (and I loved those seminars....but I couldn't write a lesson plan to save my life). Thus my career in corporate America began, once bidding farewell to Baltimore and arriving back in D.C. Working for a busy corporate service company, I again found myself thriving in some areas (customer relations, drafting documents) and stumbling in others (my "In Box" became so over-run with jobs from my boss that I had to pay a friend to come in on the weekends and help me straighten things out). I couldn't understand what my problem was or how to explain to anyone why i just couldn't complete the tasks given me, appropriately. Luckily, much of the paper-work that I readily shunned became obsolete with computerized file retrieval so my rouse continued work, for the most part (my boss might disagree).

Mothering has been hard for all of the above reasons and more. I think I have failed at enjoying it as much as I would like because I've been caught up in the inevitable feelings of failure of someone who can't seem to thrive in a constant flurry of chaos, nor having the know-how to control it. The moments of my children's lives are sweet but the bigger picture has been a harder road to travel for me and I battle every minute to keep up. With one child it was easy to leave the environment which caused me to feel such turbulence (my home) but with four, that isn't such a simple technique and the very act of staying in our house on a daily basis is harder than I can explain with words. I expend as much mental energy to put dishes away, clean a floor, or cook dinner, as I would to plan an extravagant party for one hundred guests (I'm actually much better at the latter). I become overwhelmed at dirt and grime but feel paralyzed to eradicate its existence (unrealistic given the size of my family anyway). I can do fifteen loads of laundry in a day but can't seem to get even one load put away. I can provide all four children with enough love to drown them, and enough emotional support to relieve whatever angst is troubling them at the time. I can make a room-full of kids laugh hysterically when I read but it can take me days to clean just one room in my home(actually, it can take weeks). I become easily distracted by the details, having to organize, alphabetize, read-over, and touch every piece of everything I own before it even gives the appearance of "clean."

And I confess all of this, to you friends, because my light-bulb moments of the last few weeks are providing vision into my soul- that I am not a failure (or Lazy, Crazy, or Stupid- a good book on the subject) as I, and perhaps others, have assumed. I have, and continue to consume all of the information that I can get a hold of from the library on ADHD (in adulthood and in mothers) and feel as if I am reading a memoir of my life when I do. So many pieces of my puzzle are finally coming together and it is a relief. There is no simple solution for the dilemma which is my brain, but there is certainly hope that strategies exist to help me achieve more success with the small stuff, and to provide me with the ability to better enjoy my husband, my children and my life as a mother.

So here's to always learning and to deficient and remarkable brains. Where would I be without both?

I have the greatest kids- this morning, as I lay in bed nursing a terrible cold/headache (after being up from 3am to 6:30, scrubbing dishes and decluttering parts of my house- due to insomnia), I heard my older kids upstairs singing to Seth, in unison. Yesterday, a developmental therapist came over for her first playdate with him- working to get him past some of his "delays"- and she was teaching us the signs for "twinkle, twinkle, little star". Of course, all three big kids were surrounding this lady during the session, which turned out to be good because they are now able to imitate her and "teach" Seth while they interact with him. I just smiled- hearing them all- knowing what a gift they are to one another, even though they don't always feel that way...

then the ceiling in my bedroom started leaking and it was back to normal for me. oh well.