3 years

So. Three years. You know, the first year you spend reminding yourself to breathe in and breathe out. Reminding yourself to put one foot in front of the other. That you have these two little people depending on you to give them a semi-normal childhood and feel secure in a suddenly insecure world. You are numb. The second year you think you have a pretty good handle on things, but you don't realize that you are still numb. Until that day comes and you come screaming back to life complete with all that pain and grief you hid from the first year. I freaking hated September. A month I used to love. But this is year three. And year three has been easier. I am who I am and I will always be a woman who lost her husband when she was 38 years old with two small children to raise. People always say they don't want to remind me or bring up bad memories, but the fact is, you don't forget. That is my reality. And the changes I've had to make, have made me who I am. It's okay. And not all memories are bad. The hole in my heart is closing. It is no longer a gaping, bleeding, ragged edged bomb crater. It is now a small window. With protective glass and a tasteful window treatment. I like September again. I have been given a reason to like September again, and that makes me happy. That, I believe is the crux of the situation. I. Am. Happy.

I took the boys to the cemetery to leave flowers for their dad. The boys view the cemetery as a big park. And I can see why. It has a gorgeous view of Mt Ranier, fountains and lots of grass to play on. The fact that most of this grass is growing between headstones and site markers is no deterrent to these two. Even my cries of "Stop stepping on people!" fail to dissuade them for long. I'm not sure how long it will be before one of them falls in the pond. As I was cutting 6 dollars off the $12 bunch of wildflowers I bought, the boys were engaged in difficult and somber tasks. Tying the parachute onto SoS's plastic paratrooper.

My mother, bless her crazy, pea picking heart, showed up while we were there with her annual memorial. A Mylar Seattle Seahawks balloon which she proceeds to tie onto the flower vase so that it can wave in the wind and be seen by all and sundry. Now the cemetery is owned and run by a wonderful group of supportive people. But, we do live in a "certain area" and it is a little "too-too." They have a strict decoration policy, which excludes balloons of this nature, and which my mother gleefully violates several times a year. What are they gonna do? Evict him? Here is this year's contribution:









Okay, so it's hard to see. Sue me, I was using the camera phone. Trust me when I say it is a football shaped Mylar balloon in Seahawks colors with "Seattle Seahawks" printed on it. All in blissful violation of the decoration policy in the beautiful Northwest September sun. Take that!

1 Week

SoS got off the bus on Friday after his first full week of Kindergarten and this conversation ensued:

"How was your day? Any x's or frowny faces?"

"No! And I didn't go to the principal's office!"

What? This would, naturally, cause any suspicious mother of SoS, namely me, to inquire as to whether said child had EVER been to the principal's office. Which, of course, he answered in the negative. No, it was his friend who had gone to the office after biting SoS in an altercation. As it is my weekend to work, they boys were turfed to my parents' house. Settled back at home, contemplating a night of food and gambling, I received a phone call from my best friend, laughing hysterically:

"Why didn't you tell me SoS had been to the office?"

"That little shit! He told me he didn't go! I'll call you back!'

It seems my BFF's daughter had seen SoS in the office and proceeded to rat him out when she got home. I called to talk to my little felon:

"Dude, did you go to the principal's office?"

"Why?"

"Someone said you were in there."

"No, I had to take my friend to the office. I didn't do nothin'!"

Now, I'd like to believe that my offspring would be honest and was expressing his outrage that I would question his integrity. However, I don't call him Spawn of Satan for nothing. An archeological dig of his backpack yielded a note and a behavior log. Wadded up into a ball and hidden in the bottom.

I'm so screwed.

7 years

I was ironing when my mother called and told me to turn on the TV. I was irritated because I thought she wanted me to watch some Oprah episode and she knows I hate Oprah. But I did turn on the TV. And life changed.

Reflections

The first week of September finds me wondering what the hell is going on around here? It's not just the crazy days at work where everyone is busting their ass, trying to help out as the entire county wants to spit out a kid or two and, invariably, there is the one staff member who thinks doing a delivery constitutes their entire day's work. Recovery? Why do I need to do recovery? What do you mean I might get another patient at some point during the day? This is not helped by missing equipment, crashing computers and the Quaker from hell calling 18 times a day wondering why the the staff didn't get lunch breaks and those were charged to the unit.

It isn't just that SoS is living up to his name at school and that I only hear about it second hand.

"The principal took SoS's lunchbox away. He wouldn't stop wearing it as a hat."

"Mom! I got 5 x's today!"
"Are you supposed to get x's?"
"Naw!"

I'm just waiting for the first phone call from the principal. It should be soon. Luckily, he's just a good hearted kid.

SoS: "FB, I love you! Do you love me?"
FB: "Of course I love you."
Me thinking: Could we try to remember that the next time he wants you to tie his shoes, look at a book, breathe in your presence?

It's also not just the yahoo who showed up at my door this evening ("Hi, I'm Josh!") to try to sell me 'homework helps" to make my parenting easier. Hmmm. For a hundred bucks? Josh was here from Cal Poly on an summer internship. Really. Got some id there Josh? Like a letter of acceptance or a tuition bill to prove you are a Cal Poly student and not just some scammer trying to sell me shit I don't need? Since when does Cal Poly internship for Southwestern Learning Library? I was unaware that they were affiliated with one another. My main problem with ol' Josh, despite being a nice guy, was that he spoke to me as if he knew me, understood me, and was my good buddy. I'm such an anti-social bitch that this attitude serves to make me want to punch him repeatedly in the middle of his smiling face with a punk rocker's studded dog collar wrapped around my fist. But, being the mature, and let's not forget, partially raised in the South, woman that I am, I maintained my composure and politely declined his offer of more consumer debt.


My evening was spent sitting in the middle of nowhere while FB attended Scouts, being totally frustrated with the technology at my disposal. Ratatouille was playing in the "backseat DVD entertainment system" touted in my owner's manual. God bless the engineer who came up with this idea. The saviour of parents everywhere! SoS being ably distracted, I had my laptop powered up so I could continue in my effort to make it through the GOP platform. A freakish 67 pages on Adobe reader. (Next up, the Dem platform....at 97 pages. Oh. My. Heck. For those who don't want to read it themselves go to LT Nixon Rants where he has a synopsis of both the GOP and Dem platforms, complete with unique and pretty bitchin' rating systems.) This lasted about 14 seconds as my laptop went into hibernation due to a low battery. Despite being plugged in 24/7. Apparently plugged into the cable does not equate plugged into the outlet with a dog, cat and two male offspring running amok in the house. Oh sweet, sweet flow of electrons, why have you forsaken me? I spent the next 20 minutes looking for a signal on my phone to see if I could download it from the web. As we were out in BFE, my search was in vain, which did not prevent me from sticking my head and hand out the driver's side window, waving my phone around and acting like a sweaty crack addict searching for her next fix. In disgust, I gave up and vegged out to the mind numbing Pixar show in the car.

I came home, chivvied the boys into bed and got my ass kicked my a work out video. There are Hershey's chocolate bars on the counter singing a siren song to my soul. I think I need to go to bed and dream of electric sheep.

Wake Me When September Starts

Here begins another glorious school year. But this is the best school year ever. Why? you may well ask. Because both Spawn of Satan and First Born are in school all day, every day. Leaving Mommy (i.e. ME) to be able to get stuff done that has been languishing for about, oh, 6 years or so. Painting, making the stupid roman shades for the family room, the material for which has been in the corner of the dining room for......you guessed it 6 years! I still like it, luckily. So yeah, first day of school; bitchin'! Or is it?

It seems that, despite the "Meet Your Teacher" fest last week and the parent orientation for Kindergarten (that I bailed on. Sue me. I don't think a lot has changed since the last one.) last week, the kindergartners are far too fragile to attend a full day of school on the first day. So, based on the first letter of the last name, these kiddos were to have a one hour orientation at the school today and then have the first full day tomorrow. One hour. One. Hour. Our last name starting with "P" meant that SoS's orientation was from 12:30-1:30. Convenient. Especially since this was the exact time the dude was coming to fix my washer. Ever needed to call someone to babysit your washing machine? It's not a pretty call.



We meet SoS's teacher, a tall, imposing woman who taught Special Ed for 15 years. This may come in handy. Not that SoS is special needs, but this chick is going to need all the patience and intestinal fortitude she can muster for this kid. Trust me. This is experience talking here. Not long after, about 10 minutes or so, we are ushered to the library, sans kiddos, for a meeting. Let me just point out a few differences between me and the majority of the parents at this school. The school, and our house, is located next to the large gated community/country club neighborhood on the outskirts of town. These people are the ones who dress in suede jackets and chandelier earrings to go to the park. Who wear $80 tank tops and $130 Seven for All Mankind jeans. My $14 Target shorts with the over sized Mario Bros. T-shirt may clash just a little. Most of the moms are stay at home moms, for which I applaud them. I would have loved to stay home with my kids when they were little, but I think a lot of these women haven't done much but fund raise and decorate since the ring plopped on their finger. Where was I going with this? This was not just a jealous rant, I'm pointing out that I don't really fit in.

So...to the library. Where we are regaled with tales of how fabulous the PTA is. I agree. But don't tell me that unless I join the PTA and volunteer at the school my children won't feel that I am invested in them and that they will not be successful in their scholastic career. And the rest of you social x-ray, lollipop heads can just shut it if you think that I'm doing my kids a disservice by not being a presence in the classroom, handing out pizza at movie night or sweating my funbags off at field day. I'm busting my ass here trying to raise decent human beings and sometimes, something's gotta go! I choose PTA involvement. Besides, me at the PTA meetings would more than likely be a little something like this:






Okay, maybe not, but Babs Eden was smoking hot! Something to work towards.


Next, the kids were sent to take an inaugural bus ride. Many pictures were snapped, videos recorded and for good reason. This will most likely be the last time most of these yuppie larva ever set foot on a bus again, except for field trips. Maybe I'm just a firetruckin' beyotch, but if you're going to pay for the district to maintain the bus fleet, perhaps you should actually use it.
Otherwise, let's get rid of the buses and start a contract with First Student for the 25% of the kids who aren't parent drop off/pick up. It might actually lower those taxes and decrease the amount of school levies you're always bitching about.

Wow. Vitriolic spewing 'R' Us. Forgive. Or don't. Whatever.

Way cool news

A young man just won the first ever Olympic medal for Afghanistan in guess what? That's right! Tae Kwon Do! He must be so happy to have such an honor for his country. I'm so happy I'm giggling. It's just nice that there can be some good news for Afghanistan since most of the news coming from there is not. You remember Afghanistan right? Where we've been at war for seven years? Where violence is escalating along with the casualty rate?


In other news: I don't understand boys. Not men, boys. As in the two to whom I gave birth. I don't understand why they feel the need to pee anywhere but in the toilet. I don't understand how they can be beating one another with bats and when I call them on it, deny that they were doing it. I don't understand how I can give a two step direction and not have one step followed. For example: "Go brush your teeth and put on deodorant." 15 minutes later:
"Did you brush your teeth?"
"No."
"Did you put on deodorant?"
"I forgot."

What. The. Hell.

LifeGems

I was reading an article on the passing of Bernie Mac when the link for LifeGem caught my eye. Apparently, LifeGem is a company that, in order to facilitate the grieving process, will make a diamond out of your loved one's carbon. (Read: remains.) Okay. Speaking as one who has been bereaved, let me just say, WTF!?! When you choose cremation as a final dispensation, you choose an urn, and then, if you wish, you can purchase memorial or cremation jewelry. These hold a small portion of the ashes (or cremains as they are more gruesomely called) to keep or share, if that is your desire. My reaction at this point was a full body shudder and a visceral eeeeewwwww! It is not for everyone. And I am not one to divvy up my loved one's remains on paper plates on the kitchen table to share with the relatives. They know where the final resting place is; make a pilgrimage if it's that freaking important. But LifeGem takes it one step farther. You can have a stunning piece of jewelry to wear "as a memorial to their unique life, or as a symbol of your personal and precious bond with another." According to their website they are molecularly identical to natural diamonds and, as a bonus, you can have them made in any color. Even to match your mother's eyes as a daughter did in this creepy testimonial:

Thank you so very much...it is absolutely stunning. I opened the box, and there it was..the exact color of my mother's eyes! There is a famous story in my family. When my dad told his mother he intended to marry, she offered him HER mother's engagement ring--a gaudy, expensive diamond--and he replied, "don't be ridiculous, mother--anyone who looks at judy's eyes knows she has to have a sapphire!"


Yikes. The only bright note was a testimonial from James Hatfield, although I doubt it was the real James Hatfield. For those who hold their four legged (or less, too, I guess) friends in higher esteem that any homo sapien might cross their path, LifeGem also has LifeGem for pets. The dog and cat could off themselves in a bizarre suicide pact over the dry nasty kibble instead of luscious, stinky canned and you could get yourself a stunning earring and pendant set!

On a last note: the concert was great, although I did miss most of Sixx: AM which was a trifle disappointing, but hey! A girl has to have priorities and at that point it was eating!! So here is a kind of apropos song from Sixx: AM