September's End

So, my first month's challenge came to a close today.  My nights have been consumed in deep prayer as I face this MRI of my kidney.  I googled stuff.  It was a mistake.  The word cancer came up quite a bit.  My mind has gone to some pretty awful scenes.  I'm trying not to worry about it until there's something to worry about.  It hasn't been going well.  And then I start worrying that I'm worrying and could potentially create negative energy in my body which could cause something that might not be anything into something.  I don't really understand it either, but my thoughts have been consumed.

I read that twenty-one days of something causes it to be a habit, so I guess I'm in the habit of praying and yoga.  Sadly, I did not do yoga today.  I was kind of a bum today and I feel guilty over not doing it because, you know, it was part of my 30 day challenge.  But, I'm going to get over it and keep on doing yoga throughout the next month.

Tomorrow the dog goes back to the vet, and I hope to regroup with whatever that fate may be.  For now, I'm heading to bed, saying my prayers, and getting through another night.

New-found Inspiration

Yesterday I had my MRI of my lower back and x-rays of my hips.  The good news is that my hips are fine.  No disease that involves my hip sockets being too small.  The semi-bad news is that I do have permanent damage to a couple vertebrae of my back and a slightly bulging disk that is putting pressure on my spine.  It's irreversible, but with weight-loss and exercise, I can manage the pain.  The weird news, which I have been instructed by my chiropractor not to worry about in any way, is that the MRI picked up a spot on my kidney.  Because the test focused in on my spine, this spot could be anything, but it is there nonetheless; thus leaving me with yet another MRI to endure.  Like I said, I was instructed not in way to worry about this because like half of his patients have to have the test redone and they always come back as nothing, and then he launched into a story about a woman who had a routine MRI on a fairly common hip injury only to show she had advanced bone cancer and was dead five weeks later.  Yeah, I'm not worrying at all!

So, while I was lying in the tube for the MRI, I spent my time worrying about my dog.  Her eye yesterday morning was clearly worse and someone on Facebook asked if they had ruled out diabetes.  She has lost some weight, so I began obsessing.  Whenever I start to obsess, I always try to find something to move the situation forward.  When I got home, I called the vet and asked to bring her in for blood work as they are probably going to order it next Wednesday anyway, and this way the results will be in by the follow up appointment allowing us to proceed forward even earlier.  This eased my mind.

Now I call my parents every day, and I realized yesterday afternoon that I hadn't yet called them.  I am a complete and total idiot and pretty much have reached a stage in my life where I feel comfortable sharing most anything, not everything, but most anything with my mom.  Fool that I am, I told her about both the kidney MRI and dog's blood test.  She basically launched into her sob story of how she was awake at two in the morning already worrying about the dog and why do I need to tell her all this stuff and she doesn't want to know about any of it, blah, blah, blah.  My mother is a worrier, too, and while I am sympathetic to her emotions and that she is still a mother, her choice of words was just way too selfish to endure as it is MY kidney and MY dog and these are MY struggles.

I tried to point out to her that there are people in my life who we don't share things with because their lack of sympathy, understanding, and support is too much to bear.  I didn't want to, but if I needed to move her into that category of people, I would, and if I can't share things with my mom, who can I share things with?  Isn't this what we as mothers want?  A child who still feels comfortable confiding in us and seeks us out for solace?  I, of course, was accused of "yelling" at her and stressing her out even more and "why do you do this to me?"  Like I devised this wonderful collection of illnesses within my family just to screw with her sleep.  I told her that maybe she needs to manage her stress a little better, and while this is going to sound coarse, I can assure you I said it as kindly as possible, and I told her that maybe she needs to do something other than popping a Xanax (and this I didn't say, but thought, or fixing a gin and tonic).  A walk or some yoga stretches might do her some good.

I suppose at this point I should tell you that both my parents struggle with alcoholism.  My father is a Vietnam veteran who suffers from PTSD and had a pretty significant, fall-down-drunk problem for a good fifteen years after the war.  His drinking is now completely in check, but he still struggles with depression and anger. My mother is at least a second, maybe third or even fourth, generation alcoholic.  It's a very long soap opera-y story, but basically while my mother was at college, my grandfather attempted to make my grandmother think she was crazy and have her committed and locked away permanently so he could live a life of drinking and petty crime with his mistress/grandmother's best friend.  This kind of wrecked my mom, and I give her a lot of credit because she is really very well put together in most aspects of her life.  But, at night the alcohol usually comes out and she'll have a stiff drink or two.  What she does is actually very well accepted by society and most people wouldn't consider her to have a problem, but anyone who knows alcoholism knows that it has many faces, and when it enters a person's life as a coping mechanism, well, you've got a problem.

My dad got on me this morning because of how I treated her last night.  Let's forget the fact that I am the one who is actually going through all these things.  I let him talk and then told him what I said and how I said it, which of course he didn't hear and she didn't tell him.  He said he'd talk to her, and then launched into how he saw the doctor for a common cold, got an antibiotic, which he doesn't need and overuses, and then said the doctor prescribed some sort of pill to relax him.  Now, this isn't meant to be a commentary on anti-depressants or Xanax or anything because I am not an expert on that, but I am kind of an expert on my parents and I can tell you that I think their quality of life would greatly improve with some exercise and diet. When they turned sixty-five, they declared themselves "old" and pretty much stopped all extraneous activity.  My dad is fully retired and my mom works three days a week and they don't even take walks anymore.

The conversation ended with my dad telling me he wasn't come down next Wednesday to watch Milo while I'm at the veterinary ophthalmologist because he has to drive to the Poconos on Monday and they are leaving for their cruise the following Saturday and, well, that's just one thing too much.  I'm sure the cruise trip is really stressful.  So, I'm stuck.  It's not that I can't take the two year old with me.  It's that I would kind of like to focus my attention on one thing.  I'm not really sure what the vet is going to tell me that day.

Compared to some, my parents are very supportive and I'm very thankful for their support.  But, compared to others, damn!  I fight for that support.  Sometimes I even beg for it.  Sometimes I call them up on the phone in tears having a meltdown pleading for a little bit of help.  And I plead only because I know they are capable of giving it.  Just once, I'd like to not have to beg.  Just once I'd like for a family member to say, "I got this.  Do what you have to do.  Take your time.  Take care of what you need to."  Not once.

So last night I went to bed early.  I read a chapter in Jane Eyre, did some deep breathing, and sprayed some lavender linen spray on my pillow.  I gave thanks for the blessings in my life and I went to sleep.  I woke up early this morning and did my AM yoga routine with a little eight year old boy in tow who was gassing while I was attempting to do downward facing dog.  I ended my day yesterday with a clear mind and I began today with a fresh mind.  Am I worrying?  Well, yeah!  You don't get rid of thirty-eight years of conditioning and how many generations of anxiety in one month, but I'm managing.  I am drug free, prescription and otherwise, and though I do enjoy a nice glass of wine or a crisp dirty martini, I can freely say I am not an alcoholic...yet.

And with that in mind, while there was a piece of me who was thinking maybe to give up on this blog crap and I hadn't been really very good at sticking to the yoga and all that in the past week, I have some reminders of who I'd like not to completely become.

Speed Yoga??

Two or three times a year my cat will decide to sleep in a location other than at the foot of my bed curled up by my feet.  This inevitably wakes me up in the middle of the night, expecting to have him there and then when he's not, I worry:  Is he trapped in a closet?  Is he sick?  Did he get something wrapped around his neck?  After forty-five minutes of arguing with myself that he is, in fact, just a cat and I should just go back to sleep, I lose that argument and get up in search for him.  I find him perfectly unharmed and in a spot I'm assuming he found too comfy to leave, but this could just be his way of messing with me a few times a year.  That was last Wednesday, causing me to be up a 4:30 in the morning and incapable of falling back asleep.

On Friday, my dog who has suffered from mild fall eye allergies all her life, had what looked like pink eye.  Her allergies were particularly bad this year, but a lot of people also were complaining, so I had decided to let it ride its course.  Unfortunately, the green and yellow puss chunks forming on her eye that morning was not something I could let ride.  I took her to the vet that afternoon; two hours later, $300 poorer, and a follow-up appointment with a veterinary ophthalmologist, I was on my way home with a dog who has what I term "reverse glaucoma".  Instead of high pressure in her eyes, she has too low pressure.  <sigh>

Saturday morning I woke up with one of the worst colds EVER.  So, needless to say, I have not been meeting my monthly challenge and doing yoga every day because the room has been spinning for three days with me standing perfectly upright.  There was no way I was doing downward facing dog for fear of crashing into something hard and painful.  

I attempted to do yoga this morning, and since I hadn't done it in awhile, I thought maybe I'd switch things up a bit and find a workout on OnDemand.  WTF?  I started out OK, but suddenly the dude was five poses ahead of where I was.  Is there such a thing as speed yoga?  I mean, doesn't that defeat the whole philosophy of yoga?  I thought it was suppose to be about reflection and getting in touch with your body and mind.  Here I was making fun and rolling my eyes at Rodney Yee, but Rodney is just what I need in my life.  I have enough paradoxes in life driving me crazy; I certainly don't need the oxymoron of speed yoga to stress me out.

You see, I have a terrible confession to make.  As a mother, when my kids get hurt or have to go through something painful, like hour long kidney tests or broken wrists, I am surprisingly calm and level-headed.  My emotions are completed in tact.  But, if something happens to one of my pets?  I am a bumbling mess.  Five years ago in the three months leading up to Christmas, I lost my grandmother, a close friend lost her mother to a very swift and terrible cancer, I sprained my ankle and couldn't walk for four days (and also couldn't care for my children), and Eli was set for his final round of kidney scans that would determine if he would need major surgery.  I kept it together through it all.  That Christmas Eve, after all our guests had gone home, the dog came running up the steps yelping in severe pain.  My father and I rushed her to the emergency vet who told us she slipped a disk and would never be able to run again.  She would need to be crated nearly all day and we'd have to barricade her from jumping on furniture.  We'd also have to carry her up and down any and all steps.  She was only six years old.  I lost it.  She's a 50 pound dog.  I couldn't possibly care for a three and one year old and carry her everywhere she needed to go.  I couldn't live that life, and she shouldn't have to live that life.  I cried all through Christmas day.  My husband slept on the floor by her crate for three days.  We had two weeks of steroid treatment and in those two weeks, even though she appeared better, we said our goodbyes.  It was absolute hell, and I'm crying now remembering it.  I just can't keep it together for my pets.  I guess because they always keep it together for me.  They are my constant.

Anyway, the emergency vet misdiagnosed.  The follow up vet said she, the vet who initially saw us, had a tendency to be a bit rash and harsh, and said she could find no evidence of a slipped disk.  It was probably a strain on her back or a pulled muscle.  Our pup made a complete recovery.

Now?  Now we have two elderly pets and a savings account that has amounted to just a few pennies.  One day, not too long from now, we will have to say our goodbyes for good.  There will be no misdiagnosis.  It will simply be their time.  I pray in the meantime that I can afford their care as they age and give them the best quality of life possible.  I don't want to be forced to make a decision of having to put my dog down because I can't afford her care.  I won't have her suffer, but if it's something that can be treated and she can live a quality life, I want to be able to give that to her.  So, that's what I've been praying for the past few days.  I'm trying to slow life down a bit and take in the time I have with not just my pets, but my family, too.  Our pets are such fixtures in our life.  They keep us scheduled and warm and loved.  And relatively speaking, our time with them is so very short.  So, I'm sorry yoga dude, but your speed yoga is totally messing up my zen.

Eh

My father has always been the first to rub something in.  For example, I'm thirty-seven years old and he still torments me on my lack of softball skills.  He fails to mention that he was the coach of a losing team (every single game) for four years straight.  And he fails to see that lack of skills is not the same as lack of interest.  So, when I shared with my mother this morning that both of the moms I had written to last week about their boys reaching out to Sal had approached me at last night's back to school night and thanked me for the kind words, my father couldn't wait to jump on me for overreacting and being overly sensitive.

Let's not mention the fact that I already felt bad about the words I said about them in private, but that I had also via said blog publicly outed them as being cruel, insensitive, and lacking basic courtesy.  Yes, I feel better that they acknowledged my message.  Do I think they could have done it sooner?  Absolutely!  But, I guess they just aren't together enough to do it.  They claimed they were too busy and/or distracted to write a reply.  I am trying to be better understanding of that.  I really, really am.  It's a sign of the times, or so I am told.  It's those little, day to day things things that I happen to be good at, so I guess I'm critical of others who aren't.  I'm terrible at birthdays and anniversaries and that kind of crap, so I guess it evens out, right?

Anyway, I'd like to say that I am thankful for the kind words these moms shared with me last night and of their boys, and I'd like to make known that I was wrong and put the whole damn thing behind me.  They were in my prayers last night and will be in my prayers again tonight as I am going to need all the help I can get from this strange little town for Sal.

It was not a good night last night for that boy.  He is dealing with a lot of anger, from where I can't say other than it maybe it's his pent up energy from not speaking all day at school.  He's always had a lot of anger, but now he's old enough to hurt me and last night he tried.  He actually kicked me in the leg.  I'm afraid, not of him doing harm to me now, but of what he could become.  Growing up, my next door neighbors had a boy who was very angry and aggressive and he beat up his mom several times, mostly when high.  Sal does not have his same characteristics as a child, but anger is anger whatever the source, and I don't want him to turn to all the things that anger can lead a person to.

Today we have a 504 meeting for him at the school for his selective mutism, and I hope to explore some counseling and anger management there to help him through this.  How does an educator of almost twenty years who has worked with some seriously disturbed children not know how to deal with her own child's struggles?  I am terribly frustrated, saddened, and exhausted with myself.  So, tonight you all know what will be in my prayers, and I hope I can remain in yours.

In other news, I have made some progress towards my October challenge.  The challenge is to treat myself to ten acts of pampering.  I haven't quite decided what all ten are.  This might be one of the hardest challenges, if not the hardest challenge, in the course of the next year.  It's in honor of my birthday.  When I first became pregnant, I had vowed to not let myself become one of those frump-a-dump moms.  I did OK after Sal, but after each pregnancy I slipped more and more into the Mom-Who-Let-Herself-Go.  Mainly, it happened because a) I couldn't lose the weight.  It's a lot easier to dress cute when you can fit into your old cute clothes.  And b) I have no money to buy clothes.  Because I fit into nothing, I needed an entire new wardrobe, several hundred dollars worth and just didn't have the money to buy it.  I'd pick up some sweats at Target or a new t-shirt, but to go out and spend big bucks on jeans that fit right was just not possible.  After having ten pound Milo, I couldn't even fit into my fat jeans so I have basically lived in sweats since 2011, and now even my sweats are looking pretty awful.

Therefore, my first act of pampering in October will be to wear a cute outfit (comfy, but cute) every day.  I had a few rewards certificates from Old Navy and ordered two pairs of leggings and one pair of jeans earlier this week.  I'm hoping these leggings have the "look at the cute girl on Pinterest wearing those leggings" effect, and not the "meanwhile, at Wal-mart" effect.  I really don't need my ass showing to all the school at pick up time.  As for the jeans, I've recently read that Old Navy jeans are "gateway mom jeans" and read a blog showing the difference between them and higher end denim.  I vowed after reading that blog that I would only buy ass-flattering jeans from then on, but I don't have rewards certificates to any other store and basically, right now, any new pair of jeans are not five year old stained Penn sweats even if they are Old Navy.  I have also invested in a few very over-sized sweaters and blouses to hide any unflattering ass-shaping bottoms.

As far as clothes go, I should be in good shape to look semi put together for the month of October and into the winter.  Shoes are proving a more difficult dilemma, but that is a whole other post of its own.  

My Little Circle of Control

The past week or so has left me feeling very out of control.  For anyone, that's a scary feeling.  For a control freak, like me, well it's nearing breakdown status.  I can't control my kid tripping and breaking an arm.  And I can't control how other people drive around a school.  I can't control how other people will treat me.  And I can't control the fact that my child is suffering from an anxiety disorder.  

But, there is one thing I can control in my life--banana bread...double chocolate chip banana bread!  I had two bananas sitting in my fruit bowl perfectly ripe and within a day or two no longer good.  It was completely within my control to get my ass into the kitchen and whip up a loaf of banana bread, and damn it, I did!

And, you know what?  That's not the only thing in my control.  Nope.  I have bunch of tubs of items I need to prep for an upcoming consignment sale.  I did that this morning.  And waffles!  I need to make up some waffles to freeze for breakfasts for my boys.  I can make waffles!  I'm going to do that tomorrow.

You know what I did yesterday?  I made a "To Do" list...on my phone no less.  I even gave myself due dates for some of the items.  Every single thing on that list is within my power to complete and complete it well.  See that little word there?  Power.  I don't have power over the world, but I do have power over my kitchen and living room and all the items on that list.  And maybe if I can conquer the items on that list, maybe I can conquer some small battles outside of these four walls I call home.  

Yoga Yo-yoing

I must say my commitment to yoga each day is not as devout as I had originally intended and I feel bad about it.  I am doing yoga every day, but here we are, half way through September and I'm still only getting in the AM yoga routine each morning.  Sometimes I will do the PM routine, sometimes.  And I've only once done the "Yoga for the Back" DVD.  That chair thing is kind of annoying.  And the Legos all over the floor, they are annoying, too.  I haven't quite branched out of those workouts, but really I don't feel ready to branch out.  I haven't noticed too much change in my flexibility and zenness.

All that said, last week I took a few walks in the morning and attempted to remain within my calorie limit according to My Fitness Pal.  When I stepped on the scale Friday morning I had lost two pounds.  That felt pretty good.  Of course, today I found myself at Taco Bell getting lunch, so by this Friday, who knows what the scale will say.  We are also going to Chuck E. Cheese tonight.  The boys each completed a full book bingo sheet and this is their reward.  They filled their whole bingo card with different books they chose to read over the summer.  Typically, Chuck E. Cheese is a once-a-year reward for something they have accomplished over the summer.  For me, it's my once-a-year self-torturing ritual as I rub elbows with the scuzz of the earth.

Once Chuck E. Cheese is tackled, I hope to regroup and get back on the yoga horse, maybe try a few new workouts and stop at the grocery store to stock up on some salad fixings for the week.

Looking for Answers

I'm really trying to wrap my brain around the motivation of some people.  I have come to accept that I will not have friends, true friends, in this town I call home.  I'm OK with that, sort of.  How can you really be OK with that?  It's a pretty sad revelation, but it's something I have come to accept.

But, here's what I don't understand.  I feel almost ostracized from the community.  Case in point, and I'm sorry to say this is a Facebook story, but it is and though it is social media, which I don't hold much stock in anymore, it still sent me a pretty clear message.  There is a mom of a little girl in Sal's class.  They've gone to school together since preschool.  We've always been on friendly terms with each other.  Once I even did some grocery shopping for her; she filled in for another mom last minute who couldn't fulfill her snack mom duties at the preschool, so I picked up a few items for her at the store since she wouldn't be able to go.  I never considered this woman my friend, but a friendly acquaintance, yes.  A fellow mom, yes.  Shared interest in that our children have known each other for the last six years, yes.  Her name popped up a few years ago as a suggested Facebook friend.  I sent her a request that went unanswered.  I thought nothing of it, actually forgot about it.  I guess I figured she wasn't on Facebook all too often.  But, last winter, maybe early spring, I saw her comment on a mutual friend's post.  I sent a second friend request only then remembering that I had sent her one previously.  She ignored it a second time.  This time I knew it was deliberate.  She has even gone so far in the past few months to comment on posts that I have commented on, clearly showing that she has no interest in accepting my friend request.

Like I said, it's Facebook, and I'm not really counting how many Facebook friends I have or determining my self worth based on who has and hasn't friended me.  But, like I said, this sends a message.  I clearly have done something to offend this person to point that she can't even friend me on Facebook.  And I am very sorry to say it, but I'm hurt and feel self-conscious about it because I can think of no reason for it.  What does it mean to accept a request, anyway?  It's an acknowledgment of acquaintance, of having known or currently knowing that person.  To deny the request means a person denies knowing you?  Has deemed something about you unworthy?  I won't go so far as to give her that much power.  I have come too far and gone through way too much to allow me to feel completely unworthy, but let's just say, message received.

If people want to shun me, that's fine.  I'm a big girl.  But, I'm now starting to feel that this could be affecting Sal.  One of the goals I need to accomplish is arranging play dates for him.  How do I arrange play dates with a group of people who have done nothing to extend any kind of friendship or hospitality towards me?  Regardless, I trudged ahead and made a few.  Two mothers blew me off.  One of those mothers apologized, but the other has made no attempt to apologize or explain her lack of response.  I get that people are busy, but she has twice spoken to me about how much her son wants to be friends and get to know Sal better.  She gave me her contact information, I contacted her a few times, and then nothing.  Anything more would border on stalking.  I'm not going to stalk some kid for a play date.

So the first day of school came and went.  This past Friday I met with Sal's teacher just to touch base with her about how he's doing so far and some suggestions that might work for him in the classroom.  She mentioned two students who had reached out to him to help him feel included.  One was the mom who blew off the play date.  I sent both moms messages that I was so appreciative of their boys' kindness and complimented their kids on being thoughtful.  No one replied.  That's weird, right?  If someone compliments your kid, you acknowledge it, right?  My husband seems to think I'm thinking too much about it.  I'm not, am I?  I'm just really at a loss here.  This is my little boy here.  If you don't want to like me, fine.  But, you seriously can't communicate with me, one my to another, about our little boys?

Looking for answers...  

I'm Either On My Way to Becoming the Crazy Lady or an Old Lady...or Maybe a Crazy Old Lady

It's been two weeks and I haven't had any work.  My paycheck yesterday was for $30, so you can see how much I worked prior to that.  I haven't heard from anyone in the company in two weeks except to say that checks were mailed.  I'm starting to freak out just a bit.

I'm also feeling a bit lost in the what-do-I-do-with-my-day department being out of work.  I only work one or two hours a day when I'm carrying a full set of students, but those one or two hours give me some structure.  The other day I literally spun around about five times in the kitchen not knowing which direction to go next, what task to tackle next.  Don't get me wrong...I have plenty to do.  I just can't figure out what to do first.  Being an only/oldest child, I am naturally a list maker, but I haven't been making lists.  I gave up having a planner this year and placed a smart phone in its stead.  Deleting tasks just doesn't give the same satisfaction as checking, scratching, or blacking out a dreaded task. 

What have I been doing instead?  Crocheting.  (I did finish those Lego blankets, not quite before September, but close enough.  I impressed both husband and mother who know me to usually take years on one project, and here I completed three blankets in six months!)  Something very peculiar has happened to me this year.  I learned how to do a basic single crochet stitch when I was thirteen.  In college, I learned a double and triple crochet from a small left-handers tutorial I found in a craft store.  And after having Sal, I took a class with a friend at the community college that opened up some new, more complicated stitches and patterns to me.  My crochet capabilities prior to this were straight rows of either single or double crochet (which, by the way, is still very impressive to anyone who doesn't crochet). 

The class had us work through several different patterns, but even after the class, there was still one problem--I couldn't follow a pattern.  During the class, the teacher talked me through every pattern we completed, so without her I was still lost.  I completed a few simple projects in that time, and pinned a few hundred patterns on Pinterest that I would look on with envious eyes.  My crochet capabilities had definitely hit a roadblock. 

I'm not sure what happened in the past year, why I even took up my crochet hook again, but I printed out some patterns and suddenly found I understood them!  When I first saw the Lego blanket idea, I knew I had to at least try, and when I actually produced a Lego brick out of yarn...well, let's just say the people around me weren't nearly as excited as I.  Like I said, it's not hard to impress non-crocheters.  Rows of single crochet is just as impressive as a popcorn stitch.  But, I impressed myself.

This past week I attempted to make my first applique project...skulls!  My boys were mortified wearing scarves to school last winter, but it was oh-so cold.  I decided to make two simple grey cowls/neck warms that they could just slip over their heads.  The skull appliques I'll sew onto the cowls for a little decoration.  That's cool, right?  They'll wear those, right?  They won't be laughed at by their peers, right?   OK, so this skull pattern was a bit intimidating to me, but attempt it I did and accomplished it I did first try!  I printed out the pattern and there on skill level it stated "Confident Beginner".  Ha! Ha!  It only took twenty-some years but I am finally a "Confident Beginner".

Yesterday I picked up a new infinity scarf pattern for myself using a never-before-attempted butterfly stitch.  Nailed it!  So, for now the vacuuming and fall decorating and massive reorganizing is on hold.

But, what does all this mean?  Why has my brain suddenly acquired the ability to understand crochet patterns?  My theory...I'm becoming an old lady.  That has to be it, right?  I was teased all through high school and college and even in my twenties for having crochet as a hobby.  My French family, when I lived in France (oh yes, I lived in France for awhile...it's a long story) actually called me an old lady (I was also called a yellow submarine...it's a sad story, too).  Maybe now I am finally coming into my old ladyness and my brain has finally caught up. 

So, my career is in serious limbo, the sad job I do have (I think) is missing in action, but I have crochet.  My boys have a few extra blankets to keep them warm this winter.  I'll have some cute scarves to wear over to the school when I pick up the boys.  And with that I'll have to be content for now.

One Day Closer to Being the Crazy Lady in the Attic

I thought yesterday had reached its peak of awfulness.  Never think a day has reached its awfulness peak unless the day is over.  Never!   I know this, but I let my guard down.  Homework was finished without episode, dinner fed to the boys without episode, plan set for husband and I to get takeout, and boys off to soccer practice.  I had just settled into a good snuggle with Milo and checking in with my mom when I heard crying downstairs.  Sal had broken his arm.

Eight years of keeping the ninja moves, daredevil stunts, and bad choices in check, and what happens?  Your kid trips over a soccer ball.  It wasn't even his team's practice.  He was just along for the ride.  I'm sorry, kid.  Maybe if I wasn't so helicopter-ish, you'd have a much better story to tell.

Speaking of stories to tell, upon our return from the ER, my husband and his parents decided to tell Sal their multitude of broken bone stories.  MULTITUDE!  There I sat with not a single broken bone story.  (Does your pinky finger really count?)  The closest I even got to a broken bone was my mom threatening to break my bones (Don't judge!  It was the 70's.  Physical threats were perfectly in the realm of good parenting.)  Sorry kid, you clearly picked up the broken bone gene from the in-laws.

Speaking of in-laws, mine, and my own parents even, can be, how shall I put it....supportively challenged.  But, when you're sitting in the ER next to a baby whose grandma let the stroller get away and it tips over smashing the baby's head into the concrete, you say to yourself, "Well at least Grammy never dropped you on your head."

That was yesterday.  Today was supremely uneventful in comparison.  My husband stayed home and took Sal to the ortho to get an actual cast without episode.  I dropped Milo off for his second day of preschool without episode.  We all took naps without episode.  My biggest obstacle was dealing with a nasty bout of gas from eating about ten Five Guys fries.  Seriously?!?!  What is with Five Guys making me sick?  I can't even eat ten fries?  I guess this, too, is divine intervention since the last thing I need is Five Guys.

Sal confided to my husband today that he thought while walking to the car after falling, "I'm too young to die."  Then he said, "I really knew I wasn't going to die, but I thought maybe I might lose my arm."  My little melodramatic boy.  Today my prayer is love.  That's all.  Just letting love wash over us and not thinking too much about all the other crap.  Love.

   

Some Days are Discouraging

Some days are just discouraging.  Wednesdays typically hit hard, especially when it's the Wednesday of the first full week back to school.  I had a rough time getting all three boys out of the house this morning, which meant I showed up at the school on time.  Drop off and pick up at my kids' school is my worst part of the day.  Basically, people are assholes and could care less about following traffic laws or keeping other kids safe let alone their own.  On a daily basis there are people speeding through the school zone, blowing through stop signs, dropping their kids off in the middle of street, ignoring crosswalks and darting out in front of cars, and so on and so on and so on.

So, this morning I spent an hour on the phone with the chief of police.  While he was very nice and empathetic to my concerns, the answer was that there's nothing that can be done.  It's impossible for them to enforce moving traffic violations because the two officers that are at the school are out of their vehicles.  It's a terrible feeling to be told there is nothing that can be done to better ensure the safety of the children, your own children.  I guess I just have to suck it up.  Seriously!  I'm really trying to cut back on my alcohol consumption, and I really don't want to be a Xanex popping basket case, but what am I suppose to do when the chief of police pretty much tells me it's every man for himself??

Can yoga every day really put me in such a state of zen that I can calmly wash away the stress of dropping off my kids at school?  I have been doing yoga every day and I swear my back is getting worse.  My shoulder is seizing up on me, and Monday I barely made it home from a mile and not quite half walk because my hips were in so much pain.  Maybe it has to get worse before it gets better???

The one good thing about my days is the book I'm rereading for the month of September...Jane Eyre.  If there's one book that puts your own life in a pretty decent light, it's Jane Eyre.  Both parents dead, abused as a child, raised with no connection to the outside world until your first boss falls in love with you, but wait, there's a hitch--crazy lady in the attic.  Yup, compared to Jane, I guess I got it pretty damn good.  Except there is a very strong possibility that if this craziness at the school persists, I might become the crazy lady in the attic.

Dear God,

Please, please don't let me become the crazy lady in the attic.

Community Chorus

When I lost my job at the night school, I felt very lost.  That was my ticket out of the house each week to be around grown ups.  I was very well aware of my need to talk to someone other than my four and two year olds.  A friend of the family, the mother of one of my husband's childhood friends, with whom I had struck up a friendship, had talked about singing in the community chorus.  I sang in choruses in both high school and college.  So, I called her up and asked for the details.  She was ecstatic!  She was so excited for me to join and said everyone would love to have me and not to worry if I didn't get the notes right away because they all struggle.  I should have known what I was getting myself into then.

Four years ago, when I first joined, the chorus was around sixty to sixty-five members. At thirty-four, I was all their younger by at least twenty years.  My car was nearly hit four times, all by Buicks, as I pulled into the parking lot.  The first night two people fell, but luckily no hips were broken.  We picked apart "Feliz Navidad" about a thousand times because they just couldn't get the tune.  And, when I introduced myself, I got a rousing applause and during the break almost every member came up to personally welcome me into the group.  It was the first and only time since moving here that I was wholly and fully welcomed as a member of a community.  

I love these people.  And we're not all that bad either.  The altos need a little extra special attention most nights.  I bring along my crocheting, which you'd think wouldn't be all too much of an unusual sight, but has garnered much attention and admiration given the population, while the director works with the altos.  I've made some great friends through the chorus, though again all old enough to be my mom, some to be my grandmom.  For a couple years there was even another young mom like me needing to get out of the house.  Age aside, they are a terribly supportive and enveloping group of people.  At the break we catch up on past members, their successes and life changes and passings.  Prayers are said for those in need.  Cards sent for cheering up.  There are a lot of jokes told throughout the night, mostly corny music jokes, some dirty jokes.  It's my comic relief for the week.

Sadly, our numbers are now less than fifty.  We have lost several members over the last few years for varying reasons.  One woman's husband passed away and she lost her passion to sing.  One woman's voice has failed her with age.  A couple women have had to move closer to family or go into continuing care facilities.  And, of course, there have been deaths.  This past year we lost three very special members.  One woman sung with the chorus since its inception over forty years ago.  She was ninety-three and yelled at me once for sitting in her seat.  When a person sits in the same seat for forty-some years, you had better move, and fast!  Another was a clergyman with a booming voice who would narrate different pieces of music for us. And the last was a woman who used to own my husband's childhood home.  She was the first person to come and introduce herself to me the night I joined.  I drove her a few times to practice and her passing was quite sudden.  It was a rough year.

Today my prayers focus on this group of wonderful people.  I hope this new choral season finds them all in good health and sees growth for the chorus.  These people are like my extended family.  They are all there for one reason or another, and while they might not understand all the reason the chorus is special to me, they do understand why it's special because it means something for each of them as well.

Holding My Breath

I think Someone is reading my blog!  Over the weekend, I had two enjoyable soccer games for each of my boys, enjoying the company of some great parents.  And...I received an email from Sal's teacher that he has been raising his hand to answer questions and is responding to questions posed in their morning meetings.  I don't even know what morning meetings are, but the fact that he's speaking in front of the class is monumental!  Thank You!  Thank You!

A Love/Hate Relationship

A few weeks ago I was sitting in a waiting room and picked up a parenting magazine.  I typically steer clear of parenting magazines as a rule because I don't need 100 pages a month to tell me all the things I should or should not be doing with my kids.  I do subscribe to two magazines, though.  One is Family Fun, which I'm pretty sure is a Disney sponsored one, and the other is Parenting.  I love Family Fun.  It has very little about parenting, and what parenting advice it does offer is merely an article or two written by a real mom (sometimes dad) finding something that happened to work for a problem that one family happened to be experiencing.  Sometimes they apply to my life, sometimes not.  They also have a travel section in each edition and some cute crafts (if you're into that thing...) and recipes.  It's fun stuff, which duh, I guess is the point!

I have no idea how I came across a subscription to Parenting.  It must have been a very cheap deal that I got quite a long time ago and got the magazine for three or four years straight.  I don't like it.  Case in point, I read an article with many, many quotes from one, maybe two "professionals" about how picky eaters are made, not born.  LIE!  LIE!  LIE!  They clearly didn't speak to anyone who actually has a picky eater or expand their research base and question researchers who have proven that certain people are "super-tasters".  I threw the entire magazine that month in the recycling bin without bothering to read the rest.  There is one columnist, a man, that I do enjoy reading in there though.  He's pretty down to earth, which is very refreshing for a magazine that offers a fashion section with celebrity kid picks so you can see how to dress your child that season.  You know how I choose my kids' fashion?  a.  What the school deems is uniform policy appropriate;  b. What's a good deal at the consignment sale; and c. What his brother wore two years before him.

OK, so I really digressed.  This post is not about magazines at all.  Back to the magazine I was reading in the waiting room.  There was an article about how to find other mom friends and how to fit in as a mom.  Yes, this is a real thing.  I went to a small high school, graduating in a class of about 150 kids.  We had clicks.  Every high school does, but ours were different.  Our clicks were just groups of friends.  We didn't really care all too much about the other clicks by the time high school rolled around.  People had pretty much settled themselves into who they were and for the most part, people respected that and we left each other alone.  I was not in the so-called "popular" click and never had any aspirations to be in it.  They smoked, drank, did drugs.  I was, in case you couldn't guess from my wild book challenges and crochet projects, a good girl.  Occasionally the clicks crossed.  I was in ski club who had this strange assortment of people from across all clicks of high school life.  There was me.  There was Flo, a born again Christian who handed us pamphlets while riding the lifts to the top of the mountain.  There was Peggy, BIG hair, flirt with everyone, smoked like a fiend.  There were the popular potheads and the more typical dreg potheads.    The potheads would say, "We're going into the woods!", which meant we're going to light up and Peggy, Flo, and I would say, "OK, see ya at the bus!"  That was the extent of my peer pressure experience in high school.  There was none.  I never once was pressured to do anything I didn't want to do.  If fact, people were so respectful of me, I never even got a nice invitation to join in.

College was pretty much the same.  I went to a Brethren school that didn't believe in Greek life, so there were no sororities or fraternities.  People just went about their own business with their own group of friends.  Then I became an adult and it all changed.  Pretty sad that the people you spent your youth with turned out to be more mature than the people you spend adulthood with.  My first year of teaching I was actually told I'd be more cool if I smoked, and one girl proclaimed she'd make a smoker of me by the end of the school year. She failed miserably.  During those four years in Maryland, my husband and I were purposefully not invited to select parties, why I'm not sure.  One summer, my husband took over the school's summer softball league.  Most of the people who made the commitment to be apart of the team, didn't honor their commitment all too regularly.  He was left scraping together a team some nights at the last minute.  We had one good friend, who was also not apart of the "popular" teachers, who would pull some of his college buddies to help us out.  The last game of the summer, everyone decided to show up and go out to a bar afterwards.  We showed up to the bar and they all looked at us with surprised faces that we came.  They hadn't saved us seats and it was a terribly awkward moment.  We left.  I was in tears.  My husband, then fiance, was even visibly upset.  We were getting married in a year and then made the decision to move to Jersey.

We've been in South Jersey for ten years now.  We moved back to my husband's hometown where all of his friends still live.  It's a very small town, just one square mile, and it neighbors another very tiny town that's slightly older with beautiful Victorian homes.  Our property sits on the boarder of the two towns.  Half of our block is, let's call it Our Town, and the other half is Their Town.  I've been here ten years I have yet to make a single friend.  None of my husband's friends reached out to me when I moved here.  We were never invited over for dinner or to go anywhere or do anything with them.  I thought it might have been because they had started having kids, but even when I had Sal, there was nothing.  My husband's best friend had a son just months before Sal was born.  I invited them over for dinner.  They made no effort to reciprocate dinner, or anything for that matter.  Our boys barely know each other, which is terribly sad given they are schoolmates.  I thought moving to a deeply rooted, small town would be great, but people are so deeply rooted they don't have much room for someone new, I guess.

A couple of years ago, Eli went to a preschool that had several kids from Their Town.  Their Town people don't have their own high school.  They filter into our high school at the ninth grade.  Their Town people will usually go to private school rather than stoop to going to our high school.  I didn't think too much of this because I'm not all too crazy about my kids going there.  Anyway, a couple of years ago while Eli was in preschool, I talked to a couple of Their Town moms every day after school.  After preschool, I would run into one of the moms at the library and pool.  She barely said two words to me.  I was baffled.  Then weeks later, she struck up this long conversation with me at the library.  It was just she and I, and then it hit me.  In all the other scenarios where she wouldn't speak to me, she was with other Their Town moms.  I took to observing.  The Their Town moms at the pool, soccer games, and library will actually form a huddle.  When they are together, no one else gets into the huddle.  I've actually been in conversations with some of them and when more moms show up, they will move away from me to form the huddle.

Here's the thing that bothers me.  In high school, I never wanted to be apart of another click because I didn't have the same interests as the click.  But, these moms are people I am like.  They are stay-at-home moms, most with three kids, who live a life very similar to mine...except I have a different zip code.  Is that really the reason??  I want to be their friend, apart of the group, but I'm the sad unpopular mom who doesn't fit in.

It's really hard for me to wrap my brain around the concept of being excluded because of my zip code.  My husband has accused me of overreacting, but even he has recently observed some pretty snobbish behavior and isn't getting on me too much for it.  I have developed a rather low self-esteem over the past few years as a result of the Our Town/Their Town shut out.  You can't help but wonder if it's something wrong with you.  I have stopped trying to be a part of the community.  I focus on my family instead.  But, every now and then, an article pops up in front of me like this one.  It talked about how moms were judged because they didn't want to join a knitting or reading club, and I was like, "They have knitting clubs!!"  There's nothing like that around here, and I have yet to hear of a book club.  Maybe it's that I haven't been asked to join.  Oh, by the way, I just want to put this out there.  I don't want you people to think I'm just sitting around waiting for an invitation to something.  I have tried to start my own social events that no one responds to.  Last summer I heard about crockpot freezer meal swaps where you prepare one meal over several times and get together to swap them out so everyone goes home with several different dinners.  I put the idea out there on Facebook to the locals, and while friends who lived in other parts of the country (high school and college friends, btw) shouted out that they wished they lived closer because they LOVED the idea, not a single taker in South Jersey.  Not one!  That's a fun thing, right??  It sounded like a smart, practical thing at least.  I'm at a loss.

So that's the reason I want to move.  Only, I don't really want to move.  When we bought this home together, we had so many hopes and dreams for it.  We love our house and we have really great neighbors, all retirees, who look out for each other.  We brought all three boys home from the hospital to this house and don't want to move to a mass school district.  And will it be any better if we do move?  Is this how life just is now?  Clearly other moms across the country are feeling shut out just like me, but there are moms that have clicked and are supportive of each other.

Over the past couple of months I have made some new friendly acquaintances, no one to call friend yet, but definite potential.  I'm not holding my breath, but perhaps something might change?  Maybe?  I hope?  Maybe it takes a little bit of time to make friends, like fifteen years instead of five or ten?  I don't really know.  I'm trying to stay optimistic and not turn too bitter about my circumstances.

Over the summer it's easier to forget about being left out.  I don't have all too many interactions with the "mean girls" save at the pool, and even then once swim lessons are over, it's limited.  But, now that September is here there is much more contact at school functions.  Soccer season, too, is upon us which mixes Our Town and Their Town kids.  This is a pretty charged atmosphere for me.  The Their Town moms are in full swing socializing during soccer season.  Last year, my parents and aunt were down to see the boys play.  Eli's game ended and we walked across the playing fields to Sal's game and put our chairs down in the shade about a foot or two from another woman that was there.  She was actually talking to the daughter-in-law of our next door neighbors.  I didn't think we were all that close, and we didn't sit in front of her, but slightly behind her.  It was a hot, sunny day and we simply were trying to get in the shade.  She became extremely offended that we sat next to her, stood up, and said, "Well, I guess I'll move!"  I said we were just trying to get some shade and hadn't intended for her to move.  (Seriously?  Did she own the shade?)  She refused to answer and moved her chair about five feet from us.  About twenty minutes later, she stood up and moved again shooting insults at my family for their rudeness.  We sat next to her.  We didn't block her view or touch any of her belongings.  I am very aware of personal space, and we didn't cross any social boundaries.  She just didn't want us near her.  I was shocked and left in tears.  I have never been treated with such inhumanity.

So, my prayers this weekend are for me.  I'm praying to hold on and not feel all too shunned by these other women.  I obviously don't know them too well, so maybe there is something they are struggling with that I can't understand.  I'm hoping for a positive soccer season where no one is so repulsed by my mere presence she feels the need to physically move away from me.  I've allowed these external forces to occupy my mind and emotions.  I'm really praying that I can keep faithful to these challenges I've created for myself to act as a distraction from all of these negative, external forces that are working on me right now.  They don't deserve power over me, and I've allowed them to have too much power over how I think about my home, my appearance, my parenting skills, my overall self-worth as a person.  I never compromised myself as a teenager, so I certainly don't want to do it now at thirty-seven.  Here's to a new season!



















 

Days Four and Five, Boys One and Two

Elizabeth Gilbert's meditative breakthrough in Eat, Pray, Love occurs after she focuses her thoughts on her nephew Nick.  She describes him:

Nick, my nephew, is an eight year old boy, skinny for his age, scarily smart, frighteningly astute, sensitive and complex.  Even minutes after his birth, amid all the squalling newborns in the nursery, he alone was not crying, but looking around with adult, worldly and worried eyes, looking as though he'd done all this before so many times and wasn't sure how excited he felt about having to do it again.  This is a child for whom life is never simple, a child who hears and sees and feels everything intensely, a child who can be overcome by emotion so fast sometimes that it unnerves us all.

This summer as I was rereading the book, I read this passage once.  I read it twice.  I called my husband into the room and said I had something to read to him.  (He HATES it when I read to him.)  He asked me to read it again.  Chills went through us both.  This is our Sal, who happened to turn eight in the spring.  We were given this intense little boy who we literally didn't know what to do with.  Sal's always been a quiet, thoughtful child who has been deemed "shy," "lacking in confidence," "a boy."  But, I've always seen more.  Sal wasn't just shy, he froze.  How does a boy who is nearly completely unaffected by peer pressure, lacking confidence?  And Sal's intensity and emotions exceeded that of most little boys I observed. He was a mystery.  I knew he didn't have autism.  There were too many anomalies that didn't allow for that.  But there was something.

First grade was nightmarish.  He had a first year teacher who was quite good, but as most new teachers are, her focus was on classroom management.  Any child who did not obey was seen as being insubordinate, even a child who didn't talk.  He was forced to read in front of the room and had to pull yellow cards when he couldn't speak to answer a question.  He began hiding under his desk and other furniture to avoid being called on.  I spoke with the guidance counselor who worked with him a bit and got him through the school year, but I pleaded with her to please pair him with a teacher in the second grade that would understand him.

I met with his second grade teacher the second week of school and explained all that I knew about my son, and all that I didn't know.  I told her he was a mystery, and she said that she's the teacher they give the mysteries to.  The counselor knew what she was doing.  Sal excelled, but one day his teacher became very ill and needed to leave school on the day she was holding her tutoring club.  An announcement had been made to the students to go to a different teacher for tutoring club.  Sal didn't pay attention to the announcement and I got a phone call from the secretary asking why I hadn't picked my son up from school.  Both the substitute teacher and the secretary asked him where he was suppose to be or why I hadn't come to get him, and he didn't answer either of them.

When I brought this to the teacher's attention upon her return, she could have said, like even I did, that he needs to pay better attention and needs to speak up for himself.  But, she sensed something more was at work in his mind and asked the speech therapist, who happens to be a seasoned educator with vast knowledge, to come and observe him.  She did and she consulted with his past teachers as well.  The term "selective mutism" came up.  I had once taught a selective mute who didn't speak at all.  Sal spoke, just not all the time.  Selective mutes typically don't react or show emotion in public.  Sal did.  Both his teacher and I scoffed at the suggestion, but the speech therapist explained that there are stages of selective mutism and encouraged us to research it.

I read for ten minutes on the internet that night and knew this was the answer to the mystery.  This was it!  I won't go into a complete definition of the disorder other than to say that it's anxiety with some other potential underlying conditions, like speech processing or sensory processing, that can or cannot attribute to the anxiety, preventing a student from speaking in school or any specific social setting unique to the person.

It's a rare and misunderstood disorder, and for Sal, who is a mild case, even with the term now being used at school, they felt he didn't need to go in for formal evaluation.  As the school year came to a close, my gut told me to pursue treatment.  I went to our pediatrician and told him that I had diagnosed my own son with a communication disorder and needed a therapist.  Since I am not in the habit of self-diagnosing, and the doctor that I got that day, who typically drives me crazy but is young and very receptive, said he'd be completely supportive of anything I needed and proceeded to brainstorm ideas for pediatric psychologists.

The search for a pediatric psychologist was a dead end.  Our pediatrician cautioned against going to just anyone and strongly advised us not to take him unless the counselor had experience with selective mutism. Once again, Facebook was to the rescue.  There are a few Facebook groups for parents with children suffering from selective mutism.  One of the posts asked if anyone had experience with the SMart Center and the comments came pouring in about how wonderful this place was and they cured their sons and daughters.  Guess where this SMart Center happens to be?  Jenkintown, PA, just under nine miles from our house.

We started treatment this summer and have been working on some goals outside the house to help Sal build confidence and deal with stressful situations.  The real test, though, is the third grade.  School is the place that causes the most anxiety and third grade is a monumental year for all children.  Sal is starting on an incredible journey this week.  This is what we've been waiting for.  So, yes, my thoughts have been with Sal these past two days.

And then there is Eli, who is my social butterfly and can make a friend anywhere he goes, and is the middle child, and just hasn't been getting the focus like we've been given to Sal and a demanding two year old little brother.  Eli goes with the flow, and we've been relying on him a lot to go with the flow.  He's really a remarkable child in how sensitive he is to others situations and he's quite supportive of his brothers.  We've taken him for granted, I'm sad to say.  He's becoming a teensy-weensy bit defiant, and we've been a teensy-weensy bit too hard on him for it.  So, yes, my thoughts are with him, too.

My prayers yesterday and today are for them both to feel loved and to feel confident, and for me to be the best mother I can to both of them, to support them, to understand them, and to just make them feel loved.        

Tomorrow Is the First Day of School!

Tomorrow is the first day of school for my oldest boys, third and first grades.  I often wonder what my mom worried about when she sent me off to school each year, if she even worried at all.  Seeing as how it is my mom, I know she had to have worried, but I wonder if her worries were ever as big as mothers today have.

We thought Columbine changed everything, but Columbine we could kind of rationalize.  The killers themselves were victims of bullying, of cries for help unanswered.  Then Sandy Hook happened and we realized there is no reason for any of it.  Sal was a first grader when Sandy Hook happened.  I don't know if it's just me, or if others are just really good at hiding it or pushing it aside, but I think about it a lot.  It was so close to me as a parent and an educator.  When the pictures of those children were broadcast, I saw him in every single face.

Sending our kids off to school takes on a whole new meaning now.  We pray for their success.  We pray for them to make friends and not be bullied.  We pray they don't sit alone at lunch.  We say all the prayers our mothers said for us.  But, we also pray they come back home because one day twenty first graders didn't.

So...

Dear God,

Please watch over and protect the children this new school year.  Keep them and the educators who watch over them safe.  May they have happy memories of their classes and grow as bright individuals, each with something wonderful to offer the world.

Amen  

Well, Hello 6 A.M.

Ha! Ha!  I did it!  I woke up even a little before 6 thanks to the cat and his bottomless pit, and it only took a couple of days.  I must confess that I did have a little help.  I'm watching a friend's son today while she has inservice and needed to get up early to be ready for his 8 o'clock drop off.

I have to say, I really love yoga, but I can't do the breathing.  I get so confused when to inhale and when to exhale and it just turns into this mess of huffing and puffing.  I've never taken a yoga class or spoken to a yogi, so I don't know just how important breathing is.  I know it's a big part of it.  Can you cheat on the breathing?  I try to be rhythmical, but I typically exhale when the DVD tells me to inhale.  Is this a bad thing?  I don't know!  I feel good after I'm done the workout, but I wonder would I feel even better??  Usually it's easier once I commit the workout to memory and can move at my own pace, but I'm not quite there yet and I'm planning to change DVD's as I go anyway, so I'm not sure how much I'll memorize.  Oh the yoga stress!  (See, I told you I am a great and wonderful worrier.)

Day 2: Lacking Zen

My first day of yoga practice was not as zen as I would have liked.  I planned to wake up at 6:00 a.m., drink some warm lemon water (which in one blog I read is "life changing"), and do a morning yoga workout on a Gaiam DVD titled "A.M./P.M. Yoga."  I have been planning on waking up at six every morning for the new school year so I don't feel so rushed and have some time for myself each day.  I did not wake up at six due to the baby having a rough night of sleep and my husband snoring...a lot.

Instead of stretching to the peaceful quiet of the early morning, I did the routine with an audience who giggled uncontrollably at the yoga instructor's tight underpants that showed his package with every stretch.  By the time the meditation portion of the workout came around, the dog had climbed onto my lap and was licking my face.  I also did not have my lemon water because I forgot to buy lemons, a necessity in making lemon water.

All that said, I still did the stretches and felt quite wonderful after them.  The P.M. segment went much smoother.  All boys tucked into bed without incident and even my husband stayed upstairs awhile while I did the second workout.  I wasn't planning on doing the relaxation portion of the workout, but finding myself completely alone (even the dog had perched herself elsewhere) I did lie there on the floor and attempt to still my body.

I decided last night that for the first week I will do just the A.M./P.M. yoga workouts since I was surprised at how little flexibility I had despite the fact that I do stretch every day.  I guess the cheating really was doing me wrong.  These two workouts will provide a nice introduction into more challenging segments later on.

I went to bed alone and having taken a Tylenol PM determined to wake up at 6 this morning.  Since the husband spent the night on the couch because of his snoring and the baby is a typically very sound sleeper, I thought I was golden. Unfortunately, baby had another rough night which can only be expected.  It seems that whenever I make a plan to make a change, there will always be those extra challenges to see just how committed I am.  I did not wake up at six again this morning, but the boys don't go back to school for another couple of days, so I'm good.

I also did not do my A.M. yoga workout yet.  Life again throws in those little hiccups.  I worked out a Plan B:  I'd eat, get a shower, and do the workout mid-morning with the boys as audience again.  The plan was a go, when after my shower my doorbell was ringing and there was my neighbor with her two grandsons.  Impromptu play date, which I was totally OK with.  It's a sweltering day and I had no idea what I was going to do with the boys for the entire day, so this was a nice distraction.  The boys are here now playing and having a wonderful time without any effort on my part.

Now, I could completely give up on the A.M. workout since I won't be able to do the workout in the A.M., but I'm determined not to cheat.  Plan C is now in effect .(Affect? I should know this, being an English teacher, but having five boys whirling about me is messing with my brain function.)  So what if I do A.M. yoga in the P.M.?  It's just an excuse and I'm really trying to be done with excuses.

My prayer for the day is quite a simple one.  I'm at a loss as to how to deal with the husband snoring.  He's stubborn.  He has refused any and all suggestions I have made, so this past summer he's spent a lot of time on the couch.  I really don't want to be one of those married couples who sleeps in separate rooms, especially after just ten years of marriage.  He is trying to lose some weight, and I, too, need to get back into focusing on that as well, so my prayer is for us to support and listen to each other in getting back to a healthier lifestyle both awake and asleep.  

Prayers and Poses, Day 1

This past summer I took a break from Facebook.  Facebook is simultaneously one of the most wonderful inventions and destroyer of the world.  Some friends of mine, actual friends, not Facebook "friends" did me wrong via Facebook.  While I was trying to maintain an actual friendship, they had relegated me to Facebook "friend".  That really, really hurts.  Sadly, I don't think they even realize it.  So, I took a break.  Maybe a little distance was in order.  Maybe some people don't deserve to be a part of my life and share in it virtually if when I reach out them to be an actual part of my life, they can't bother.

That was my first reason for the Facebook break.  The second was I was tired of seeing everyone's perfect lives.  I admit I completely fell into that trap of envy.  I feel I am a very honest Facebook user.  I try to share the good along with the bad.  So when friends who were now "friends" were posting all their "Life is good" posts and photos with their gourmet beet salads that ALL of their children eat, I believed it.  Ugh!  I'm such a sucker.  What did me in was a full blown meltdown on my part after seeing a friend post a nine day vacation kid-free for her anniversary.  I didn't even get a night with my husband for our anniversary.  No one would take my kids for even an evening.  I called my mom, completely laid into her with no warning, tears sloshing down my face over a Facebook post.  Now, I will admit, this was a good thing for my mom because it put into perspective just how much I do with my boys.  She was shocked to learn that grandparents actually take their grandkids for weeks at a time.  My boys don't have sleepovers at their grandparents, not my choice, not even for one night.  I didn't want nine days away from my kids.  My mom took them for a weekend.  It was a much needed break and very good for my parents to bond like that with the boys.  But I was ashamed.  I allowed Facebook to send me into this deep pit of jealousy and self-pity.  I was done.

OK, so a few months passed with no Facebook and it was quite nice.  We had a nice, simple summer at the local pool, went to the beach one day, hit up the library quite a bit, and just hung out together.  But, I had started watching Downton Abbey that I had borrowed from the library.  I got through Season 1, then Season 2, and then the dreaded Season 3.  I knew horrible things happen in season 3, but I had no idea how awful it would be.  I watched, I cried, my husband thought me crazy.  I went to Facebook to seek solace and wrote something to the affect of "I'm a little over halfway through Season 3 of Downton Abbey.  <sniff, sniff>  I know something bad is coming.  How will I ever make it to the end?"  Innocent enough, right?  Out of nowhere I was verbally attacked by my husband's family's foreign exchange student from some twenty-odd years ago.  I've met the girl once.  She's from Russia, I think, but now lives in China, I think.  I have never seen her post anything on Facebook.  I didn't even realize I was friends with her.  She wrote this biting comment about how she watches CNN and it makes her want to go to her medicine cabinet to overdose and isn't my life better than Downton Abbey.  I quipped back that I wasn't making a comment on the quality of my life, simply that I happened to enjoy a television show.  She suggested I switch shows to something that might make me feel better and help other people.  HELP OTHER PEOPLE!  The girl doesn't even know me!  She doesn't know the work I do or the type of kids I work with!  

See, God does send us signs and this one came in the form of some quack who lives on the other side of the world.  I was on a Facebook hiatus again.  So, since someone seemed to feel that I was an ungrateful little wretch because I happened to be wrapped up in a television show for one evening, please let me set the record straight, especially since I've been doing my fair share of bitching and moaning the past week or so writing this blog.

My first prayer for the month of September is a prayer of humble gratitude.  You see, I live a good life.  I am well-aware of it.

I once taught a group of particularly sensitive seventh graders.  ALL seventh graders are sensitive, but this class was especially hard on each other and themselves.  They were a special education group who were just that--very special, like diamonds in the rough special.  I loved those kids.  They were true, honest to the bone kids.  Anyway, one day one little girl said something about another boy's mother because he said something about her hair.  The entire class ganged up on this poor little girl whose life at home had very little affection.  She was a military kid and her family was run just like that.  She craved touch, affection, a mom who would braid her hair.  She was well-cared for and loved, but not the kind she needed.  The class couldn't understand how an insult to a person's mother was equivalent to an insult to a person's hair.  And then we melted down.  We talked about what it meant to this little girl (she had left the room) that her hair was unruly.  How her hair symbolized the absence of affection at home.  And then each kid talked about what hurt each one of them, from sexual harassment at age 13 to feeling stupid to being fat to being pressured to be in a gang.  We cried a lot that day, but we learned that pain is pain whether it's about your hair or your mom or your brother being shot and killed.  We learned that day to never diminish a person's struggles and pain.  Sadly, most adults I know still don't understand that.

 When I was pregnant with Eli it was discovered at his twenty week ultrasound that his kidneys were enlarged.  The problem typically resolves itself after birth, but his never did.  We were sent to St. Christopher's Children's Hospital in Philadelphia for a series of tests.  Long story, short, the tests were inconclusive.  We repeated the tests the first two years of his life, often being sent home because they couldn't get IV's in him and having to return weeks later to have him undergo sedation.  The pediatric urologist told us at a year and a half that if anything serious were to result from his condition, it would be in the next year.  We waited.  We waited for a fever, for his diaper to stop being wet, for anything that would send us to the hospital for emergency surgery.  It never happened.  The group of urologists termed him a "mystery" and kept all of his ultrasounds and test results for review.

Something should have happened.  Something should have gone wrong.  Nothing did.  Just a year ago his kidney started to appear "normal".  We were in the clear.  His urologist was very pleased and didn't want to see us again for eighteen months.  Our relief was indescribable.

I think the worst comment someone can say to another is, "Well, at least you don't..."  When we were going through this ordeal with Eli, someone said to me, "Well, at you don't have twins.  So-and-so is going through the newborn phase times two."  But that so-and-so also had two healthy babies.  I didn't know if my baby was healthy or not.  Our struggles are relative.  At each of our visits to St. Christopher's I saw many, many children who were clearly unhealthy, much worse off than my baby.  My heart broke for those families, but when it was just us alone in the room with Eli lying there still as death under deep sedation as the test ran its hour long scan, you're only struggle is what is there before you.

So, yes, I am an extremely grateful person for the life I have, and today I offer up to God my most extreme and heartfelt thanks for all the could have beens and should have beens that never were.