I am Featured at Red Dress Club!

I have been interviewed by The Red Dress Club as their feature for the week! This is very exciting stuff! Please hop on over and check it out! Go on, do it. Click HERE!

Beauty has been Here All Along

This weekend I kicked off the damn boots and allowed myself to enjoy the beauty around me. Beauty was right in front of my face. In fact, it’s been here all along.

We went camping on Friday night. An event I would typically avoid with many excuses ready to go.

I don’t sleep well when I camp.

I’m too tired after a long work week.

Parker will get up too early.

It’s not worth the trouble to get everything ready for one night.

I have things to do.

What if I have to poop?

And so on and so on.

Uncharacteristically, I thought, “Yeah, let’s go. Let’s do it.” I figured, it was one of our last chances before colder weather starts.

We even encountered several obstacles that tried to keep us from going up the mountain.

Our new air mattress that was delivered, according to UPS records, at 1:00 pm on Thursday at our porch was stolen. Richard would get home later than usual from work on Friday because he was waiting for parents to pick up their kids from school after a field trip. I was tired, so tired, after a day that didn’t seem to give up. I forgot to pack wine.

Still, we persisted.

And I am so glad we did.

We live right at the base of part of the front range of the Rocky Mountains. Only moments away, we are on a dirt road, climbing up, up, up. We set up camp at just above 10,000 feet next to a little stream, good for splashing, “fishing” (pretend play, people), and hunting for toadstools.

In the morning, as we drove down, down, down the mountain, we kept the windows open, better to feel the breeze and smell the pine. I had a wildflower in my hair, sitting atop my ear, given to me by my son. Only a few times, we passed others in their jeeps and trucks. Here and there, a peace sign flashed out the window in greeting to us.

Summer is still holding on, and we’re not letting go.

Shock Value

Red Writing Hood prompt of the week:

An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver's door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.

I stare, stunned, as each piece of glass crashes to the floor. It is deafening.

There is a moment, almost a breath, between complete silence and my gasp of surprise and fear. The world slows down, my body slows down, and I observe.

Two women start to rush in concern at the little girl, but they stop as the lights go off, and the gallery is masked in darkness.

A shrill scream cuts through the air. I feel a tension in the crowd that is bound to release imminent chaos.

A spotlight suddenly appears! It is shining right on the little girl, highlighting her dark appearance. I am struggling to understand the scene before me.

My fear begins to shift toward confusion. I look around. The art patrons are doing the same. Then, we all stare at the captivating figure of the girl before us.

A small smile starts to play at her lips, like she just can’t resist it. She is wearing a black tunic, black leggings, black ballet flats, and a smart little black beret sits atop her head.

An unseen announcer cuts through the air, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I present you the guest you have all been waiting for! The star of our evening! The genius behind our art show tonight, Provocation! She is an artist and a creator, and she will change the way we view art FOREVER! I give you SAMANTHA CELESTE!”

Before anyone can think of whether they should applaud, a waiter appears in the spotlight. Each movement is graceful. Each movement is carefully orchestrated and heavy with purpose. He keeps one hand behind his back and holds a tray out to the girl. Without even looking at him, Samantha lifts the glass of sparkling cider, takes a sip, and then throws the glass down. On the floor, glass shatters against glass.

There seems to be a thousand separate and distinct reactions in the crowd. Some gasp. Some nervously laugh. Whispers are in the air. Some simply stare. Surely, I think, some try to hold back tears, not even understanding why they may cry.

Every event of the evening has been an assault on my own senses. I notice my first cohesive thought since the window crashed around us, “What grand behavior at such a young age.”

This is when the applause begins. And gets louder. And more confident. People begin shouting.

“Bravo!”

“Brilliant! LIVE ART!”

“Genius!”

Lights slowly fade on, jazzy music begins again, waiters circulate.

I grab two glasses of champagne off the nearest tray, chug them down, and head for the exit.

Samantha Celeste walks among her admirers, soaking in every compliment, expecting every single one.

I Am a Foxy Mama!

But, of course, you already knew that. I am the one that needs to be reminded of that sometimes.

Damn it feels good to say it.

I AM A FOXY MAMA!

That's right.

A big thank you goes out to Mommy Spirit for giving me the Foxy Mama Award!


This award is given when a blogger shows 1) they love and would do anything for their children, 2) they're fiercely loyal to their families, 3) they're highly supportive of other bloggers, and 4) they have a wonderful sense of humor and positive attitude that brings both laughter and inspiration to our lives.

That all sounds nice, but I would also like to add that the Foxy Mama Award is for bloggers, who with their insane ability to write, inspire, make others laugh, and make others think - they use this power to make others believe that they are really FOXY HOT! Ha! Fabulous, right?

I will now pass this award on to some others. I wish I could award you all, but my fingers would fall off from doing all the dreaded linky-techy stuff, for crying out loud. And, I want to give out some specific ones because it is always fun to get a little specific recognition, I think.

Mommy Loves Stilettos
A Nut in a Nutshell
Finding My Weigh
Deep Fried Fruit
Adventures in Extreme Parenting
Funny is the New Young
No Points for Style

I also still need to pay-it-forward on the Blogger Rock Star Award that I received a while back from Handbags and Handguns! Here are a few recipients for this kick-ass award:

Wanderlust
Scary Mommy
Mommy Wants Vodka

Now that is all taken care of, let's go drink some champagne and celebrate ourselves! Or drink something. For crying out loud.

"F Bombs Help you Live Longer"

You all know that I watch some quality TV programming, right? My shows tend to fall into two general categories:

1. Reality TV (which also includes the fabulous reality TV SPIN-OFF shows)

2. Paid cable TV shows that are full of the naughty stuff

To give you just a sampling of what I get shamelessly excited about:

The crazy bitches on The “Real” Housewives of (insert city here). And, yes, they are ALL crazy bitches.

Bethenny Getting Married? (She’s still a crazy bitch, but in a good way.)

Bachelor/Bachelorette (I don’t know when people who go on this show will realize that it doesn’t really work for them.)

Bachelor Pad (Pure entertainment.)

Survivor (The CLASSIC reality competition TV show)

Big Brother (I haven’t yet been bothered enough by the fact that it is the same show every season just with different bodies.)

Nurse Jackie (Addiction + Adultery = AWESOME TV!)

Californication (Cursing, nudity, and sex. Yessss.)

Weeds (Drugs and Dramady!)

United States of Tara (Guess what? This chick has multiple personalities, and when she needed a therapist, well…she just became one! Talk about multi-tasking.)

Also (some honorable mentions): Teen Mom, Intervention, The Real World, Jersey Shore, Last Comic Standing, Project Runway (or, Project WunWay, as my husband likes to imitate Heidi Klum), etc. There are others, but these are, clearly, the STAND OUTS.

Naturally, I would be exposed to some pretty inspirational thoughts and ideas after watching some of the above. But there are a few, key quotes that I have particularly enjoyed this week that I’d love to share with you.

“F bombs help you live longer.” – Kathy Griffin (My Life on the D List)

“Word to your mother.” – Bethenny Frankel (Bethenny Getting Married, upon learning that she could drink her beer while breastfeeding.)

“I hate floaters.” - Interestingly enough, this has been heard on MULTIPLE shows. And, taken out of context, could have many meanings, which is why it has potential to be such a fun phrase.

"How about a new show called Family Medication Swap?" - from Last Comic Standing (I am sorry, I do not remember which comic said it. It was actually one of the judges, and I do not remember his name.)

Some may wonder why I expose myself to such...fluffy...shit (for lack of a better word). Some may think, "Geez, Kristy, you are so smart. Like genius smart. Why do you watch that stuff?"

Simply, it makes me laugh. It puts a smile on my face. I shake my head and give a low chuckle. I believe that it is very important, indeed, to be entertained and laugh every day.

So, how about you? What has inspired you this week? What quality TV programming do you indulge in? What entertains you and makes you laugh?

Murphy's Law, An Illustration

What is it about having a child that really drives home the Murphy’s Law experience?

You know what I’m talking about.

JUST as your child is finally drifting off to sleep for a nap, the neighbor dog’s shrill bark cuts through the air right to your nervous system. (I’m still accepting offers for anyone experienced in assassination for that dog, by the way.)

JUST when you finally have the motivation to exercise and lose that baby weight, you start to get sick.

You use all your sick days because you are home with a sick child, and then you get sick when your days at work are all used up.

The only thing your child will eat for lunch is macaroni and cheese (or else you must endure THE FIT), and guess what you just ran out of?

These are just a few examples.

Let me tell you a story about last night.

It has been busy times around here. The last few nights, my husband has been getting home late for various reasons, so it has felt especially busy. After dinner last night, my husband took the maniac outside to run around.

I felt no guilt as I decided to take an opportunity to watch a little TV off my neglected Tivo list. I had been wanting to see the last 45 freakin’ minutes of Bachelor Pad for three days. It was finally my chance! I was a few minutes into it when…

(You know what’s coming, right?)

Screaming, hell, and tarnation. In an instant.

My hub is banging at the backdoor, yelling at me to open it with a hysterical Parker in his arms.

Panic mode: ON.

The poor bub was ATTACKED by a Yellow Jacket! Wasp Fucker.

He had done nothing to provoke it either! He was doing his thing, mowing the lawn with his bubble mower – a job he finds great satisfaction in. We were unaware that a wasp hive had taken residence in our garden. My husband thinks the bubbles must have pissed off the idiot-rage-filled wasps.

Of course, Parker was in a lot of pain, but there was no dangerous, life-threatening reaction occurring, so we gave him ibuprofen and tried to soothe him as best as possible.

Richard looked up information on the Internet and found that Yellow Jackets become particularly aggressive and can attack with no provocation in the late summer. I know, what the?! Well, anyways, there goes the whole “stand still and they’ll leave you alone” theory. I always knew that was bullshit. If I see a wasp or a bee, I scream and run and jump, and I have never been stung dammit. It is, apparently, an effective way to handle these things and not “silly” like my husband previously tried to convince me.

The moral of this story is: fuck wasps.

Maybe tonight I can watch five more minutes of Bachelor Pad?? Or, maybe that is hoping for too much.

Give 'Em THE FOOT

In case you hadn’t guessed already, our family is a little…weird. Off. Different. Unique.

Whatever you want to call it.

For example, it is a sign of affection in our family to “Give The Foot!”

When saying good night, I tell my son to “Give Daddy The Foot!”

Parker proudly lifts his foot in the air at my husband, and my husband does it back. Everyone laughs and smiles.

In the living room, sitting on the couch, while we’re chillin’ out, maxin’ and relaxin’, we spontaneously give The Foot to show we love each other.

Hey, Parker, show these people how we roll. Give them The Foot!

Feel the love. Get The Foot!

There you go. From our family to yours.

I Want my Mommy

As my own mother flies out today to be with her mother, my grandma, I remember a phrase that I heard over and over and over last week at work:

“I WANT MY MOMMY!”

You see, last week was the first day of school for our little ones at the elementary where I work. There is always at least one child screaming this ancient phrase straight from the gut.

Also being a mommy myself, I know that a little separation anxiety incites pretty strong emotion for everyone in the vicinity. My heart went out to the mom trying to pry her 6 year old son off of her body as she made her way out the door. This boy’s father just deployed for another tour in Iraq. He had moved with his mom to a brand new (military) town and was attending a brand new school.

“He never did this in kindergarten! I don’t know why he is doing this now!” The mother kept saying apologetically.

“Well, there’s been a lot of change lately,” I murmured, looking down at this boy – he was in panic mode, and I was assessing the situation.

I looked at the mom and told her, “When you are ready to go, we will be ready, and I’m sure he’ll calm down soon after you leave.”

The counselor and I braced for the fit that was sure to come as the mom left.

Needless to say, this little 6 year old had the energy for one, big, giant fit. And we were with him the whole way. We waited as long as it took, offering reassurances here and there as he cried over and over, “I want my mommy!”

I would quietly rub his back and say, “I know. I know it’s hard. You will see your mommy after school.”

About an hour later, he was ready to go to class and he’s been fine ever since. The counselor called the mom at home to let her know that he was fine and in class.

(All those mommies out there, you KNOW that mom breathed a big sigh of relief and thought, “Thank God!” Because a happy child with his butt in school makes for a happy mommy, right?)

Well, this is not the hardest case of separation anxiety I have dealt with before, and I’m sure it will not be the last. Sometimes I have a bit of separation anxiety myself. Sometimes I want MY mommy.

There’s just nothing quite being with your mom to help you feel like everything is going to be alright.

Rock Star Award

Handbags and Handguns has given me the Rock Star Award! How freakin' cool is that? Especially from Handbags and Handguns because her blog never fails to entertain me AND indulge my love of celebrity gossip. (I may not give a crap about the whinings and complainings of some people, but I CERTAINLY want to know about what a moron Mel Gibson's been lately.)

Needless to say, I am grateful. The only thing is...I haven't been feeling like much of a rock star lately.

Don't get me wrong. You know that I usually do feel like a rock star - it is our GOD GIVEN RIGHT to feel like a freakin' rock star once in a while, right?!

The sad thing is that one of the women that made me the rock star I am today has been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, and we're just all stunned by this news, and at this moment that I am wanting to write a post, be thankful to Handbags and Handguns, make my readers laugh, and well...all I can really think of is my grandma.

So, near the end of a long work week, with a headache that just won't give up, I need to just be with my family. This is the first night since the week began that I have had this much time home in the evening. My grandma would want me to just BE with my bub, and my hub, and this poor, neglected cat. Off I will go, to do what is most important in my life. Be with the ones I love. Much love to you all.

(I promise I will give this award out to some other awesome Rock Star bloggers sometime soon).

We are Allowed to be in Awe of Ourselves

I have been inspired. I have been inspired by a couple of different women this week.

You must check out an incredible poem written by one of my favorite bloggers, Kristin Brumm of Wanderlust. The poem is titled, "Woman, A History." What a tribute to women everywhere.

Also, The Mommyologist is hosting Embrace Your Body Week this week.

This link-up is all about sharing (through pic or vlog) something that you love about your body! Go give the ladies at The Mommyologist some support!

My gawd, we are women, hear us ROAR, for crying out loud.

Do you notice a theme here?

Yes, we are allowed to be in awe of ourselves.

I am in awe of myself. It is true. Not only do I have Mad Skills Mothering, but I got my butt out of bed this morning before work and worked out to Jillian Michaels. Then, I dropped the maniac at daycare, stopped at Starbucks, went to work and prepared for presentations I give tomorrow, stayed late for Meet the Teacher night, had already left instructions for dinner for the husband, and will hopefully get to enjoy my family and a glass of wine before I fall, exhausted, into bed tonight.

AND I took the time to actually tell you all about this, and link up to Mommyologist, and pimp out Wanderlust.

What’s that you say? I’m supposed to have a pic or video to accompany my Mommyologist linky-participation?

Well, I just can’t do everything.

How about I paint you a visual?

This morning, as I was grunting and panting and thought I was going to DIE (no, I was not in labor, I was working out with Jillian Michaels, remember?), I was on my 25th freakin’ jackknife ab move (because Jillian wants to kill me), and I thought that my calves looked kind of cute circling through the air.

In the early morning my ankles hadn’t swelled yet, and you know how your calves always look considerably better when they are sticking straight in the air? (Ummm, unless you don’t spend much time in that position. And, neither do I, GEESH! Only when I’m doing my sporadic workouts, I swear.) Well, anyways, gravity must be a good thing when your body parts are upside down. There I was, in my sports bra and ankle socks, and tenny shoes. I felt so…sporty. And, accomplished. And TIRED. In a good way. I guess.

So, I really didn’t care that much that my husband’s view may have been a jiggling butt while I “pretended” to jump rope (yeah, Jillian is THAT fun) or a bit of cellulite peeking through the shorts.

What I could see were cute little calves pumping through the air.

What I could feel was a heart that was beating strong and sweat that soaked my face.

I felt like a hunk-a hunk-a burnin' love (and, believe me, so did my abs).

Shout it to the world. Shout it to YOURSELF. What do you embrace about your body?

Just for Fun - Sunday Snippet

By the end of the night, I was quite tipsy, so I decided to pay my bill. Others around me kept drinking and keeping the night alive. As soon as I paid, I regretted it. I wanted more, but only a little. I purposefully scanned for unwanted but enticing drinks. I found a nice, clear cocktail that I began to sip.

“Hey! That’s my gin and tonic!” said a co-worker, quite inflamed.

“No,” I said. “It’s my mojito.”

After that, only a dropped jaw from the co-worker. I smiled. He looked around.

“For some reason, Kristy is renaming my drinks!” He shouted to anyone nearby.

But, nobody cared, and I kept drinking.

The Sunday Snippet is brought to you by Pure Unadulterated Softthistle.

Trying to be Small

This post is for the Red Dress Club prompt: Write a narrative poem from the point of view of someone, anyone, in a family.

Trying to be Small

I came home
After years away.
Broken and tired
I forgot my shame.

I crawled into your lap.
(I was awkward and long)
I folded myself up and in,
Trying to be small.

I tried to bury my mistakes
As people do
When life is new,
And you only fear your truth.

I needed something.
I needed you
To tell me…anything,
But I pulled away too soon.

Because two broken people
Cannot fix one another.
They cannot heal
The wounds of the other.

How much is a daughter
Allowed to question her father?
How much is a daughter
Asked to believe of her father?

Is it forbidden to ask
How much?
How much did you care?
How much did you want me to move off your lap?

How much does a father
Want to know his daughter?
How much does a father
Believe in his daughter?

How much was left behind
For a chase that haunted you?
How much was negotiated between
Somewhere and home?

What is in between us now?

A Safe Place

One of Mama Kat’s writing prompts this week asked about a time that you pushed yourself out of your comfort zone.

Some background before I write to the prompt:

I am a school psychologist at an elementary school. Last year, we had a self-contained program for students with emotional and behavioral disorders. I knew that it would be challenging to get a program like this started and there would be so much to learn about in working with the children. How would I be a positive influence in their lives? How could I teach them coping skills that could help them? These thoughts were only the tip of an iceberg of worries and fears I had.

At the same time, I also knew that I absolutely, with all my heart, love children. I relate to children well and have had so many successful and positive experiences over the years with children and their families, so I was pretty confident in my abilities to build meaningful relationships with the kids in this program. I figured - the rest? Well, I would have to take things as they came, remember my past learnings, and trust my gut on what was right.

What I learned over that year was more than I could have ever imagined possible. I came to fondly call the group of students in that program, “the boys,” or, “our boys” since they happened to be all boys (which is, unfortunately, common in programs like this).

I learned that some of our students come from unimaginable backgrounds and have already, at very young ages, withstood some of the most traumatic abuses possible. In some, if not all cases, they have been hurt deeply physically and emotionally, have been abandoned and bounced around, and have built thick, almost impenetrable walls of defense around their hearts as a result. All of them carried multiple medical diagnoses like juvenile bipolar, intermittent rage disorder, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, oppositional defiant disorder, etc., and had medication “schedules.”

I came to understand that the best I could do was attempt to understand these children and their families, learn from them, and help them learn from each other. The best I could do was BE with them. To be a constant and stable force in their lives. To help them re-learn trust. To help them re-learn safety. To help them use their words and communicate their experiences and thoughts. To help them use creative outlets of expression. To help them learn about and embrace their feelings rather than only reacting to their feelings.

I usually do not write too much about work-related things on this blog, but here I will write a story from my experiences in the most confidential, careful way I can. Names have been changed and no identifying information exists.

A Safe Place

I was called over the intercom to assist in the Affective Needs room. This usually meant that at least one child was “in crisis.” While walking as quickly as I could to the room, I was not sure what I would find there. Whenever I was called to the room during a crisis, I pushed worry and fear (“Will I be able to handle this? Will I know what to do? Will the child respond to me? Will the child attack me? Is somebody hurt?) out of my head and tried to convey a feeling of calmness and stillness within.

I took a breath before opening the door.

The classroom was no longer a classroom. It was chaos. It was a tornado of paper, pencils, chairs, desks, tables, stickers, erasers, folders, cubbies, and any other material you can think of that exists in a classroom. All the children, except one, had been taken to work in the library. Sean was in the middle of the chaos, the creator of the chaos.

Everything had been ripped off the walls andhad joined the pile of debris that filled the room. All tables and chairs and desks had been thrown or overturned. All contents of all desks had been spilled.

Sean slowly paced the room, breathing heavily, eyes darting around looking for damage to be done.

I thought he was ignoring my presence. I had slipped in quietly and was taking a quiet moment to assess Sean’s actions and the environment. A teacher’s assistant stood in an adjacent corner, supervising.

In this state, Sean was a like a calculating, scared tiger. If he was approached, he would lash out. So we would wait for a moment, just the right moment when we could be let in, and we would try to diffuse, to calm, to bring safety back. Until then, we could only watch him destroy things that were, in this situation, less important than Sean’s dignity and our safety.

I knew he was no longer ignoring me when he began to throw tacks at me. One by one, each tack was thrown from the box. I would simply move away slowly, calmly from each small missile. I showed no reaction.

I looked at Sean. There was a bit of himself shining through in those dark eyes. He wasn’t completely out of control. He was starting to get tired.

I carefully walked over to the radio and put on some soft music. I knew that Sean liked music. Without words (which can so easily escalate a person), I wanted to show him that, no matter what the room looked like, no matter the anger he had inside him, no matter the mistake he had made, and no matter the tacks he threw at me, I still cared about him and who he was.

Softly, softly, “Sean, will you talk with me about what’s going on?”

A tack zoomed by. Just one tack. Then, more pacing.

“You can handle this. Whatever it is, you will be able to handle it.” I said.

“NO! I WON’T! I’VE RUINED EVERYTHING! IT’S NOT OK! I’M HAVING A RED DAY!” Tears and snot ran freely down his face, he rushed to the desk, to the computer and started to pick it up.

“Sean. Don’t. Put it down. Don’t make it worse.”

He put it down. “IT’S NOT OK! IT WILL NEVER BE OK!”

He ran over to the corner of the room, found some broken wall dividers, created a make-shift tent, and crawled underneath, barricading himself.

This was a good sign. He was starting to think. He had stopped himself from throwing the computer. He talked to me. He was no longer pacing. He would calm down. Somehow, we would work it out.

“Whenever you are ready to talk, just show me your hand.” I said.

I waited. I looked around at all the damage, the physical evidence of a boy who had turned every confusing emotion swirling in him into anger. I had come to know Sean very well, and even though I did not yet know the event that had caused this rage episode, I knew that it had everything to do with him trying to maintain one small shred of his dignity. Sean had many deep fears. Fears of humiliation, fears of failing, fears of abandonment, fears of not being good enough or perfect enough. Anything that threatened him and his fleeting sense of worth was punished swiftly and harshly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tips of his fingers peek out from under his shelter and then quickly retreat back. This was my signal, this was the white flag.
I approached his make-shift tent. He was laying on his side, curled in a ball. There was really no good way for me to sit with him, so I got on the ground and leaned on my elbow.

The truth was, I had grown comfortable with the floor over time. When I’m called into a classroom, and the students look at me with wide eyes and then point to a corner of the room, I know I will probably be crawling under a table, squeezing into a small place in order to try and reach the child that has given up on the world around him.

Sean began to tightly mumble, almost inaudibly. “Mrs. Schultz, she was mean to me. She corrected me on my paper.”

I just asked him questions about the incident and listened. I never lied to him and told him it was OK, don’t worry about it. I did not sugar coat or ignore the rejection he so deeply felt. I would simply say in kid’s terms, “That sucks. That’s hard to be corrected.”

He went on to explain that he was mostly upset that now he would have a “red day” which holds various consequences within his classroom. I would say, “Yep. It’s a red day, that is true, but you can handle it. Whatever the consequences are, you will deal with them and survive. You’re a strong guy.”

“I know,” he sheepishly said.

This was not a moment for a lesson on anger management and impulse control. We would do that in group time the next day when learning could actually take place and Sean’s mind was not in crisis. This was a time for accepting consequences and trying to make things right for the rest of the day.

“You know what you have to do?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Sean got up and slowly started cleaning the room. He put up the desks, put the tables right, gathered the students’ folders, reorganized them, and put them in their desks. It was painstaking and slow and quiet. He gathered the torn posters from the wall, put them as nicely as he could on the teacher’s desk and said, “I ripped these down. Maybe I can fix it tomorrow?”

“Yes, just set them there,” I said.

The teacher’s assistant went to find the rest of the class to let them know it was safe to return to the classroom.

By the time the rest of the class came back, Sean was sitting at his desk, quietly working on his math. The boys came in and went to their desks, seemingly unfazed by the events of the afternoon, content that it was not them that time to have lost control.

There was only about a half an hour left in the school day, so I did a few things before making sure I walked with the class out to their own, special bus. The boys got on their bus, and some of them were shouting “Bye!” to the teachers and to me and shouting at each other in fun.

Sean got to his seat and looked at me and gave me a small smile. The bus began to pull away. I waved goodye to the boys, but Sean was the only one still looking, still paying attention to the teachers at the curb. He put his hand up, against the window and never moved it until the bus rounded the corner, out of sight.

Going Back to Work (Time to Make the Donuts)

I start back to work. Tomorrow.

Sigh.

What more appropriate way to kick this off then by participating in Post-It Note Tuesdays with Supah Mommy?!

One should always have goals in the workforce. Well, here are mine. Since I took the time to put my goals on post-it notes, I'll surely remember them, right?...Right????

Blast from the Past Meme

I was tagged in a meme by Nic at Diary of a Domestically Challenged Housewife. Yes, you read me right - Nic is back after a little blogging hiatus. She has returned with a meme kick-off to re-post your very first blog post EVER.

And, thank goodness for that, because it is Sunday, and I am going to go RELAX. Before I go, I must say that it was fun to look back at this first post and remember how blog dumb I was. I called it, "my column," and I thought I would actually be able to write a post every day. Without further ado, here is my post from January of this year 2010. (See below for who I have tagged in this meme.)

Welcome to my Column!

I never imagined all the feeling and downright angst that goes into having a child. My son is the world to me and makes my heart twist and turn with that gleam in his eye. My chest cavity actually hurts when I look at him sometimes because of the love and pure emotion that runs through me. Today he is 22 months and 8 days old. A lot of hard work, tears, intense ups and downs, worrying, laughter, second guessing, and (did I mention worrying?) has gone into the last 22 months and 8 days.

Motherhood, in addition to the impact it can have on a marriage, was way more than I had originally bargained for. And I wouldn’t take any of it back. It is my journey and my family’s journey, and even though some days and weeks can seem very long, most of it flies by and we must remind ourselves that we’ve really only just begun. There will still be many nights ahead when we wonder if there will be any tiny amount of energy left to enjoy retirement and an empty nest. Just as there are nights that I am sappily, hopelessly grateful that my son wants to cuddle and I hope it lasts for hours.

As I write this, I am enjoying the last day of a 3 day weekend. I am yet again ignoring the need for a workout. I can hear Nick Jr. in the distant background downstairs. I feel gluttonous as I have sequestered myself away with the laptop upstairs in my bedroom and a single vodka cranberry cocktail. I can hear my husband and son outside doing what boys do best – playing with tools and cars, crawling around on the ground getting dirty. My purring cat looks gloriously content to be enjoying a moment alone with me. Before a full time job, motherhood, and (this new term I discovered) “housewifery” takes its toll each day, I will try to reclaim my desire to create, write, and BE who I am-even for one small column a day!

Well, there you have it. The beginning of greatness.

I tag the following because I would love to check out their first post without pilfering through their archives (I'm a little lazy like that.):

Wanderlust
Dani's Letters
Mummy Time
Fighting Off Frumpy
Airing My Dirty Laundry, One Sock at a Time
Alabaster Cow
From the Inside Out
Mommypants
Peeling an Orange with a Screwdriver
Random Ramblings of a SAHM
Things I Can't Say