Gidday

The day has arrived. We are New Zealand bound.

We had friends over last night and I drank too much. My head hurts this morning.

As predicted, we made one last trip to the orthodontist but at least it was yesterday afternoon during rush hour and not this morning. I don't think Olivia likes me much anymore. Her new upper appliance has left her without the ability to place her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Things like swallowing and talking have become so much more challenging for her. She is not impressed.

The only thing left to do before skipping out the door is our morning hygiene. I'm putting on my prettiest knickers so that when I am plucked out of the security line up and asked to go through the porno screener, I'll be prepared. Or maybe I'll opt for the enhanced pat down instead since I'm feeling a bit frisky.

It's nearly one o'clock Wednesday morning in New Zealand right now. We arrive in Auckland on Thursday afternoon at 5:12 pm. I should probably try to sleep another hour or two, eh? It's going to be a LONG 30 plus hours.

Did I mention my head hurts?

I think it's time for coffee and that shower.
And maybe a cold glass of water with a couple of ibuprofen because it's here. The day is finally here.

Southern Hemisphere Bound

After work today, I am going to begin packing. I'm all atingle at the thought of breaking out my shorts and tees.

LIAR!

I will admit that I'm thrilled to be heading to summer but one glance at my pasty skin in the mirror this morning gave me serious pause. Cellulite looks especially ugly in white. Time to investigate self tanning products. I'm just worried that instead of appearing pleasantly sunkissed, I'll end up looking like someone who needs a liver transplant. No matter though, I've decided pumpkin is a pretty shade for my arse.

The next three days are going to be filled with all the minutae I should have handled weeks before now.

Like teacher gifts. What in the world do you get for them? What adequately expresses the gratitude you feel for their compassion and their seemingly infinite reserves of patience? Tequila? I bet there are a lot of educators out there who'd prefer a bottle to another bloody box of chocolates.

What about the bus driver? The same man chauffers both of my children safely to and from school every day. He has made it a point to know their names. He says, "Good morning" and means it. The trouble is, we don't know a thing about him beyond his name. You know what? I sometimes suck as a human being.

I have cat food and hearing aid batteries to buy and a trip survival kit to assemble for each of the children. I need a pedicure and Botox. I have Christmas cards to finish and mail. My roots are showing. I should probably clean the house (but I won't) and I need to lay my hands on the ten adapters I own but cannot seem to locate otherwise, we will be forced to (gasp) unplug. Can I tell you how frightened I am at the prospect traveling with my children for over thirty hours? But it will all be worth it, right?

Case and point: my most excellent, blow-soda-through-your-nose-funny, sister-in-law sent me a text last night which I received at 12:27am. It read:

OK. Hammered. Could you hurry up please. I need some one equally messy to get drunk with.

Note: It was 7:27pm in New Zealand when she sent this. I LOVE her even though she is slightly younger, has bigger boobs, fewer wrinkles and a drinking problem. I'm on my way Leisa.

It's going to be tough for me to blog for the next while but I'll try to at least update with a few bits and some pictures here and there. I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday whether you celebrate Christmas, Hannukah or Kwanzaa.

Catch you soon from Down Under.

Rangima'arie & aroha

(Picture care of Roblespepe, via Wikimedia Commons)

Murphy is not my friend

Murphy's Law is the rule, not the exception in my life.

Example #1:

In a mere four days, I will be boarding a plane with my family to head off to the land of the long white cloud, Aotearoa. There will be laughter, libations and for me, there will be work. Of course. For the last several weeks, I have carefully planned for this extended vacation. I've informed my clients, pushed to have meetings moved up and generally been doing everything in my power to ensure that I can have this time unencumbered with career obligations.

But it is not to be and that's ok because I understand that business moves on regardless of my scheduled holidays and having to complete some light follow up is a small price to pay to have the gift of working from home.

Example #2:

Remember the dog I told you about? Well, Dallas and I had to call the police over last week because it got so bad. The officer was a huge, hulking chunk of man who was surprisingly gentle in his conversation with us. He was quite willing to go knock on our neighbour's door but suggested it might be better received if we made that visit first before sending someone in uniform over. I despise confrontation. My husband avoids it like the plague, as well. We were both squeamish at the thought of having to confront these people about their dog. We were also resentful at having to go over there in the first place because it was our belief that they had to know there was a problem and were just choosing to ignore it.

Well yesterday, my landlady dropped by to pick up a package that had been shipped to our house instead of hers. We chat and she tells me that the people with the dog lost their four year old child last year. I cannot even imagine. It's my guess that the sound of their barking dog is easily muted by the deafening silence of a dead child's empty room. We will put up with the noise.

Finally, I have example #3 which hasn't happened yet:

I am pretty sure that first thing Tuesday morning, in the midst of harried, final packing preparations and before we leave for the airport, my daughter will be sitting in an orthodontist's chair requiring an adjustment to her upper appliance. We have been monitoring things for a couple of days now since it was installed but I just know, given the way my family rolls, that we will get one last opportunity to wish our orthodontist and his staff a Merry Christmas.

Mark. My. Words.

I'm Barking Mad

The people who live adjacent to our house have two dogs. One is a small, yippy breed that we only see once in a while. The other is a big, black lab. He appears to live outside.

He barks. Constantly. It's making us crazy.

I feel sorry for him because dogs are social creatures and that poor thing is outside all day long by himself. He's out at night, too, because we hear him. Barking.

It wouldn't be bad if he picked more opportune times to howl like a banshee but he seems to start at about 4:00pm and doesn't quit until after bedtime. Their backyard borders our kitchen, family room and unfortunately, our bedroom so a majority of the time, it feels like we have a barking dog in the house. It's awful.

We haven't made a visit over to the neighbour's house for a couple of reasons. First, we are new here and frankly, we didn't want to start off on the wrong foot with anyone. Second, we saw a "For Sale" sign in their yard, which made our hearts leap with hope. They would move and the problem would be solved, right? Unfortunately, no. We heard that the house has been for sale for a very long time with no bites.

I don't understand it, though. Why have a dog, especially one who has big exercise and social needs, if you don't love him enough to bring him inside and make him a part of the family? He's clearly an afterthought to them. It's sad.

So now, we are out of options. We are going to have to knock on their door and politely ask them to do something about the dog. I think I might take a plate of brownies with me. You know, "Hi. We're your new neighbours. Can you silence that infernal barking, please? Here, have some chocolate."

Accident Update

It just occurred to me that there might be a few of you out there wondering how things turned out for Olivia in regards to her surgery. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be deliberately mysterious.

Last Tuesday, we arrived at the hospital at 6:00am to a waiting room full of people who weren't well and those tasked with accompanying them to their outpatient surgeries. It wasn't a happy place.

Within the hour, Olivia had been processed through admissions and assigned a makeshift room in the back where we changed her into her hospital gown. The anaesthesiologist came in first to take a thorough history. He was fun, talked directly to Olivia and made every effort to explain the smallest details to her. He was masterful at managing her expectations so that her fear factor (and by extension, mine) was eliminated.

Next, Liv's nurse came in with whacks of paperwork designed to check and balance. For instance, one consent form described the surgery. After reading it, I said that I thought the description was wrong and we agreed to wait for the doctor to clarify before I signed it. Turns out, the description was for an entirely different procedure and the doctor seemed grateful we'd found the error.

Speaking of the doctor, he was wonderful. Being technologically savvy and keenly understanding a parent's anxiety, he had the presence of mind to photograph the inside of Olivia's hand before and after the nerve repair through a magnification loop. Thus, when we met with him in recovery, he was able to show us the extent of the damage and the repair. I know that may sound gross to some but for me, seeing a picture of Liv's nerve reattached and stripped of a neuroma that had formed, gave me enormous comfort. He was not able to save the artery, which apparently is not a big deal since the thumb has two other blood supplies. She wouldn't miss it. He also did some minor work to one of her tendons which was nicked in the accident.

Liv woke up and the last vestiges of fear that I harboured slipped away. We have commented time and time again that her handling of the trauma of the last couple of weeks has been amazing.

This Friday, she will have her cast removed and since dissolvable stitches were used, we probably won't have to see the doctor again. He told us before her surgery that by the time we boarded our plane for New Zealand, Olivia's accident would be nothing but a faded memory.

I believe him now.

On Homeschooling

I am seriously thinking about homeschooling my son.

The act of writing that down for the entire world to see makes me feel like I need to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply into a brown paper bag. I mean, there is just so much to consider with something as serious as his education, right?

I worry that I would be doing him a disservice especially when I consider the prospect of trying to teach him calculus or help him with some of the mathematical formulas needed in highschool physics. I worry about the accreditation process and how we will demonstrate that Dylan has earned a highschool diploma. How will colleges view him? Will he be eligible for scholarships? The prospect of forever altering the course of his life in a negative way is intimidating.

But then I look at his school experience so far. Most of Dylan's teachers through the years have been good. They were competent, compassionate educators and he has been fortunate. It's the social side of school that has been a problem for him. He's the square peg.

It's not a matter of trying to assess his personal responsibility, either. There is no doubt that my son brings a fair share of his social woes on himself. Absolutely. However, assigning blame doesn't contribute to fixing anything. Dylan sees himself through the distorted and often cruel eyes of his peers. He has sat with me, crying, trying desperately to figure out what he is doing wrong. He is not mainstream at all and there are times that he's downright offensive, albeit unconsciously. Unfortunately, he's too young yet to understand that his individuality, once tempered with restraint and empathy, will be something to be celebrated. My biggest fear is that as he ages and the pressures of fitting into a peer group grow louder, he will resort to some sort of drug (alcohol, pot, food) both to assimilate with an element of society that is more accepting of someone different and to self-medicate his lonliness away.

I saw in the news yesterday about the student gunman in Wisconsin who held a classroom full of his peers hostage. In this country, there have been forty five school shootings since 1996. I find that number really disconcerting because it wasn't that long ago when the very idea of gun violence on school property was unthinkable. My point here is that something has changed and we, as a society, have yet to adequately respond to it. We have twenty first century children stuck in a 1950's school system. Some do well; many don't.

So all of this weighs heavily as I contemplate a decision. I want to do what is right for Dylan but for the life of me, I haven't quite figured out what that is just yet.

The Joys of Pie

Thanksgiving was an easy, no fuss event this year, primarily for one reason.

I made pie crust that was better than my mother's.

I do not say that lightly as my mother's pie crust is nothing short of legendary. All of the women on that side of my family have well-developed baking skills. It's in our DNA. When I think back to the tastiest memories of my childhood (aside from fresh lobster off the pier in Shediac, New Brunswick), I remember buttery molasses cookies, moist chocolate cake, fresh bread and blueberry pie that made you lick the plate clean.

The thing with pie is that it's all about the crust. It really doesn't matter what you put in the middle because if your base is lackluster, the end result is always something mediocre. For YEARS, I laboured over my pie crust. I'd go through an entire can of Crisco® trying to make a single, 9" crust. I'd make a batch after batch of dough, only to have it fall apart so I'd throw it in the bin, cry and repeat the process. At some point, I'd call my mother, hysterical, begging her to walk me through the recipe and when she'd ask me if I was using ICE COLD water, I wanted to crawl through the phone and beat her with my rolling pin.

My more practical sister cousins urged me to give up the battle and just waltz down to the nearest grocery store and get some pre-made crusts. BLASPHEMY!! They reasoned that in the time that it would save me, I could drink several glasses of wine, which would help take the sting out of my inadequacy. I considered it.

But no, I was my mother's daughter. I would make pie crust from scratch and thus, I have dreaded every single holiday or special event since.

Until a miracle happened.

Her name is The Pioneer Woman. If you are not familiar with her, go visit. She's the type of woman you wish lived next door. She cooks with butter AND whiskey. You'll love her. And the pie crust recipe that she has shared with the world (find it here) is the best I've ever tasted.

I realize that to rhapsodize about pie crust likely makes me a complete loon and surprisingly, I'm okay with that. Several times over the holiday, it occured to me that I am my most relaxed when whipping something up in the kitchen.

Makes me think.

Tuesday

It's a ridiculous time in the morning to be up and awake but I couldn't sleep.

Yesterday, Olivia was evaluated by an orthopedic specialist for the accident to her thumb and this morning, she will be having surgery to repair the damage.

Surgery.

Under anesthesia.

I'm sure that she will be fine. As a matter of fact, the doctor told us that by the time we boarded the plane for New Zealand, the whole thing would be nothing but a memory. I really want to believe him.

I just now peeked into her room and it's funny. In spite of her gazelle-like legs and burgeoning teenage attitude, my sweet Livvie seemed awfully little to me this morning.

Domesticity

I'm not sure what has gotten into me lately but I have this overwhelming desire to nest.

I'm not pregnant. Thank God.

I don't know what it is. Perhaps I am replacing food with an irrational desire to clean, cook and decorate. Well, maybe not the decorate part because everyone knows that I am hopeless in that department but I'm wanting to host parties and just the other day, I watched a video which taught me how to properly crimp a pie crust.

I think it might be early onset dementia.

I'm wondering if this newfound domesticity is a byproduct of working from home. When I had to drag myself into an office everyday, the dust bunnies, unwashed laundry and furniture placement didn't register on my radar. Dinner every night was whatever could be cobbled together with the least amount of fuss because it was rare that I remember to pull something out of the freezer the night before. I coped, like most of us.

It's all different now.

I have recently purchased an apron. I wore it this weekend. Unselfconsciously. Dinner is a planned event every night. I find myself lingering in the storage aisles in the hardware store, fantasizing about drawer organizers and closet shelving. The butchers at Whole Foods recognize me now and we engage in discussions about braising briskets versus smoking them. It should be noted that I didn't even know what a brisket was three months ago.

This weird shift in my priorities is not a bad thing. It's just the tiniest bit disconcerting. I've been trying to identify what it is that I'm feeling lately because it's foreign and this morning, it dawned on me that I'm happy.

Without conditions.

Imagine that.

Fear

Saturday afternoon, Olivia and I were hanging out at home while Dallas and Dylan were at the gym. We were enjoying a little quiet time together, talking about our upcoming trip to New Zealand and listing all of the things that we wanted to do over our Christmas holidays. I was fluffing around in the kitchen and asked Liv if she would run out to the garage and grab a bottle of Pellegrino for me.

The next thing I heard was my baby screaming.

As a parent, you learn very early to discern between an angry scream, a hurt scream, a startled scream or a delighted scream.

The sound Olivia made was none of those.

It made my stomach contract and my heart race. Her scream was pure FEAR and I felt adreanaline course through my body as I sprinted down the hallway to her. For some reason, I expected to see an intruder and I have to tell you that unless he had a gun, that guy would not have fared well because Olivia's cry brought out a primal protective intinct that I had never experienced before. My scalp was tingling.

What I met with was Liv running to me, hands cupped together, blood dripping. We ran into the kitchen where there was light and I got my first glimpse of her injury. And it was bad.

Olivia had grabbed a big 750ml green glass bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge with her left hand and as she climbed two stairs, she slipped and fell on her left side with the bottle still in her hand. It shattered and sliced open her thumb. She had severed the radial artery and with each beat of her heart, it pulsated copious amounts of blood out the wound and down her palm. For a full second, I stared, horrified. Then, I began to talk to myself out loud.

"Pressure. We need pressure." I grabbed the nearest cloth which was one of our large, white cotton flour sacks that we use to dry dishes and wrapped it tightly around her hand.

"Put your arm up over your head, Liv," I told her and I got an ice pack out of the fridge to hold on top of the cut. She resisted as the pressure of the ice pack caused her considerable pain. "I don't feel very good in my belly, Mama," she said. We had to get to ER.

As I was backing out of the driveway, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going. Where the hell was the hospital? Do I call 911 and ask? Do I knock on neighbour's doors? All of this ran through my head in a matter of seconds. I called Dallas instead.

Before I could get a word out, Dallas was asking me how many reps he needed to do with the step ups in his new program since I'd just finished a month of it. Apparently, he had called a few minutes earlier during the heat of the accident and he thought I was returning his call.

"Dallas, where's the nearest hospital?" He didn't immediately reply. I looked over at Olivia and the dishtowel wrapped around her hand had turned crimson with her blood. I had to repeat the question, panic rising and struggling not to shriek into the phone. The communication finally cleared between us and Dallas told me how to get to what we hoped would be the nearest facility with an emergency room.

I sped, my hands shaking. I might have been shedding a few stress tears. Olivia said, "Mama, you've got to calm down." I looked over and she was lying back in her seat, pale, quiet and eerily composed. I have never been that scared in my life. "Don't go to sleep, baby," I said. "Okay Mama," was her reply.

Fortunately, the hospital was less than five minutes away and they took her right in. Olivia handled the whole thing really well although I will tell you that the process of freezing the thumb was just freaking HORRIBLE. It will be a long time before I'm able to get the sound of my child's pain out of my head and seeing the blood from her arterty rythmically spray all over the doctor is something I'll not soon forget.

On the ride home, Olivia told me that when she first cut herself and saw the blood, she screamed, not because it hurt but because she was afraid she "might not live anymore". I have to be brutally honest. When we were in the car and there was just so much blood and she was looking at me, blinking slowly, eyelids heavy and so adultlike in her mannerisms and me not knowing where in the world to take her, I had a moment of icy terror wondering if a child could bleed to death from her thumb. Stupid, I know but hey, I'm just keeping it real.

This is the aftermath of the whole ordeal and it doesn't look so bad, right? She will have to see a hand specialist because she severed the nerve but if ten stitches and a permanently numb tip is the worst of it, I'm feeling like we were pretty fortunate.

Gratitude Part 1

I was lamenting via email to my most excellent cousin, Rosie, about how I was in a bit of a funk. She sent me back a lovely missive full of expletives that basically told me to get my head out of my arse, which turned out to be exactly what I needed to hear. She suggested that I might like to give gratitude a try (as in record some of the things for which I am thankful) in an effort to adjust my focus. Since Thanksgiving is a mere three weeks away, I thought, why not?

First installment below.

1. I am grateful for my husband and I am grateful that his name is not Shifty, Slutty Pants, Mark or Paul and that he is not afraid of crazy.

2. I am grateful for my son even when it takes him a mere six weeks in a new school to get into an altercation with another child, resulting in a three day suspension.

3. I am grateful for my daughter because as many times a day as she folds her arms, pouts and ignores my instruction, she is still quick to hand out hugs and kisses at bedtime.

4. I am grateful for my cat, in spite of the fact that he chooses 2:43 am to thunderously vomit up that hairball that he's been working on for a month.

5. I am grateful for our new, big house because even though I could spend every waking moment of every day cleaning away the filth of the people who lived here last, it is a reliable roof over our heads. And it has lots of hiding spots.

6. I am grateful for my Honda Pilot even though a month out of warranty, it sounds like I am dragging a knight in full, metal, armour down the road. I am grateful for the mechanic who looked at it, told me it was nothing and suggested I turn my music up to cover the noise. Works for me.

7. I am grateful for my job. I am not doing anything remotely noble like helping to alleviate human suffering but I am feeding my children and today, that is enough.

8. I am grateful for my health because I know it can all turn to custard in a moment. I've been on the receiving end of shitty medical news so each day really is a gift. I must remember that.

9. I am grateful to be in my forties in spite of the fact that I can't read the small print anymore. So, I guess I'm grateful for glasses, too.

10. I am grateful that we found the funds to pay for our Christmas holiday in New Zealand this year. The anticipation of that upcoming trip is my Santa Claus. It's my motivation.

Well, that should do it for now. I'm feeling rather fortunate. I might actually make it to the gym tonight.

Maybe.

Vote

It's here. It's FINALLY here. Thank God.

The American masses will head out today and decide the fate of the Senate and the House. Most of the pundits agree that the House will be lost to a Republican majority and that John Boehner in all his tanned glory, will become the next speaker of the House.

Unless...

Unless the people who got out the vote two years ago, return to mark their ballots and make their voices heard.

We had EIGHT YEARS of war, deregulation, fiscal irresponsibility, bank bailouts, tax cuts for the wealthiest of Americans, trickle down economics that DON'T WORK, lies, witch hunts and fear-mongering. I don't believe that two years is enough time to fix that mess.

I wish I could vote.

That Was October

This weekend passed by in a blur of activity.

Friday night, we had a family dinner out which has become a big deal for the kids but for some reason, Olivia chooses these special occasions to morph into her alter ego: cranky, difficult girl. Invariably, I am hissing at her through clenched teeth, inches from her face, threatening bodily harm and then, like a light that has been turned on, she sheds a few cathartic tears and returns to her normal, delightful self. It's stressful, mostly because she hasn't hit puberty yet and these little episodes of hers give me a pretty good sense of what is to come.

Saturday night, Dallas and I splurged on a meal at Wolfgang Puck's Bistro in Brookside.
It was quite good. We sat out on the patio to take advantage of the last of the great weather and the atmosphere was exactly what we sought. As I sipped Prosecco and nibbled on prosciutto, I felt the last remnants of my work week slip away.

After dinner, I told Dallas that I wanted to go Christmas shopping, which for him, is like being repeatedly beaten about the head on a pain/pleasure scale. However, after much dramatic sighing, he agreed. The thing about Christmas shopping for me is that when I am of singular purpose, I don't mess around. The goal of the ordeal is to finish, not to browse. Having gifts left unpurchased haunts me so when we arrived at the mall, I was on a mission. In less than an hour, we got at least 50% of it done, in spite of the fact that my husband could have inflated the Goodyear blimp with his deep, calming breaths.

Sunday, I woke up with an itch to make cinnamon rolls from The Pioneer Woman's cookbook.
This is a must-have cookbook for anyone that wants to whip up something delicious without worrying about fat, calories and carbs. She uses lots of butter and makes no apologies. Every recipe that I have tried has been over the top good. Her meatloaf is a work of art. The blackberry cobbler makes you look like a star. So, I wanted to try the cinnamon rolls.

Like everything else so far, they were legendary, which was good because later on, I overcooked the pork roast into a dry, inedible, mess.

Of course, Sunday night finished with Halloween. Liv went as a witch.
Dylan was a teenage ghoul.
There are times when art accurately captures life.

I'm just saying.

Not My Kind Of Tea Party

Sarah Palin

Christine O'Donnell

Sharron Angle

Joe Miller

Rand Paul

When Dubya was "elected" the first time around, I was astounded at how easy it was for the a large segment of the American public to accept an ignorant, woefully inadequate and polarizing figure as their president. When he was put back into office four years later, I was schooled on the power of money, misinformation and Karl Rove's mastery of spin.

When McCain picked Sarah Palin, another ignorant, woefully inexperienced and polarizing figure to be his running mate in 2008, I thought the world had finally tipped off its axis.

Now, we face a political climate so partisan that nobody even pretends to be there trying to legislate ideas that might be good for the country. Instead, we have asshats like Mitch McConnell who, "feels his “single most important” job is to defeat President Obama in 2012" (Think Progress via Gawker). Nice.

Look at the list of people above. I can't imagine that a majority of people in their congressional districts think the way that they do. Come Tuesday, we will find out. It makes me shiver a bit.

With dread.

Lunch with Liv

Today, I had lunch with Olivia at her school. The flexibility of working from home enables me to do things like this now, which is pretty amazing.

I arrived a few minutes before her lunch was scheduled and waited at the end of a long corridor. My daughter's classroom was at the very end of this hallway. When her door opened, I could see the children line up, waiting to be dismissed for lunch. Because Liv is her class's "Star of the Week", she stood at the very front of the queue.

She didn't see me right away as she was engaged in an animated discussion with one of friends but when she finally looked up and recognized me, she lit up like a Christmas tree. I watched her chatter with her friends and all of the sudden, several pairs of hands were waving. Liv jumped up and down a few times, unable to contain her excitement.

I understood then, how important our little lunch date was to her. At the entrance to the cafeteria, she patiently took my hand and led me through the lunch line. She proudly punched her student number into the machine and introduced me to the cashier. We sat and as we ate, she told me about her morning, pointed out her new boyfriend and informed me that immediately following lunch, we would go outside for recess. What struck me the most was her gratitude. She thanked me over and over. At one point, she confessed that she thought I'd forget and continue working through lunch, which broke my heart just a bit.

Hopefully, our short time together today went a little way in repairing her faith in her mama. I know it made my heart sing.

Haloweenies

It's that time of year again and in an effort to blend in with all the other mothers who stay at home and raise these incredibly well adjusted children, I took a page from their book and went pumpkin shopping with my kids this weekend.

I don't know why I feel such a sense of accomplishment in performing mundane tasks like picking pumpkins, but I do. I guess it's because I am not the type of mother to whom crafty, creative pursuits comes easily. My childhood memories are not dotted with pipe cleaner and finger paints. Instead, I bonded with my father over a clean toilet and perfectly ironed collars.

So Sunday night while I prepared dinner, my children sat at the kitchen table enthusiastically gutting their pumpkins. Dylan helped Liv get the last slimy bits out of hers and together they compared their individual sketch plans, laughing and giving each other suggestions. I marveled at all of that sibling civility. I wanted to bottle it because it's a rare commodity in our house. Silently, I congratulated myself for enabling such a Norman Rockwell-worthy domestic scene. Parenting win.

This is Dylan's work of art. The Zombie. Dylan pointed out that his pumpkin had bags under his eyes. Notice the vomit spewing out of his mouth and nose and the errant eyeball nearby. Nice. I do, however, appreciate the Michael Jackson eyeliner action.

This is Liv's gory version. I especially like the Harry Potter mark on the forehead and the other scars littered on the poor bugger's face. Apparently, her pumpkin is a pugilist as evidenced by his nose, which is alarmingly skewed to one side.

This is Olivia's girlie girl version complete with sparkles. Something tells me that she might end up being one of those mothers who has a craft room which makes me happy because one day, when they stuff me into a retirement home, at least my drapes will match my bedspread.

It's Only Thirty Hours, Right?

Saturday morning, as Dallas and I were lounging in bed with coffee and iPad in hand, my cell phone rang. "Unknown" popped up on the caller id and I let it go to voicemail figuring it was a telemarketer. They've become really ballsy lately, ringing at the oddest times but this one left a message. Odd.

Turns out, it wasn't some college kid trying to lower the interest rates on my credit cards after all. It was United Airlines calling to let us know that we had a change in our itinerary.

Well, crap.

Back in early June, we booked our flights to New Zealand in an effort to pay as little as possible while trying to maintain a reasonable schedule. Originally, we were going to take a late afternoon flight from Tulsa directly to LAX where we would have approximately two and a half hours to collect our luggage and get checked in with Virgin Australia Airlines. Then, we would spend a delightful fourteen hours and forty five minutes flying to Sydney, where we would experience a rather long layover (4 hours, 25 minutes), before boarding our final, three hour flight to Auckland. All told, it would take us TWENTY SEVEN HOURS AND SIX MINUTES.

With two children. (I'll give you a minute to let that gem sink in so you can get a clear understanding of my affinity for rum....)

Our return journey was even worse, clocking in at a mere twenty nine hours and eleven minutes but we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that at least we had a direct flight from LAX home to Tulsa. In early September, we got the first bit of bad news.

Virgin Australia called to tell us that the itinerary had changed. Our layover in Sydney increased to over six hours and the return trip now included a five hour pit stop in Melbourne. A journey that had once seemed to be manageable was quickly spiraling out of control so I booked a hotel in Sydney with the idea that a nap and a shower would help take the edge off the fatigue. I've traveled across the Pacific enough to understand the power of clean underwear.

My husband is not happy with this plan, however. He is loathe to leave the airport for fear that we will somehow miss our connecting flight. "Six hours is not a lot of time," he says. Really? My guess is that the second he lays his gorgeous head down on that hotel pillow, he will think six hours is an eternity.

What stuck in my craw was that Virgin really didn't give a hoot about the added inconvenience. They basically shrugged. No lounge passes, no free alcohol, NOTHING except for, "Sorry, mate", which was about as palatable as Vegemite. We saved about $6400 flying with them instead of Qantas or Air New Zealand Nightmare and that is the mantra I kept repeating to myself when I thought about it.

Then, United Airlines called.

Our direct flights were no more.

Just like that.

*Poof*

But they did give us four travel vouchers that we will be able to use within the next year, which goes a long way in helping to swallow the whole situation.

So as not to bore you with the crummy details, the summary is as follows:

Trip to New Zealand: 34 hours, 2 minutes
Trip home from New Zealand: 32 hours, 33 minutes
Cost: A boob job and some spot lipo or 7.25 years of Botox.

In spite of the fact that the travel piece will really, really suck.....

watching my kids play with their cousins, learning to make proper scones with Grandma Rhodie, eating my father in law's mussel fritters, meeting Gilly, waking up to share coffee with my equally hung over sister by a different mother, feeling the scratchy, impossibly fresh excellence of my mother's in law's towels, fishing off the Gay Gwen, navigating the roundabouts, BBQing with Mark, Claire, Rod and Lee, having tea with Grammy June, chatting with Lloydie and Lesie, taking pictures and making memories....

will make every second of it worthwhile.

Today marks 50 days until we go.

I cannot wait.

Brace Yourselves

I have very vivid memories of my first visit to the orthodontist. I was thirteen, a walking hormone and the doctor was smoking hot. (I must have a thing for doctors.) Anyway....

On the ride home, my father made it a point of telling me how bloody expensive it was going to be to put the braces on and that I should be grateful, kiss his feet and worship his most excellent dadness for the rest of my natural life. He didn't actually say that last bit but you catch my drift. Like any self respecting teenager, I looked out the window of the car rolled my eyes and mentally calculated the days left before I could legally leave home. What did I care about the cost? My dad was rich in my estimation. Braces were my birthright, I thought.

A week later on they went and for the next two years, two months, twenty days and one hour, I endured pain, headgear, elastic bands, broken wires, shredded cheeks, raw lips and absolutely the grossest oral hygiene experiences known to mankind. NOBODY should have to get that intimate with their food. I brushed. Maniacally. Flossing took me half and hour. Taking a deep breath in the harsh Ontario winter with all that metal in my mouth made my head ring.

I.Hated.Wearing.Braces.

Fast forward thirty years.

It's time for my kids to join in the fun. My sweet baby girl, with her teeny tiny mouth and her father's rabbit teeth is a dental sight to behold. While only eight, current research shows that early orthodontic intervention will likely prevent us having to break her jaw later on. The x-rays revealed that her mouth is a crowded, twisted, gnarly mess. Dylan has already been through a first phase of braces and now, three years later, after successfully treating a recessive lower jaw and losing all of his baby teeth, the time has come to finish the process.

This week, I took them both to an orthodontist here, who came back with exactly the same treatment plan as had been discussed in Bentonville. It was comforting to get a second opinion that concurred with their old orthodontist.

And then the money lady came in to share the numbers.

You know it's going to be bad when you try to discuss cost with the doctor and he bolts like a spooked horse with a headless rider.

$9460. NINE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS!!

And this only includes Olivia's first phase.

Sweet baby Jesus, Joseph and Mary.

"It's an investment in their future," money lady said as I stared, unblinking, heart racing, mouth agape. "Dr.___'s rates are very competitive". Still, I could not speak.

"You seem shocked," she said with her head tilted in what I can only describe as bewildered sympathy. I wanted to punch the condescension right off her face.

After that, I didn't hear much of what she said. Still mute, I accepted the green folder from her which contained the quote and a few sheets of fluff about the doctor, his staff and their commitment to our oral health. I felt ill.

On the drive home, my mood could be best described as agitated. Silently, I vowed to get the cost from at least two other providers just to be sure. Out loud, I ranted on about chores and homework and flossing and DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW EXPENSIVE THIS IS? I blathered about what a financial burden this was going to be and how I hoped they appreciated that it would be Dallas and me who would bear the brunt since their own father refused to participate.

Yes, I know. BIG parenting failure.

Awful. I'd somehow morphed into my father when nobody was looking.

In that moment my son, because he is lovely and evolved, sat up and quietly said, "Forget about my braces. It's more important to start Olivia's teeth right now. I can wait."

Damn! I was happily bathing in all that self pity. Why did the boy have to pipe up and help me remove my head from my ass? When we pulled up to a stoplight, I turned to the kids, apologized and told them not to worry. Both of them would have their braces before Christmas.

As the light turned green, I looked up into the rear view mirror and said, "When you grow up, you both are going to be orthodontists. Do I make myself clear?"

They solemnly nodded and turned their heads to look out their windows. I think I saw my son roll his eyes.

At Home In The City

I love living in a bigger city again.

Bentonville was lovely with its pastoral setting and gentle, country attitude but after nearly twelve years of mind-numbing routine, I was surprised to find that moving was not as bad as I had first predicted. Oh, the actual mechanics of it was horrible but once we got here, it wasn't nearly as upsetting as I thought it was going to be. Change has a way of making you reassess exactly what ranks and what doesn't on your totem pole of priorities. It also illuminates the adaptability of the human soul.

For instance, I have learned that I don't give a flying fig about impressing anyone with the size of my house or the acquisition of material stuff. I'm ashamed to admit that there was a time when the model of the car that I drove and the square footage of my home helped to shape my self opinion. I was such an ass.

Today, I live in a big house and guess what? It's just more to keep clean. I'm not any happier in this place than I was in Bentonville although I am able to hide from my children more effectively here since it takes them longer to find me. The downside is that the rent is ridiculously large and I just know that every month when I am writing out that cheque, I'm going to be shaking my head wondering how many margaritas we could be buying on a Mexican vacation instead.

I have learned that working from home is like tasting beer for the first time. You sip, conclude it's not THAT offensive and agree to give it a try. Pretty soon, you find yourself buying it by the case and talking knowledgeably about hops and microbrews. I was worried that I'd be lonesome in a home office. I fretted that without the structure, I'd become untethered, distracted and ineffective.

Now? Well, let's just say that I cannot imagine going back into a traditional office. I am a far more productive employee. My day used to start at 4:50am. It still begins pretty early but instead of spending two hours showering, eating, packing lunches and driving, I roll out of bed, grab a cup of java and start. Some days I actually brush my hair and throw on a pair of pants. The flexibility enables me to be the kind of wife and mother that I couldn't seem to manage before, which has introduced a balance that I've never had in my life. I am a better employee today than I was a month ago because I am no longer forced to choose between my children and my job. Why don't more companies offer this option or at least the ability to telecommute several days a week?

I have learned that good shopping and the other amenities that come with living in a metropolis with a million people are as important to me as breathing, which leads me to the part about how adaptable we are as humans.

The shopping in Bentonville was adequate, at best although, I always felt that we were lucky considering the size of the area. We managed and it wasn't really all that painful. I never felt deprived, especially with the surge in the online marketplace but now...

Oh baby.

Saks, an Apple store, Smashburger, Macy's, a CHL hockey team, Whole Foods, Runner's World, Macy's, Restoration Hardware, the Philbrook Museum of Art, the ballet, the opera, a zoo and an aquarium. There are the coolest neighbourhoods scattered all over the city like Utica Square, Cherry Street and Brookside, where tony little shops are nestled beside some surprisingly fabulous restaurants. The place is renowned for its art deco architecture and there are breathtaking examples everywhere. My kids have a multitude of choices in regard to their music lessons, athletics and the arts. If you can imagine it, it is available here.

I have missed the diversity of experiences that a bigger city has to offer but didn't realize how much until we got settled here in Tulsa and I started to explore. There is definitely country girl blood coursing through my veins but she will always do battle with the the woman who appreciates the feel of concrete under her feet.

Moving Blows

We have moved.

Every box (except one full of Olivia's dust-infused stuffed animals that I'd really like to burn) is unpacked. Pictures are hung. Most mornings, we are able to find everything that we need (except for Olivia's supply of jeans which have mysteriously disappeared).

This move has taught me a few things but the most glaring reality is that I am most definitely NOT an organized person. Admittedly, I am a bit OCD but I have learned that I really shouldn't confuse my need for absolute control with being orderly and methodical.

For example, I began filling boxes the second that we decided that the entire family would be moving to join my husband. I was disciplined in how many would be packed each day. I took my time to carefully wrap breakables and label according to room and contents. I anointed myself the "Moving Queen" and expected all in my immediate environment to bow down and worship my single-minded pursuit of packing excellence. On moving day, we were going to wake up, throw our bedding into a pre-assembled carton, empty the fridge and be on our merry way. DELUSIONAL.

When the moving truck showed up, I was in the kitchen, hair wild, gulping coffee and frantically throwing dirty dishes into a box. What I had eyeballed as being a few things turned out to be EIGHT last minute boxes of stuff. The movers were very patient with me because I suspect that they could smell the crazy in the air.

My plan was to finish the last minute stuff, leave with the kids and cat and make a fifteen minute stop at Bentonville schools to formally withdraw the children and make our way to our new town in time to register them at their new schools. My car was stuffed full of all my compulsive weirdness (toilet paper, rags, Comet, the vacuum, lamps and an outrigger canoe paddle), the children and the cat. I was managing in spite of the fact that my head is buried up my arse.

My second organizational failure was during the withdrawal of my children from the Bentonville school system. Apparently, I am still living in the June Cleaver era where women did housework in pearls and pumps and everyone said things like, "golly" and "shucks". I thought I could show up at the office of each school, tell them we were moving and have them give us a wave and wish us good luck. Not so.

We pulled up to the junior high so Dylan could clean out his locker. The cat was warbling in this weird throaty voice which caused the kids and me to laugh. I didn't give it a second thought figuring he was unused to the carrier and would settle once we got on the road.

We walked into the school to speak with the registrar. She informed me that Dylan would have to go to each of his eight teachers and have them sign off on his departure. Textbooks would have to be returned, library and lunch accounts settled and ALL FRIDAY ASSIGNMENTS TURNED IN. Gulp. What I believed would be a simple process took an hour and ten minutes to accomplish. My head was throbbing and the cat's communication had turned from cute into a steady, baritone whine like something you'd expect to hear emitted from a house possessed by demons (think Amityville Horror). It began to worry me. He was clearly distressed. I kicked myself for not getting him some kitty Valium for the ride.

We drove to Liv's school and went through a similar albeit shorter process. Mission accomplished. Finally.

As we drove out of the parking lot, the cat's pitch elevated and then abruptly stopped. Dylan howled, eyes scrunched closed, mouth a puckered, white splotch on his face. The cat had peed.

In the ballistic nylon carrier.

Not waterproof like the cheapy plastic carrier WE DIDN'T BUY.

Oh. Dear. God.

To make matters worse, the cat flicked the offending liquid from his paws out the mesh part and onto Dylan's face and torso. I gagged. Dylan came unhinged.

We were a freak show on wheels.

And we hadn't even left Bentonville yet.

My third and final organizational miss was locating my son's immunization documents. I meticulously went through every single paper I had in my possession looking for his shot records. I had love letters from my university days, pictures from high school and car payment receipts from the FIRST automobile that I owned. I found phone numbers and addresses of people I couldn't remember but no little yellow card detailing the torture I put my kid through during the first five years of his life. And without this record, the school district would not enroll him.

I'd like to tell you that the day got better from there, like it HAD to, right? It sort of did:
-The cat passed gas, which had us all panicking but luckily, a fart was just a fart.
-I did not get the children registered for school which turned out to be fine because I drank beer instead.
-The house was dirty but I cleaned before the moving truck arrived which satisfied the overwhelming nesting urge that took over the moment I walked in the door.
-Our stuff arrived intact and only three pieces were damaged. Yeah us! Small note to self: DO NOT LEAVE IT UP TO MOVING MEN TO ARRANGE FURNITURE. EVER.
-The smell of cat urine did not linger in my car once the carrier and my son were removed from it.
-Olivia made six new friends within two hours of being at the new house.
-I slept in the same bed as my husband with the knowledge that we wouldn't have to say goodbye Monday morning.

All in all, it could have been worse, I suppose.

Moving is just a little bit like giving birth. There are months of anticipation leading up to the event, the chaos of the day itself and then after a few weeks, the horror of it all begins to fade and you tell yourself it really wasn't that bad and that you could do it all again if need be. I'm not quite there yet.

Goodbye Old Friend

So, I'm contemplating selling "Big Boy", my Harley.

I know that might come as a shock to some of you who have been reading me for any period of time.

Dallas and I hardly rode this summer. I'm sure it could be attributed to the oppressive heat but at the end of the day, my beloved motorcycle sat, collecting dust, for most of this past year. I feel crappy about that. I love that bike. It should be ridden.

My Harley represents so much more to me than just another toy to fool with on the weekends. I remember back three years ago about this time. Dallas and I were clearly smitten with each other but the relationship was littered with obstacles on both sides that needed resolution before we were able to move forward. One Sunday in late August, we went for a ride on his bike and somehow, I knew our time together was nearing an end. We stopped for lunch in Eureka Springs and the conversation drifted to our relationship.

"You're everything I asked the universe to bring me," he said. While I believed him and knew that he was being nakedly honest, I was also keenly aware that there was a "but" to that statement, even if he didn't. We finished our lunch and on the way home, from the back of his bike, I realized just how much I would miss the unique freedom that a motorcycle provided.

Two days later, Dallas and I split up.

A week later, I had signed up for a course to learn how to ride.

A month later, I passed the course and bought my first Harley.

To me, Big Boy represented fierce independence. It was on this motorcycle with senses heightened, sun on my face, wind whistling in my ears, that I experienced peace for the first time in a decade. On a winding road with nothing but the rumble of the pipes for company, I felt the kind of joy that erupts unexpectedly; the kind where you suck in the air, smile wide and thank God you're alive. My Harley was my salvation.

So, why sell something that is so meaningful to me? Well, things have changed. I'm now married to the man who inspired me to learn how to ride and the truth is, we just don't get out there all that often anymore. Our priorities have shifted. I don't think we feel the need to escape our lives in quite the way we used to. Things have settled. These days, our leisure time tends to be filled with the pursuit of physical activity and outings with the kids.

This month, we are committed to ride with friends to Hot Springs on an overnight road trip. Dallas and I will savour every second of this getaway with the knowledge that it will likely be our last as Harley owners, at least for now.

For me, saying goodbye to Big Boy is as bittersweet as relinquishing my home to tenants. Both events turn that last page on a remarkable chapter of my life and now, as a woman who is whole and who has nothing left to prove, I am eager to see what the future will bring.

Lies I Tell Myself

I'm happy about the fact that the first place the weight has come off is my boobs.

I consider exercise a privilege, not a chore.

I'd still work if I won the lotto.

Botox is all the cosmetic enhancement I'm prepared to try.

It is better to live in a world where even insane people like Glenn Beck and Ann Coulter have a voice than to be censored in any way.

It's really okay that I don't reside near the ocean or the mountains. There's beauty in every place.

I welcome the opportunities that our new move will bring.

I'm ready to lease my house to renters. I'm sure they'll treat it like their own home.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

The housing market will bounce back in a few years. So will my retirement account.

The piece of glass that is lodged in my knee will come out without medical intervention.

I have faith in the Democratic party.

One day, my ex husband will wake up and do right by his children.

I can adapt to a life without bread.

I am strong.

I am organized.

I can handle just about any curve ball life throws my way.

I am not scared.

Cloudy With a Chance of Redemption

Dilemma: House needed to be rented.

We had a sign up on the front lawn, Twittered and used Craigslist to advertise to the world that we wished to lease our property. We had inquiries but only one couple that we would even consider as prospective tenants. They couldn't afford it, though, which was a shame considering the chemistry seemed to be there.

I lectured myself not to worry because we had plenty of time to find appropriate tenants before we'd be in a financial bind. Still, there was that seed of anxiety that germinated in my subconscious. So, I did what my husband had encouraged me to do. I called the people that we really connected with and offered to lower the monthly rent to within their budget. They immediately accepted and I believe they will treat our house like a home.

I found peace for the first time in many, many days.

Dilemma: Son downloads $900 app from iTunes.

When he text me with this little nugget of information, my composure evaporated in the time it took for the charge to show up on my credit card. Huge parenting fail. And then I got a grip. I decided that I would make him sell his video game stuff to help defray the charges and then he would have to work off the rest through babysitting and allowance deferral. He accepted the responsibility without question. Parenting win. Then, this arrived in my email:

Dear Beth,

Greetings from iTunes Store Customer Support! My name is Mr.R and I will assist you today.

I understand that the purchase of "iraPro" application by your son was unintentional. I'm very sorry to hear that, but do not worry; I would certainly help you with this issue.

Beth, I have reversed the charges for this application to your account. In three to five business days, a credit of "$899.99" should be posted to the credit card that appears on the receipt for that purchase.

Please note that this is a one-time exception, as the iTunes Store Terms and Conditions state that all sales are final.

If you still have any further issues, please write back to this email.

Have a nice day!

Sincerely,

Mr.R
iTunes Store Customer Support

Clouds parted, sun shone...

My son when shown the email, slumped over with relief. I was pretty darn happy myself.

Dilemma: My Ex is a Neanderthal

I don't really want to be bashing the father of my children (again) because, well...he's the father of my children and I already did that here. Nothing much has evolved since then. He's still a knuckle-dragging, responsibility-shirking, emotional cripple of a man. This past weekend was his weekend with the kids and to accommodate his work schedule, they are picked up Saturday night between 6pm and whenever he bloody well feels and returned home Sunday around 5:30pm. Sunday morning, I received a frantic call from my children, from my ex's place of employment. They were hysterical and begged me to come pick them up. I didn't ask many questions. I've learned not to. I found my car keys and left the house.

I arrived at his workplace and they were waiting out front. As we were leaving, the ex thrust his head into my driver's window and bellowed emotionally corrosive nonsense at the children about being "traitors" and "useless" while the two of them cowered in fear. For the first time, I saw genuine loathing in my son's face and I understood that Dylan had reached his capacity for forgiveness. Olivia was in the backseat sobbing hard enough to bring on dry retches.

It was magnificently awful.

When we got home, Olivia went from room to room looking for Dallas. When I explained that he was out doing a few errands, she fell apart. I understood then, that for Olivia, Dallas had been her "real" Daddy for a long time. That night, when I put her to bed, she grabbed my face between her hands and vehemently said, "I never want to go back there again", meaning my ex's house. There wasn't a lick of manipulation in the gesture. She was desperate to get her point across.

It wasn't the first time that I'd received an S.O.S. from my kids and found them emotionally battered, but I resolved that this time, it would be the last. The decision to protect my children, even from their own father, has been remarkably liberating. I just regret how long it has taken me to recognize that my children needed me to intervene.

The weekend was one of the most challenging that I've had to endure in ages but late last night, as I took a mental inventory of events, I was grateful that everything turned out okay. The house got leased, the $900 mistake was rectified and I finally decided to stand up to a bully.

I guess the silver linings are always there; it's just a matter of finding them.

Why I Should Be Medicated

1. My son, horsing around with his friends on the bus, unwittingly downloaded an application onto his iPhone that hit my credit card with $900. Oh yes, I did say NINE HUNDRED FREAKING DOLLARS! . The bright side of this is that:
a)I was several miles away in my office upon hearing the news.
b)The geographical distance between us quite possibly saved his life.
c)I am not currently premenstrual.
d)It's not the first time some wiseass kid has downloaded something using his mother's iTunes account. Apple seems to know how to handle the situation although I won't rest easy until I see the charges reversed.

2. Our house hasn't rented yet, which shouldn't get my feathers in a ruffle because we've only had it advertised for a few days, right? Yes, except I got one, measly inquiry by email. One. And after providing an address and sending pictures, I never heard back from the person, which scares the bejeezus out of me. Man, they didn't even want to look at it, which brings out every, single, insecure, I-know-my-house-has-flaws fiber in my body. We've already put a deposit down on a house in the new city and since neither of us was born a Kennedy, things could get ugly really quickly if we don't put a family in our house tout de suite.

3. My job life is either crazed or not. There is nothing in between. I'm head down, up to my eyeballs in it for weeks or struggling to find enough to occupy my time. When it's nutty, I find myself begging for some relief. Trouble is, when the reprieve finally does come, I'm all out of sorts. In the face of less work, I become disorganized and scattered and develop the attention span of a gnat. Now, is a lull time for me. I should be celebrating. Instead, I'm furiously making list after list, overturning old rocks looking for new opportunities because the truth is, I'm not right in the head when I'm not fully occupied.

4. We're moving.

5. My husband lives someplace else the majority of the week and I have forgotten how to prepare a meal. We may all starve.

Does this qualify as a rant? Whine?

Ah, who cares? It's Friday and I was the lowest on the scale this morning that I've been since my wedding so LIFE IS GOOD.

Whine-O

My husband has been gone from home for the last two days and frankly, I'm coming apart at the seams.

Nobody brings me coffee in bed anymore.

Nobody is there to portion out my vitamins or help with lunch packing.

The laundry is piling up and the dust on the furniture is thick enough to inscribe one's name.

I have no freaking idea how to operate the fancy schmancy BBQ that sits on my back porch so last night, I baked the chicken like I used to do in the old, single days and when it came time to serve the kids, they eyeballed their plates with suspicion like I might be trying to feed them monkey or something. Olivia actually asked me what kind of meat it was and then asked if we could Skype Dallas, all in the same sentence. Coincidence? I think not. She was lucky to have been fed at all considering I was completely disorganized and wandered around my kitchen opening cupboards looking for provisions. I hadn't had to do a lick of grocery shopping or cook a meal IN WEEKS and it was like I had bumped my head and forgotten how to do ANYTHING WITHOUT DALLAS.

I am doing my best Beth-of-Ark impression these days complete with the discussion that I had with my children where,(voice choked with emotion), I explained that Mum needed them to be extra helpful now that Dallas was gone. My daughter is easily manipulated that way so she responded by holding my hand, kissing me and solemnly promising to do whatever it took to make Mum's life easier. Sweet girl. My son just looked at me as if to say, GET A GRIP. Dallas would be home Friday night.

I am so lame.

I need to get my single parent groove back.

Except I don't really want to.

I'd rather whine.

It goes better with the packing.

Taking Flight

My first thought upon awakening yesterday morning was, OH MY GOD WE'RE MOVING.

I've spent nearly twelve years in Bentonville which is the longest that I have squatted in the same place. Ever.

In my entire life ever.

I think I'm considered a local now, in spite of the fact that some people still cock their head to the side, squint their eyes and say, "You ain't from around here, are ya'?" Yeah, maybe not, but I can eyeball a new subdivision and tell you what was there a decade ago.

Now, I'm moving to a strange place where I will need a GPS to navigate my way around. I'll have to find a new dentist, doctor, orthodontist and someone qualified to inject Botox into my head. We're going to have to locate a gym, an organic food market and a farmer we can trust. Registering the children for school means that I am going to spend hours in my house pouring through boxes of paperwork that I have meant to file for YEARS, searching for immunization cards and birth certificates. I will finally be forced to buy that new filing cabinet to replace the one that I dented while using it as a stepladder to clean a ceiling fan. I know that I should look to the positive and embrace all my forthcoming organization but what I really want to do is just pay someone to be me for the next five weeks.

Did I mention that I am master accumulator? Oh yes. After our moving scare last year, I promised myself that I would be much better about my purchasing habits. I vowed that sale prices would no longer cause a blip on my shopping radar. If those cute pair of silver sandals made my Fred Flintstone feet look like encased sausages, the $12 price tag wouldn't matter. I'd leave them on the shelf. I told myself that just because I entered a bookstore did not mean that I had to actually purchase anything, especially considering the fact that there are STACKS of unread books littering my nightstand.

Well, my promises ended up going the way of my New Year's resolutions and yesterday, I paid for my sins when I tackled my closet. It took me two hours. I ended up with a bag of garbage, three bags of clothes, a bag of shoes (some I'd never had on my feet) and Christmas decorations that I hadn't seen in five years. There was a stack of VCR tapes that had been in my possession since before my thirteen year old son was born. I'd held onto them because they were not labeled and I was hesitant to throw them out in case they might contain an episode of Miami Vice that I hadn't seen. It took every ounce of strength but I purged. My closet is now a clean, organized work of art. It may be the only thing that I show potential renters when they come to look at the house.

Yes, renters. Our housing market is still in the tank so there's no way that we can sell either one of our houses right now. We'll be repeating the process we went through last summer trying to find a suitable family to lease our home and I am assuming things will go more smoothly this time around since every single nutbar within fifty miles answered our ad last year and we should have weeded though that element already. Sweet, sweet Jesus, I hope so.

There is a bright spot to all of this work, though. I love our new house. It's got everything we need, in a great location and roomy enough that I will be able to hide from my children if need be. I especially love that we don't own it. Sounds a little looney to shell out an obscene amount of money for rent, eh? Yeah, it sure does and it goes against every financial principle that I've ever learned but at the end of the day, it all boils down to freedom. We've already got two houses we're maintaining and it's not like there's a long line of bankers queued up outside our door wanting to lend us money for a third. Besides, if there is one lesson that this slump in our economy has driven home to me, it's that less debt equals more freedom and I like knowing that we can disencumber ourselves with a mere thirty days notice.

In about three and a half weeks, we will no longer be Bentonville residents. I couldn't identify it Sunday morning but I think that niggling emotion in the pit of my belly was excitement.

Bus-ted

Yesterday was the first day of school for both of my kids and besides being one of the most JOYFUL (should we drive to Missouri and get ourselves some tequila to celebrate?)times of the year, it also means that I've got to get my crap together in the mornings.

I struggle with that. Badly.

Dallas has always masked my deficiencies picked up the slack but come this Monday, he's going to be living in another town during the work week and I'm going to be left behind, miserable, single parent-like, making my own damn coffee. I shudder.

Anyway, back to the first day of school thing. I drove both children to their respective places in the morning and gave them their bus cards which listed which buses they would have to get on that afternoon to get home.

Olivia's day ends around two thirty so when I was getting ready to leave work around 3:30, I text Dallas to ask him if she'd arrived home yet. Negative. Hmmm...that worried me considering she'd been out of school for the better part of an hour. Concerned, I left work immediately and went home. It took me ten minutes. Still no sign of my eight year old.

Dallas had already walked to the park to see if she'd made a detour there which has been her M.O. in the past. Not there. I walked down to her best boyfriend's house (whole other post wrapped up in that discussion) and rapped on his door. No Livvie. At this point, the first tendrils of panic began to weave their way into my thoughts.

It was closing in on four o'clock, there was no answer at the bus information phone number. I started dialing the school when Liv walked in the front door, completely unruffled, no tear streaks and no mud from the ditch that I had pictured her to be lying in.

"WHERE have you been?" I asked.

"Oh, the bus driver got lost," she answered.

Turns out the bus driver was new to the route and spent an enormous amount of time going around in circles until one precocious eight year old girl walked up to the front of the bus and asked him if he needed help. (Guess who that was?) Olivia took him back to our subdivision and directed him to the different stops he needed to make, finally ending with hers.

"You told the bus driver where to go?"

"Uh huh," she said.

This morning, I dropped her at the stop one minute before the bus was due to arrive and panicked when I didn't see any other kids. I figured she'd missed it and I was dismayed at the thought of trying to fight traffic to get her to school and then to get myself to the office on time.

"Relax, Mum," she said. She felt that he might just be running late since he was new to the route and that we should just wait a few more minutes.

"Tim will be here."

TIM! Clearly after yesterday's drama, they were on a first name basis.

She turned out to be right. "Tim" pulled up five minutes later and opened the door for her. They greeted each other and as the bus pulled away, I could see Liv pointing down the road clearly engaged in her new role as bus stop tour guide.

Breaking News

Hey kids,

Do you remember me telling you the saga of Shifty? If not, you can read all about him here and here and here. Those posts are not an example of my finer moments but more Dixie Carterish in their feel. Except I'm not nearly as clever as Dixie was and I curse like a sailor.

Anyway, back to the present day and breaking news. This week, Shifty was finally sentenced after pleading guilty last fall to half a dozen counts of theft. Apparently, he showed up to his sentencing and tried to get a fourth adjournment which didn't sit well with the judge who specifically commented about how disappointing it was that Shifty still refused to take responsibility for his behaviour especially considering the amount of time he had been given to reflect upon his transgressions this last year.

Nope.

Instead of walking into the courtroom with hat in hand, Shifty offended the court by again suggesting that he was completely innocent of all charges, in spite of irrefutable evidence to the contrary and umm...HIS GUILTY PLEA.

Guess how that strategy worked for him?

THEY THREW HIS SORRY ASS IN JAIL
for nearly two years. And, he will have to pay a huge chunk of cash in reparations to the community, which makes my toes tingle with happiness and not because I'm some crazed wackado wishing him dead (well, not often anyway). It's incredibly good news only because Shifty will be forced, by the law, to get a job to pay his fine. For once, the absurd theory of trickle-down economics will actually work because Shifty having a job "on the books" means that he will also, by default, have to pay child support, which is something he has avoided doing up to this point. My niece and two nephews deserve those funds.

Well, Internet, hell hath frozen over. The fat lady, dear god, has finally sung.
Like a true sociopath, Shifty's response to the sentencing was to announce that he would appeal. Appeal what, exactly? The sentence? The reparations? His guilty plea?

Whatever.

My advice to Shifty?

You might want to keep your trap shut in the BIG HOUSE, pal. You don't want to invite your foot or any other appendage in there.

Another PMS Rant

Gosh, it's been a while since I've ranted so you might want to buckle up.

Glenn Beck is an idiot. There is just no nice way to put that. At the gym that I attend most days of the week, the television set in the cardio section is tuned to FOX and since Dallas and I are creatures of habit, we tend to be at the gym at the same time every day. At the end of my weight lifting workout, when adrenaline is high, and the endorphins are flowing, I usually head over to the treadmill or bike for a twenty minute interval session. And EVERY SINGLE DAY, I am there during Glenn Beck's hour of lunacy. I wholeheartedly agree that in a democratic society, the voices of dissent should be heard but Beck takes it to a whole new level of ignorance.

What happened to the time when parents received a piece of mail from their child's school communicating important bits of information? I missed a crucial football meeting for my son because the coaches relied upon thirteen year old boys and their version of the telephone game to get their message across. I appreciate that they have that kind of confidence in the maturity of their team but wouldn't it be smart to have a back up plan? Like an mass email? Instead, besides sharing it with the boys, the meeting date was published on the school website five days before it happened. Like I'm clicking over to the school website on a daily basis to see what's new. Like I'm THAT parent. I'm way too damn selfish to be THAT parent. After calling the school counselor, I learned that my son was one of about thirty boys who seemed to have blanked on the meeting and the ensuing practices. So, Dylan was transferred into regular PE instead of football PE. I've never seen such a relieved kid when I broke the news to him. He hated football; LOATHED it, like any nerdy, braniac, nose-in-a-book boy does. Apparently, I'm not hearing my son very well these days.

Poop. What in the world is up with dog owners who think it is okay for their pets to use our neighbourhood as their own personal toilet? I don't let my cat defecate in your flower beds so why do you think it is okay for your schnauzer to lay a log on my lawn? Or the public walking trails? I understand that when a dog needs to go, he needs to go but for goodness sakes, pick the CRAP up!

So, I've got an iPhone and like lots of other iPhone owners, my battery life is terrible. Rather than fight it, continually worried about where I was going to plug in to charge it up, I waved the white flag and purchased a Mophie. It's a fantastic idea and when it works, it is fabulous but the problem is that the failure rate of this battery pack is absurd. My first one worked for a day. Really. ONE DAY. My second one (that was sent as a replacement) worked for a month. Now, it won't hold a charge, either. At the Apple store, the salesperson told me that they get returns all of the time on the Mophies. Their profit margin has to be massive because there are whacks of reviews on the internet from mostly unsatisfied consumers and yet, the company is still in business. How does that happen? I will admit that their customer service department is pretty good, which is surprising, considering the volume of mail and calls they must receive but wouldn't it be more profitable to just build a bloody quality device in the first place? Hacks me off.

My daughter has been in a day camp sponsored by our local school system for the summer. Included in our weekly fees are meals and snacks. As the first day of school neared, we were informed that the children would be moved from a single collective center to their respective schools. This meant each child would now need a packed lunch from home as school cafeteria facilities would not be operational until Thursday. I was thrilled. I prefer this, actually. The real kicker, the thing that got stuck in my craw was the warning that accompanied this announcement. We were told that our child's lunch must contain a grain, a fruit or vegetable component and some sort of protein. If the school looked and determined that the sack lunch was lacking, they would provide the missing ingredients at $0.60 each.

Bravo, I thought.

Until Olivia woke up one morning and begged me for breakfast at home since she wanted to avoid the POP TARTS they were serving at school. I didn't make a fuss (honestly, I didn't) but I find it offensive to be lectured about nutrition by a system that serves Pop Tarts for breakfast and Hot Pockets for lunch. It makes four letter words dance on the end of my tongue.

Finally, there is the media aimed at my children. We've got television sitcoms that feature wiseass, prepubescent kids who portray every adult as gullible, pedantic and irrelevant or we've got "reality TV", which has made stars of the vapid like Snooki and Sarah Palin. And how about the music scene? Ke$ha's music is fun, absolutely, but hearing my eight year old daughter sing lyrics like," Boys trying to touch my junk, junk
Gonna smack him if he getting too drunk, drunk" makes me wince.
And nostalgic for The Brady Bunch and disco.

Well, maybe not disco.

A Rosie Time

This past weekend, I had one of my long lost cousin/sistas in town for a visit. She was present during the most formulative years of my life and thus, she knows from where my most neurotic personality flaws originate.

She knew my father.

I don't often chat about him because we have been estranged for sixteen years and there isn't much reason for him to pop into my mind. Since becoming a parent, I probably understand him a bit better and consequently, on those rare occasions when he enters my thoughts, the overriding emotion is pity because I realize that he was just a product of the messages that he received as a child.

Sometimes I hate him, though.

Truth.

So, when my cousin pulled up in her rental car and opened the door, I was unprepared for the immediate jolt back to my childhood. Rosie most definitely favours that side of the family, as I do. We share a Jay Leno-like chin. She giggled and the sound was as familiar to me as my own voice. It brought memories of our cottage and fried clams, wild blueberries and coarse, blonde sand. It reminded me of a house on the hill with corn fields, tractor rides and endless hours playing in the labyrinth of a basement where every room had a nickname and a purpose.

Over the five days that she visited, we reminisced and filled in the missing details of our adult lives. Sentences began with either, "Do you remember.." or "Tell me about...". We examined each other's children, assigning noses, foreheads, hands and teeth to the different branches of our family. We looked at old, old pictures, in awe of our shared history and unexpectedly, found ourselves quite forgiving from our perch of middle age.

There was one photo of my mum in curlers, pregnant with my brother and wading in the shallow end of a pool. She was looking directly into the camera and she seemed relaxed and happy. Directly across from her stood my father. He was still thin back then, balding, and impossibly young. In the picture, he is turned slightly, his gaze focused on my mother. The way he holds his mouth, with a mixture of contempt and anger, caused a shiver to travel the length of my spine. I recognized that look. I wanted to jump into that frame for a second, grab my mother by the shoulders and tell her to RUN FAR, FAR AWAY!

We all have a path, I suppose.

The weekend passed by in a blur of activity with BBQs, swimming, a day on the lake and one ill-fated visit to the gym, which left Rosie reacquainted with her ass and begging for ibuprofen. We laughed, sometimes riotously, and we discovered that there are things that we have done (like spew in our purses) and continue to do (step away from the Crispy Crunch) simply because we share the same DNA. I'm not kidding. In the great battle of nature versus nurture, we are poster children for strong but undesirable genetic traits. We sat our kids down and told them that because of the blood that coursed through their veins, they would have to be especially careful or they could easily end up homeless in the parking lot of a Tim Horton's Donut drinking rum from a paper bag and licking powdered sugar from their fingers. "Heed our advice darlings. We know whereof we speak," we said.

I'm sure one day, when my children seek therapy in an effort to unravel the dysfunction of their childhood, that particular discussion will figure prominently in the CRAZY THINGS MY MOTHER TOLD US column. Oh well. I still feel good about warning them.

Predictably, our visit with my cousins ended with hugs, kisses and promises to get together again in the near future. As we watched them drive away, I felt a stinging lump form in my throat because no matter how many years pass between visits, family is everything. EVERYTHING.

And the goodbyes never get any easier.

Retail Therapy

Last Friday, my husband and I anticipated that he would be receiving an offer from a company that has been courting him for the past nine weeks. Yes, you read that correctly.

NINE, LONG, BUREAUCRATIC BULLSHITIFIED, WEEKS.

And it's not like Dallas is playing hard to get. This job looks like a good fit for our family but it does come with a few drawbacks because like the idea of soul mates, the notion of the "perfect" job is delusional. This one comes pretty close though. It boasts a good income, good benefits, a clearly defined career path and it's in an industry where integrity and hard work still mean something. On the down side, the position is located in another state and the hiring process is about as efficient as BP sealing an oil well.

Friday, I lost my mind after finding out that the latest meeting was just another friendly chat that did absolutely nothing to further the process. I was so angry that we would soon have to dip into our savings just to pay bills. When were we going to catch a break? To me, it seemed that we get two big leaps ahead only to fall three steps behind. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

So I went shopping.

Along with a boatload of desperately needed new clothes, since those hanging in my closet dated back to the Reagan era, I casually dropped into the Apple store.


Isn't it gorgeous?

I love it.

Steve Jobs is my hero.

Now some HUSBANDS might comment that a handful of dark chocolate would likely have soothed the beast and that I didn't just browse the Apple store, I AMBUSHED it but, on Sunday morning, when I handed my hubby a fresh cup of java and our shiny new iPad with the New Zealand Herald in all it's high definition glory glowing on its face, I could have sworn I heard him say,

"Oh yeah. Come to Papa."

Living to Eat

This weekend, the family soaked up some sun at our neighbourhood pool. I learned a couple of things.

First, the swim lessons my kids took this summer have done them a world of good. Watching my daughter, I couldn't believe that she was the same girl who started the school holidays with a floatie. Now, she throws herself off the diving board, head between her arms and legs like a frog behind her into the deep end of the pool. She is fearless. My son, has refined his stroke and now, he looks like the picture of grace instead of looking like the picture of one who is drowning. Achieving this tiny success has been good for his soul.

The other thing that struck me at the pool was the sheer size of most of the attendees. I don't mean this as some sort of sneering, looking-down-through-the-nose kind of thing, either. I just couldn't help but notice that most everyone, from the very, very, young to the middle-aged, were well beyond plump. I think the medical term is obese.

When I see an adult in that kind of shape, I always wonder what their story is because "there but for the grace of God" thing, you know? I'm in a good place these days but only because I entered my forties, had myself a mid-life crisis, experienced a few aged related signs of decay and decided to permanently change my lifestyle. I am ALWAYS just one nasty bout of PMS away from binging myself blind. I'm not kidding. The difference now is that when I stick my face into a tub of ice cream, I don't stay there for several months. And I won't add a silo full of rum, deep fried wings and a truckload of Starburst candies to the mix, either. I've spent most of my life yo-yo dieting and I'm not one to cast stones seeing as how my little glass house is pretty fragile.

But it bothers me when I see obese children. They just don't stand a chance. Marks and Spencer recently announced that they are now offering plus size clothing for toddlers, which is shocking to me only because it was a British retailer and not Wal-Mart, who adopted this idea first. The biggest threat to the health and welfare of western nations today is not some radical foreign entity but is found right here at home at the hands of Big Processed Food. If McDonald's, Kraft and General Mills are the princes, Monsanto is the king. It all starts with the corn and soybeans, kids.

I remember back when my daughter was just a baby learning to speak. We were in the car on our way home, trying to work our way through rush hour traffic. Both kids were tired, hungry and cranky. As we neared a set of lights, the familiar golden arches appeared out the window to the right hand side of the car. Olivia went crazy, pointing, babbling and finally, breaking down in tears as we passed without stopping. I was still several years away from understanding that a Happy Meal is a nutritional nightmare but something in my daughter's frenzied reaction to those iconic arches gave me pause. She couldn't yet form complete sentences but my daughter could say "french fry" with authority. It worried me. When I was a kid, fast food was a rare treat because we couldn't afford to eat out very often. Now, it seems that there are a lot of people that can't afford to eat in. There is something horribly wrong when it costs less to feed your family garbage than to nourish them with real, live, unprocessed, food. And the scariest thing of all is that it doesn't look like anything will change in the near future.