It's not a big secret that I am a parent. Part of being a parent is keeping tucked away in the closet of 'horribles' that can happen to your baby is the potential for one of your children to fall victim to a bully. It happens, as much as we will it not to. We see our little ones as perfect little beings who everyone will love as much as we do. We cannot fathom that anyone would want to hurt them. When it happens, it hurts us just as much.

Bullying doesn't end when we grow up, the scars can sometimes remain well into adulthood. They shape who we are. Our power is only to either let it define us negatively, or allow it to help us become stronger people. Like many of us, I was bullied when I was younger. A LOT. It sucked. My experiences shaped who I became. I was lucky that I did not allow it to define me.

Which is why I am sharing a letter I received in my Facebook Messenger. It has taken me a couple of days to really think about it and decide how I feel. Burying the past is one thing; digging up the rotting bones is quite another.
Here is what it said.

 Dear Christy;

I do not know if you remember me. For all I know I may never receive a reply and I will know that I either contacted the wrong person, or that you have just decided that you would rather not dwell on the past.

My name is ******* *******. We attended Cline Elementary School and Magsig Middle School together from 4th until I believe 7th grade. I don't remember you much past 7th grade but if I recall correctly it is because you and your family moved away.

I located you because we have a mutual connection on LinkedIn, and I found you on Facebook. No, I am not some crazy stalker - I will explain more here in a bit.

I remember that you were tall and very skinny. You were sick a lot and I remember our teacher would keep crackers and juice for you to eat during class because your pills made you sick. I do not know what you were suffering from at the time, I just remember you always seemed very pale. I also remember being jealous that you got to eat crackers, pretzels, and juice during class and we did not. We called you bean pole because you were so skinny and tall.

I also remember that you did not live in the greatest part of Centerville. I remember you would walk to school a lot as opposed to riding the bus. You would also walk home whenever you could. You were horrible at math and seemed to hate it, but I remember you could write like no one in our class. You had a great knack for storytelling. You always got the best grades in spelling and wrote the longest complete sentences ever. All the rest of us could never compete. You could never compete with us it seemed. We laughed at you for that.

Aside from the everyday taunting kids do to each other, I can recall that I was actually very mean to you a few times. You didn't have the right clothes, you never had the cool supplies, you were one of the losers. I was a loser, and here is why.

I have been haunted by something I did ever since my daughter started school. Bear with me.

One day in homeroom in middle school - maybe 7th grade? I cannot recall. I really tore into you. I was making fun of the fact your Tretorns were not 'real'. Your jeans weren't the fashion statement that season. You ignored me and ignored me. I said your hair was ugly and that poor people shouldn't live around us. You started crying. You cried until the bell rang. You walked home.

The next day you acted like it didn't bother you so we tore into you again. You cried.

I think you moved away soon after that.

I just want to say I apologize. I know it does not mean much now, but I do apologize. I was an ass. There is no justification for it, no excuse to be made. My being a kid does not matter. My parents raised me better than that.

I cannot fathom what your life was like although I am sure it was not rosy and was quite difficult and we sure did make it worse. But I want to say this:

You were the nicest person I can recall. You would be nice to anyone. You actually let me cheat off your spelling test a few times. You sat next to the new kids so they would have a friend. You never had a bad word to say about anyone. You gave your lunch once to someone (yes I remember that) when you looked like you needed it more. You laughed with everything you had in you. You never even called me an ass.

I am not trying to make you feel bad, rather I am trying to right the wrongs I have committed in hopes that it may alleviate the bullying my daughter has been enduring. She walked home today because she did not want to be bullied on the bus any longer. She walked 4 miles. She said some kids were making fun of her because she didn't have an iPhone.

An iPhone! You didn't have Tretorns.

Your face came to my eyes, except this time the tears were my childs.

From what I can see you turned out very well, have a beautiful family, beautiful children, and a husband whom I am sure adores you and would kick my ass if he knew what we had done to you. You take what life throws at you and turn it into something awesome. You deserved a lot better than what we gave you and although I can only ask for your forgiveness, I surely do not deserve it.

My daughter sat in amazement as I told her your story. I admitted I was the wrongdoer. She said she hopes you know that I didn't mean it.

I didn't. It was uncalled for.

I am sorry.

I hope life continues to treat you well, and please do not feel obligated to return my message. It is just something that never really hit home until today.

May life continue to shower you with blessings, and may this note find you and your family happy, healthy, and well.

With age comes wisdom, and I regret mine came so late.

Sincerely,

*******.

Forgiven. That is all.

All I Want For Christmas Is You. Back.

My sweet sweet nephew, Stephen Michael Thornton, made the decision to leave us last Friday evening, December 14th. It has been a horrific week for our family which will culminate in the final goodbye at his memorial service tomorrow.

http://www.orwoodyard.com/obituaries/Stephen-Thornton/

I am simply hearstick.

I lost my uncle to suicide when I was a freshman in High School.  It was a hard loss to bear but even harder without the finality of a memorial service or the chance to say goodbye.  Harder still was knowing I had two cousins I would never know again since my aunt took them from us after his death.

With that, I am not a stranger to the suicide picture.  It never makes sense.  There are never any answers.

This one, however, has just been an exceptional loss that I am having a hard time with.

My daughter Elizabeth was very close to Stephen.  She tried to call him non-stop and text him since she saw the first Facebook post about it Saturday morning.  She was practically frantic by the time we woke up and she informed us of the posts.

SIDENOTE:  PLEASE, TEENAGERS OF OUR TIME - THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.  FACEBOOK IS NOT YOUR IMMEDIATE MOURNING WALL.  GIVE FAMILY TIME TO BE NOTIFIED BEFORE YOU NOTIFY US INADVERTENTLY. 

I have screamed, I have cried, I have laughed, I have cried again.  I am angry, I am hurt, I am heartbroken.

I wrote a letter that I am going to try to read tomorrow, but I do not know if it will happen.  I cried while writing it.  Reading it may help me.

Continue to pray for us.  Our Christmas this year is gone.  They are not ruined.  Stephen loved Christmas, and I will love it for him from here on out.

My Goodbye to Stephen

I am Stephens Aunt Christy.

I remember the first time I met Stephen.  He was only a few days old and was screaming his little lungs out.  I wrapped him up tight, held him close, and rocked him for the next two hours as he slept soundly in my arms.  I told him “I will hug you forever, little peanut – tight as I can.”

All our hugs were ‘take your breath away tighter than tight’ after that.

Stephen liked Chicken nuggets.  He didn’t like much else when he was younger.  One Christmas we told him the ham was chicken just to get him to eat it.  He did.  He said that pink chicken (which was really ham) tasted weird but he liked it anyway.

He could read by 3.  He loved to read to us.  He would tell you the planets names and what all the dinosaurs were called and why some ate plants and some ate meat.  He said they liked chicken the best. He said they did not like vegetables and only ate leaves because they had to.

He loved video games and could master them without hardly any work.  He got angry with me because I was horrible at Mario.  I told him I could kick his butt at pin ball any day.

He loved to rap. Some of his lyrics made me raise an eyebrow and some made me laugh so hard.  He said he could rap about anything and proved it as he rapped about walking around the grocery store with me.  I begged him to stop but I was laughing so hard I could barely get the words out.

He loved to come to my house and when I last talked to him he was looking forward to coming and staying with me for New Years.  He asked if it was okay to come and maybe he could stay a few days.  He knew he was welcome any time. I asked if he wanted me to make anything special – he said nah, just some chicken nuggets.

He loved his brother Thomas and wanted to be just like him.  He loved his siblings. He loved his cousins.  He loved his family.  He loved his friends.  He wore his heart on his sleeve and would have given it to you if you asked.  That boy was so full of love and had so much of it to give.

I have been reading everyone’s words and I look at so many faces and they all have the same question – WHY?  Why are we here today?  Why did this happen?  Why?

I do not have answers for those questions.  I have been searching my soul and asking for answers. I have been angry and cried and screamed.  I have a hole in my heart that will never heal.  Why?  I have to tell myself that we will never have an answer – that the only answer is that Stephen made an impulsive decision that had horrific consequences.  Our choices sometimes seal our fate.  Stephen chose his fate, and although his choice took him away from us far too soon, we have to not blame ourselves, not blame others, and honor the wonderful young man we lost by helping each other. Love each other. Think before we act, but know we can act for others without thinking.  Act in Stephens behalf now.  Step in when you know you have to. Problems are temporary – there is no problem too huge that together we cannot find a solution. Do not think you have no other choice – you ALWAYS have a choice. 

Hug tighter than you ever have.  And if you swear no one will hug you back – call ME.  I will.

I loved my nephew very much. 

I will have chicken nuggets for new years.

I wish I could have that one last hug. 

(Stephen and my daughter Elizabeth. Just the way I remember him - smiling. )

 

 

 

My soul, heart, and a deck of cards set out on the table. Handle with care.

Usually my posts are filled with a giggle, a rant, an opinion or thought which brings you humor.

 This is not one of those posts.

There can't be a tornado - I have dishes in the sink.

Living in Ohio pretty much your whole life, you become accustomed to tornadoes and sirens and severe thunderstorms. Luckily in the area we are in, we are in a 'valley'- so more often than not the tornado will skirt us by and stay in the heavens as opposed to touching down to destroy our lives. They still scare the hell out of me though, as my husband and I both can recall the Xenia tornado of 1974. I may have only been about to turn 3, but it is one of the earliest memories I have - being shuttled to the basement in a frantic rush for survival and being scared to death that my dad was not at home.

Obviously we made it through, but it is because of that I have a certain level of preparedness that has escalated into pure obsession lately thanks to the news broadcasts of thousands of people who have lost everything in a matter of seconds. I do not take it lightly, and although my husband and children yesterday were astounded at my OCD taking a very paranoid form, they understood.

For the umpteenth day in a row, we were watching the news for information regarding a storm headed our way. This storm had a different angle; it was taking a dangerous turn for the worse so I started my 'mom panic' - you know, the panic that you have as a parent but have to retain some semblance of sanity and calm so that your kids do not freak the hell out. When that happens, then you have to deal with mom panic AND kid panic, and it is inevitable that someone is going to get yelled at.

I tell my kids that IF we should have to run to the bathroom to huddle in the tub, it is best to be ready now. My daughter grabs her lovey; a stuffed elephant that will probably walk her down the aisle at her wedding. My son, in full ADD mode, grabs the weather radio. Although I am partially happy at their picks, I tell them to get their shoes on.

"Mom, we can't outRUN the tornado."

"We are not going to outrun the tornado - but when we are possibly digging ourselves out of the rubble around us, do you want shoes on your feet, or do you want to walk around barefoot afterwards?"

They put shoes on.

I then explain why I am doing the things I am doing; I am putting the asthma medications and extra cell phone batteries and charger in my purse, along with a packet of papers I keep ready to go at any given moment containing birth certificates, social security cards, marriage certificate and license, copies of shot records and insurance information.

My oldest seems puzzled. I explain to her that if something is to happen, and we lose everything, all the information we need to rebuild our lives is now in my purse. You go to the bank and need money and do not have ID, they will refer you to the BMV to get ID. You can't get ID because you do not have a copy of your social security card. They refer you to the BMV to get picture ID. See the vicious cycle here? It is why I not only keep copies here, but in a safe deposit box at the bank as well in case of fire.

We are ready to go, and thankfully we only get pounded with some hail and some heavy rain and wind. The kids go out to pick up the palm size pieces of ice that just fell from the sky while I put things back in their safe place for the next round. I begin wondering if there was damage done to my car due to hail which is at the repair shop, complaining that my lawn chair cushions are all over the neighborhood, and that yet again the grass isnt going to get mowed because it is too wet.

It is then, for whatever reason, I realize the house is a mess, and dishes are in the sink, cereal is left out, there is some spilled soda on the counter and laundry left to fold on the couch. "Thank God a tornado didn't come - there are dishes in the sink - I would have been embarrassed had the roof been blown off and the news saw our house looking like this..."

I am sure it came out as a way for me to be thankful that I am not one of the thousands of people in Missouri or Alabama or Illinois or Kansas or....you get the point. I take for granted that I woke up with a roof over my head when so many woke up to search yet again for a loved one. I panicked that my wedding ring was not on my finger when someone is panicking because she cannot find her husband. I insisted my children put shoes on their feet when someone else is simply thankful their child can walk amongst the rubble that was a couple days ago a life similar to my own.

A tornado blows through my house everyday, in the form of three children and a husband I would be lost without, and I will thank every day it does.

My heart goes out to all those with and without shoes on their feet right now.

Im going to the bathroom and then taking a shower and other posts that lead to not allowing the 11 year old to have a Facebook.

My 11 year old daughter asked me for a Facebook account, because ALL of her friends have one already and she is the only lame-o that doesn't. She also reminded me they all have cell phones, their own rooms, boyfriends, trust funds, and ponies.

Okay, maybe I am exaggerating on the ponies. But they all have cell phones and Facebooks.

"No, you cannot have a Facebook page. We discussed this, and we will not discuss it until you are 12. If you get a Facebook page, you will feel obligated to make me your 'friend', and I do not know if you are ready to be my Facebook friend yet. It is a huge commitment that takes a thick skin and....."

"You said I couldnt have a CELL phone until I was 12. You never mentioned a Facebook. You said Myspace."

"Okay, as parent here, the contract specifically states that I reserve the right to change my mind at any given time for the rest of your life. Which, by the way I blessed you with. You are welcome."

I do not know if I like kids having Facebook pages. I am 'friends' with several 'kids' on my pages because they are my daughters friends who, for whatever reason, like me and also because I am heavily involved in her colorguard stuff. Whenever these 'kids' send me a friend request, I always let their parents know first before accepting it because I do not want to be that weirdo adult with 50 'kids' on her friends list.

Here are my main problems with kids on Facebook:

1. Constant status updates over nothing: You know what I mean - "eating a sandwich, then getting dressed, then watching some tv" and then 5 minutes later "I want some Taco Bell" and then 2 minutes later "eating taco bell". "Getting in the shower...." is my least favorite one I see. Really? I relate this to calling every one of my friends and saying "Okay, I am getting in the shower...". WHY do you want everyone to know you are in the shower? Do you want them to visualize you in the shower, or are you making sure they all know you bathe 10 times a day? Do they panic if you do not reply to a chat request right away so you are letting them know, or WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH THIS?? I do now want my daughter announcing to the world she is in the shower. Naked.

2. Constant teenage angst and drama: I have a teenager here. I deal with the angst and drama all the time. To log on and see more angst and drama is annoying. "so and so told so and so that I am a bitch and a slut". "I never get to do anything and my family hates me". "I hate you". "My stupid parents wont let me have this or that or blah blah blah". Have you considered for a second you cause most of the angst and drama by posting your angst and drama? Moreover, I hate the 'fishing for sympathy' posts too, which also occur by the same poster every two minutes; "Noone cares about me - FML and everyone in it, he didnt call," I thought the whole EMO thing was over with. By the way, he didnt call because he can read all your angst and drama on Facebook.

3. The hypocritical posts: I get teenagers and kids act like they know everything. What annoys me is when they make fun of other people for doing something stupid, then they turn around and post something stupid and get mad when we correct them, make fun of said post, etc etc etc. 'Think before you speak' also applies to 'Think before you type'.

4. The PICTURES. Some of the pics these kids post are ASTONISHING. Barely there outfits and 20 pics of you and your friends in the bathroom making duck faces in the damn mirror is downright stupid.

I tell my youngest this, and she proceeds to go through my Facebook page and comment on how a lot of my ADULT friends post stupid shit all the time too. Here is the difference:

WE ARE ADULTS AND AS BREADWINNERS TO YOUR EXISTANCE WE CAN POST WHATEVER THE HELL WE WANT TO.

Here are also some differences:

1. We NEVER post we are in the shower, about to shower, got out of the shower, etc etc etc unless a followup is present: "Getting a shower, then off to do the 50 billion things my minion children require of me because they think I can do it all."

2. Constant adult angst and drama: we post this to help each other through the struggle. We post our angst and drama so that we can get some sympathy from another parent or adult who shares our trauma everyday, and can possibly solve our dilemma with a pitcher of beer. You post YOUR angst and drama to whine, bitch and moan and inevitably create more angst and drama.

3. Hypocritical posts? I do not see too many adults make these. What I DO see is someone who thinks they are smarter than everyone else making a stupid comment, and like YOUR hypocritical posts, every other adult is still there to make fun of them in return for said stupid comment.

4. The pictures: I will admit to taking a pic of myself in the bathroom. I was making fun of you beforehand when I did it. And we are usually intoxicated when this occurs which explains OUR stupidity - what is your excuse?

I have never been one of these parents that feels the need to give my child something simply because everyone else has one, and never will be. I am holding true to my no Facebook rule, because I spend too much time watching too many kids post their entire lives online at too young of an age, when I grew up in a 'keep your thoughts in a private journal for noone ever to see' mindset. Even as adults we have accepted sharing everything with complete stragers online, but when our children do it so willingly it scares the hell out of me.

Even in my journal I never wrote "going to go take a shower...", but if everyone wants to know when I am bathing, I will be sure to call you and let you know.

Sending your child to school in flip flops is not bad parenting - but not wearing a jacket is grounds for imprisonment.

A post today from one of my groups on Facebook was stressing about an imminent phone call from her child's school. The stressor? Dear mom had sent the child to school in flip flops without first checking the flip flop rule in the dress code.

How DARE you. Children's services must be notified immediately, as it is apparent you are impeding the decent upbringing your child deserves.

Kidding, of course - I would think in the scheme of things this should be a relatively minor offense, unless of course it is gym day in which case the child should receive a zero for not being able to participate in square dancing.

Kidding again.

I actually get quite annoyed at these posts; not because a parent actually is freaking out because she sent her child to school in flip flops, but because she is actually freaking out for something so insignificant that she shouldn't even be worried about it. I appreciate what schools do to a point - in my day they could care less if you had breakfast or not before arriving on their premises, and now they realize the importance of all children having access to some nutrition before starting their day.

It is when they decide how to parent my child throughout the day and emotionally chastise me when they feel I have done something lackluster as far as parenting goes.

Case in point: my youngest daughter came home in tears one day because she was not allowed to go outside for recess because she did not wear a coat, and only had a jacket. Her twin brother boasted that he got to go outside just with a jacket, because he had a hooded sweatshirt on underneath. A note from school was produced from her backpack, and written on it was the schools reasoning for barring my daughter from the playground.

"Coats, gloves, and hats must be worn when temperatures are cold enough to warrant such. Mackenzie was not allowed her recess time today due to inappropriate clothing. Please make sure Mackenzie wears a coat daily. If you need assistance purchasing a coat, we can direct you to resources to accommodate your needs."

WTF?

I should have been more astounded at the suggestion I cannot afford a coat, but I actually let that one slide. If you are interested in purchasing a coat, there is a really nice North Face coat she wants with fur trim and a price tag of $290, which far exceeds her cheap one purchased at Target. However, I was more focused on the fact that my lackluster parenting produced the inexcusable result of my poor defenseless child going to school in the harsh spring conditions with no coat to sheild her from the inclement weather.

Had I decided to write a note in return, I suppose it would have read something like this:

"In my defense, your honor, the temperature was 68 degrees when she walked out the door this morning. As I was busy doing the dishes after providing my child a good breakfast, I did not have time to pull up the Doppler radar and forecast the possibility of the temperature dropping within two hours to a frigid 49 degrees. I did, however, suggest she may want to wear a heavier coat; however, I mistakenly had the mindset that instead of sitting on my children and forcing their every decision I allow them to learn to take care of themselves. I blame myself for the frostbitten fingers that surely must have occurred due to my selfishness. Please forgive me."

That was the letter I SHOULD have written. However, the snarky in me came out and acted out in another way - I sent my child to school the next day bundled up so damn tight she rivaled Randy from a Christmas story and was not only unable to put her arms down, she had to roll to the bus stop due to the arctic wear I dressed her in.

When did schools decide they were the parent? Is it because of the amount of people who do NOT parent, or is it because they are overachievers in their own perfect mind and only feel better when they belittle the actions of other parents?

I would understand a school being concerned if my child showed up in flip flops and a jacket during a snowstorm. I get not wearing flip flops on gym day. What I do not get is undermining my abilities to care for my child simply because she chose to wear a jacket to school as opposed to a coat.

Our society has moved so much from that of one trying to raise good, productive members by any means possible to one where we coddle our sweet precious gifts to the point of literally spoiling the gene pool. Schools are so concerned with political correctness and anti-lawsuit mindsets that they feel they have to please everyone at all times and forgot how to take care of business at hand: actually TEACHING our children.

Gone are playgrounds with equipment made of metal that was 190 degrees in the sunshine and placed on concrete. Children are not allowed to run on concrete - they may fall. Don't play dodgeball - someone may get hurt. We no longer have Halloween parties or Christmas parties - we have 'fall festivals' and 'holiday concerts'. Kids are getting too fat - but we will feed them junk at lunchtime (for further reference, also please revert back to "no playing on the playground for fear you may get hurt). Little Johnny is allergic to gluten and peanuts and eggs and yeast, so no treats are allowed to be brought for birthdays. ALL children in the class must be invited to the party, or no one can be invited to the party. You are here to learn the answers, but we will punish you for not knowing them. You do not need to say the Pledge of Allegiance as your right to live in your country if you do not agree with the wording. Your child can only be absent 5 days during the year, or we will send the truant officer to your house to question why you feel the need to keep YOUR sick child at home without a doctors note. And it is a sign of horrible parenting if you dare even THINK of sending your child to school in flip flops and a jacket.

I long for a time of sharing a soda with your friends, running on the playground, drinking from the hose in summer, and wearing your Halloween costume to school.

Just make sure you wear a jacket over it.

Bullying to be part of the cool crowd is far better than caring for anyone's feelings.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that at 39, I would revert back to fifth grade.

It's not like they pull you aside and tell you as a child that someday, when you are all grown up, you will have a flood of memories come back to haunt you and you will deal with old issues that you thought were long gone. If anything, they lie to you and tell you that someday you will "look back at all of this and laugh".

I am not laughing.

My son has had to deal with random acts of stupidity called bullying for over three years now. I guess he is singled out because he just is not one of the 'cool kids' - he has strawberry blond hair, tons of freckles, and the genetic betrayal of DNA which has led to teeth that are in serious need of braces. He tried to play football and hated it due to a coach that thought 'wee football' meant 'pro-draft', tried baseball and that just didn't fly either, so I guess you could say he is just not athletically inclined. Being my son, however, I love him DEARLY, would give my life for that boy in a second, and could care less about what he looks like on the outside. He is one of the most loving children I have ever seen, is sharp as a tack (even if he doesn't use it all the time) and is an all around good kid. He will talk to anyone about anything, which can potentially be his downfall from time to time as, lets face it, not everyone likes to talk. I guess Johnathon sees it as being friendly to everyone, and not holding anything against him.

Wish every kid was like him.

The last few years, these nerdy traits have placed a bulls eye on his back for bullies, as if they have some radar in their minds that attracts them to what they see as easy targets. He has been harassed, made fun of, and now, assaulted when some boys pushed him into a ditch.

The flood I was referring to came gushing back this past Friday when, at a football game, my youngest daughter comes running to me in the stands saying "MOM!! THEY ARE DOING IT AGAIN!!". I tore out of those stands, like a mama bear about to brutally attack that evenings potential dinner, and found the boys. One was crying, as apparently my son, in a futile attempt to fight back had hit one of them in the head with a plastic soda bottle. I laid into all of them anyway - telling them that if they so much as breathed in the direction of my son from now on, I would be up their asses like white on rice. "I'm gonna go tell my dad you threatened me", one said. "GOOD!! Go tell your dad - I will rip him apart , too! I guess it's okay for you to bully my son, but when someone bullies YOU, you run and tell your daddy?? Go get him - I'll whip his ass also" was all I could muster out.

Not my finest hour. Probably not the way I should have handled it. Do I give a crap now? Partly yes, mostly no.

I was bullied in fifth grade - a LOT - mostly because we lived in an exclusive suburb of South Dayton and my mom was the epitome of white trash in their eyes: we lived in low income housing, and my Tretorns were actually purchased at K-mart and were cheap knockoffs. My Gloria Vanderbuilts were Wranglers. I babysat for weeks to save up $37.95 for an Izod shirt (cheap by today's standards, but this was the early 80's after all...). I was bullied because I just didn't have what the other kids had, and remember crying every day because I was so embarrassed. I had the lowest self esteem ever, which is only increased by the normal shit that you go through anyway in 5th and 6th grade. You get to a point where you believe everything everyone says about you, because you hear compliments so rarely that the bad stuff must be true.

I grew out of mine - I wish I had some magical cure to share with everyone out there but I don't. I just woke up and realized you know what?? To hell with this shit. I am better than all of this.

It doesn't mean though that sometimes I have walls that are very hard to break through, even to this day.

To watch my son go through this, however, has brought it all back. I just do not understand it - I have taught my children that everyone is different, and these differences are what make us awesome individuals, capable of coming together and accomplishing anything we set our minds to. Someone elses difference could be the strength you need. Doesn't mean you need to get along with everyone, nor will you ever get along with everyone, but at least respect them as you would want them to respect you.

Did I go to another class than everyone else out there?? Why do *I* get this and other parents don't?

Many people say that bullies are lacking something at home, and to be honest I am not finding that to be entirely true. I am starting to blame the PARENTS for this crap more than I am the kid. It is not that they are absent from their lives or anything; rather, I think in a lot of instances, these punks are TAUGHT that bullying is cool - that being part of the cool crowd, no matter what the consequences, is far better than caring about people or respecting them. That to be on the football team and be the homecoming king eventually means that you have to act like a complete punk in order to get there. Be the strong kid who everyone else wants to be. Who cares what you do now - someday you will look back at it all and laugh.

Still not laughing.

I will continue to teach my kids to respect everyone, but now in my curriculum I will teach that you do not have to be a doormat either. Fighting back is acceptable to me, and I will defend you every time. "Turn the other cheek" can only go so far, before you have to fight back to teach someone to back off.

I hate telling my son that someday he will look back on all of this and laugh - because I look back on mine and still cry. What I AM going to tell him, however, is that someday, he will look back on this and laugh not because it is over and done with, but because he will not have wasted his whole youth trying to be one of the "in crowd" , who are still as fickle and fake in adulthood as they were in school. He will be successful and happy because he held his ground and continued being who he is, regardless of what these stupid jerks thought about it.

And he will laugh even harder when he is so much more of a man than these boys ever will be - full of love, respect, and kindness, and happier than words can describe.

NOW I am laughing.

Parent Teacher Conferences lead to a bottle of Moscato.

I have come home from my first parent teacher conference with a bottle of wine. Be forewarned that I am drinking said bottle as I type this. I would say I am just having a glass, but that would just be lying, and I prefer to dwell on the fact that my impetuous wine purchase following my children's parent teachers conference will soon having me feeling as blissful as when I first woke up today, unaware of the onslaught of misery ahead that is commonly referred to as Wednesday.

This day has sucked ASS. Pure, unadulterated ASS. One after another, my hopes of a seemingly normal Wednesday were shattered to hell and back, and then kicked me in the face for good measure. Mackenzie, my youngest twin, is sick due to the fine layer of pollen that has encompassed our home. She looks like a blow fish about to explode, and although my motherly instincts tell me to dote on her every whim and need currently, the conniving, selfish bitch in me was somewhat disappointed that my personal mommy time was now to be spent shopping for the exact fucking Popsicles she wanted, picking up snot rags everywhere and Googling industrial uses for mucous. My son Johnathon - the other twin hell bent on ruining my alone time, comes home from school limping because he hurt his ankle at some point during the day - no doubt in an intense testosterone ridden 4th grade boy chase girl scenario on the playground. My oldest, Elizabeth, is still convinced the world revolves around her and needs a ride RIGHT NOW to wherever it is she is going to go. And I, still grieving the loss of my mommy time, realize that I have a parent teacher conference today as well. GO TO HELL WEDNESDAY...I hate you.

I drug the first kid with Benadryl, drug the second kid with Ibuprofen, drive the third kid to where she needed to go (however much I wanted to drug her as well, she guilted me with the priority of having a school project to work on) and then I go to the parent teacher conference. How dare my kids teachers care so much about my children that they actually want to speak with me regarding their progress.

In reality, I am very thankful for my children's teachers - they are the most unrecognized profession as far as I am concerned and deserve not only higher salaries, but goddamned medals of valor. I celebrate the day I send them back to school after a long ass summer of whining that they are 'bored', whereas they have to deal with them all day long and instruct them on how to be educated responsible members of society. My hat is off to them. Really, it is.

My twins are as different as night and day - actually, they are myself and my husband reincarnate. My oldest was the 'trick' God bestowed upon us - you know, the perfect child that makes you want to have more. Then we get what our parents cursed us with; the 'I hope someday you have kids JUST LIKE YOU' curse. We got TWINS, a boy just like my husband, and a daughter just like me. I would like to say that I wish we stopped at the one to prove the curse wrong, but the truth is I love these kids like nothing in the world. What better way to leave my legacy behind than to have a daughter who acts JUST LIKE ME, that I can mold into an even better version. Take THAT, God.

So there I sit, in the conference, as nervous as if it were my own conference. I instantaneously revert back to fourth grade mentality, worried that I am going to be punished for STILL not knowing fractions and sometimes having to multiply with my fingers. I blame that on the Moscato, even though I did not drink in fourth grade but Moscato takes me back to that level at times.....

The teacher starts with how Johnathon is progressing, that he is really a good kid and even though I practically have to sit on him at home to get his shit done he is really taking things more seriously in class. His only problem seems to be that although he is purely capable of making straight A's he seems to just not give a shit, rushes through his work, and basically does a half assed job. She is frustrated that she knows how smart he is and just seems bored. We come up with a game plan to get him more interested. We agree that this kid is gonna make it.

Then we move on to my Mackenzie. My sweet mini me. She is the opposite of her brother - she loves to learn, does the work required, does extra work when asked, and generally is not a problem. But there is one....thing.....

I brace myself. BUT?? I hate that word at the beginning of a sentence. It signifies that although someone has just told you one thing, they are about to bash you with another. Or justify an apology; you know, that whole "I'm sorry, BUT....." bullshit.

"I don't want this to come off the wrong way, but I have been very concerned with Mackenzie's spelling and writing," the teacher says. I think to myself, okay - concerned as in she is discussing what she really wants to do with that friggin spelling paper, concerned as in she is discussing in detail what happens when mommy and daddy close the bedroom door...how concerned are we here?

"Some teachers here went to a conference on Dyslexia that unfortunately I was not able to attend. I asked them to look at Mackenzie's writing as I sensed a problem. They too, are concerned that there may be some issues we need to look into in order to help Mackenzie further. I do not want you to think we were keeping this from you, but I just wanted to make sure before I made you aware of it that there was in fact a possible reason for concern."

I am stunned. First off, I am stunned that my perfect babydoll is having a problem. As much as we love our children, a problem, in whatever form, comes off first hand like WE did something wrong. Like we have somehow failed our children. Like WE should have caught this. The fourth grade mentality is flooding back again, but this time it has nothing to do with fractions or multiplication - it is that I have let my child DOWN. After I feel like a complete imbecile for not recognizing this, I feel an overwhelming sense of thankfulness that there are still teachers in the world that actually give a shit - that do not let our kids fall through the cracks, that WANT them to succeed as much as we do.

Choking back tears, I ask what we can do. ANYTHING. Name it. This is my swollen blow fish kid who dominated my day picking up her snot rags, and is now dominating my heart and needs our help. We are going to have her evaluated further and go from there, and I am reassured that 3rd-4th grade is when these issues pop up the most and now is the perfect time to correct them.

So my kids ask why I am drinking a bottle of Moscato after a conference. I am sure they think it was in fact horrible and I will be disconnecting the Wii again shortly - but in reality it is because I am celebrating the fact that I DO in fact have awesome kids, and am thankful to live in the school district I live in.

That, and I do my best work when drinking, and am planning medal of valor for Mackenzie's teacher as we speak in the form of an end of year trip to the day-spa.

Not exactly a medal of honor, but at least it is a way to thank her for caring about my kid even half as much as I do.

Hope everyone had a happy "give your kids a buncha sugar for no religious reason" day.

SO glad this weekend is over. We did not celebrate Easter really yesterday - despite the kids urging to go out and buy them tons of candy I resisted. No candy. Their task was to tell me how receiving candy was symbolic of the Easter holiday, and since they gave me nothing except how eggs are associated with spring and rebirth and new life and shit their answer did not satisfy my request. So, no candy. I must admit that part of it is due to the fact that I am sick to death of accumulating cheesy baskets and that grass shit being everywhere. I got selfish. I know, bad parenting. How dare I be selfish since we give up that right when we bring a child into the world.

The true reason is that, not being a particularly religious family, I decided that Easter is essentially nonsense in this house since it is considered a religious holiday and we already celebrated 'our' Easter during the spring equinox. Easter is nothing more to me than a reason for every mall and store in my area to close - they themselves abuse it as a reason not to work and take my money - and should thus be re-named to "Buy your kids a buncha stupid candy for no REAL religious reason that will rot their teeth and require several dental visits" day. Fit THAT on a calendar.

I'm really not as cold-hearted a parent as I claim - it is really all a front. We finally gave the kids the Wii system we bought again at Christmas as their 'easter' gift. For those who do not remember, I sold my sons Wii system some time ago as a punishment for repeatedly denouncing my claims that bad grades would bring the harshest consequences. My darling son, at Christmas, must have been delusional in thinking that I would just hand it over in the spirit of the season - and, since he was secure in this notion that the spirit of Christmas would cause me to give in to his will and he EXPECTED that damn thing under the tree, I took another proud parenting stance of NOT putting it there. The grades still weren't where I wanted them to be. Jesus himself would have had to walk into this house and beg me to give it back - I was NOT going to crumble.

My plan worked - both of the twins have finally realized that fucking with momma is NOT a smart idea. They have learned that I actually DO have eyes and ears all over this damn town, watching them constantly when I am not there. They have done extra credit without being told, have had 'A's' on the last 4 spelling tests, and are really making an effort. So, no baskets, but a Wii system and Call of Duty is more my style anyway.

So Easter was spent doing OUR thing - eating pizza and playing Call of Duty and Raving Rabbids and Guitar Hero until we couldn't stand it anymore. We did it together - as a family. THAT is what a holiday is all about anyway.

Besides, no better way to celebrate a holiday than blowing shit up with your kids.

Going under the knife to get away from it all, and it is a beautiful, wonderful thing.

I am having surgery tomorrow to finally be rid of the albatross in my life called 'lower back pain'. It's a good thing, too, because I think if I have to deal with this for one more night I may very well slit my wrists with a plastic spoon. I am having a Discectomy to repair the severely herniated disc that is impinging my sciatic nerve and causing all sorts of havoc down my right leg. I do not know how I got this, cannot pinpoint it to a single occurrence, but have it narrowed down to one of three events: bouncing down the stairs at OSU last September, shoveling the 4 feet of snow out of the driveway at some point over the winter, or that keg-stand I did that one time because a leprechaun made me do it. Point is, I don't know how it happened - all I do know is that this shit hurts like a son-of-a-bitch and that says a lot, considering I have given birth. And one of those times I spit two kids out at once.

Surgery is a big deal to me, simply because the last surgery I had left me traumatized and suspect of every doctor or nurse who had the unfortunate luck to cross my path in the couple months following the debacle. It was just a million to one shot that EVERY little fucking thing that could go wrong, went wrong, with ME. The surgery itself went great - it was all the shit afterwards that almost made me swear off health care and opt for the Voodoo witch doctor with a chicken next go-around. I have high standards when it comes to service - I want my hotel room clean, I want the Big-Mac I order to look like the one on the goddamn commercial for fuckssakes, and if I order something and you say it will be here in two days, it better be here in two days; not three, not four. So it only stands to reason that when someone is going to be cutting into me and I am going to end up paying top dollar for it, I want that shit to be the highest quality cutting on the planet.

With all that being said, it HAS to be obvious how much pain I am in because I swore I would let disease ravage my body like a sailor having been at sea for years would ravage a hooker before I would allow ANYONE to cut into me ever again. And pain makes one cranky. And desperate. And cranky.

So, to tide you all over until at least Wednesday here are some little snippets that have occurred here in the Hawley home while Mommy Dearest here has been off her pain meds and feels like a veritable crack addict looking for relief. No pain meds for one week before surgery is the general rule - they are infamous blood thinners and I sure as shit do not feel like bleeding out on the table so I am following this rule, unfortunately, most carefully.

* Question of the day: "Are you in any pain?"
Answer: Well HELL YEAH I am in pain. What the FUCK kind of question is this? Is this a serious question, or is this just one of those 'I-don't-know-what-the-hell-else-to-say' questions? Tell you what; let me stand on your back in stilettos, and pull your hair and your right leg together until your head touches your toes. Then, when that hurts, I'll keep pulling. I appreciate the sentiment, but at the same time, I cannot stand empty ended questions like this. I would prefer a "I cannot imagine the pain you are in" kind of question. It says "I really have no idea what you are going through but at least this way I do not ask a dumbass question that is really common sense".

* Runner-Up for question of the day: "So, what exactly are they doing?"
Answer: "I don't really know. I am sure they told me and I blocked it out." The answer I REALLY want to give is this - I don't WANT to know what they are doing. I want to get some drugs, go to the blissful place you go to when you are knocked out during surgery, and wake up to that shit being FIXED. I don't WANT to know they are making an incision into my tissue, going down to bone, moving my fucking spinal cord over so they can cut away some of the disc like some deranged science fair project, then sewing me back up like a rag-doll afterwards. I don't wanna know that shit. I wanna know the name of the medication they sedate me with so that I can file it away just in case I become a street addict. That way I won't ask dumb questions and know what to ask for.

* CLOSE Third to question of the day: "How long will you be out?"
Answer: "Until they are done hopefully????" I seriously just do not know how to answer that one. That is just the best I can come up with. I contemplated giving THAT one first place, but the other two just annoy me more. The better question, which shows a genuine interest in what you are having done, is "How long will the surgery LAST?" With that one, the 'asker' can also gather how much time they have to sit in the waiting room with that pizza I will want when I am allowed to eat. Or those flowers and shit they are going to bring me for being such a brave little soldier.

*RUNNER UP: "Is there anything I can do??"
Answer: I have to be careful with this one. There ARE those who ask this and are genuine in their request to see if there actually IS anything they can do. They really want to know, and you can usually tell by the tone of the question if they are, in fact, sincere. You just KNOW with these people that if you say "yeah, can you _________ (fill in the blank)" that they actually WILL do that because you need them to. Then there are those that you really only speak to in passing occasionally that ask this just to feel better themselves that they asked, but REALLY don't give a flying fuck what you need. Just because deep down I am a cocky bitch I REALLY want to reply, "Yeah. While I am at the hospital, I need you to go de-worm my dog. We don't believe in medication, so what you have to do is take the gloves that are in the cabinet................ I know he is a 100 pound Lab, but he REALLY likes the de-worming. THEN, when you are done with that, I really need someone to finish ripping up my carpet, fertilize the yard, paint the trim, and buy me some groceries so I am ready to go when I get home." Just to see the blank stare on their faces would almost be worth them asking this.


* When getting my pre-op testing done, the nurse is taking blood. I have the veins of a newborn I think - they are fucking tiny, squiggly, and are probably the size of a road map you are trying to look at from across the room with no glasses on. They SUCK. It is the genetic betrayal that is my legacy, and until they have 'Vein Reconstructive Surgery' as an option I am stuck with them. I always tell the unlucky bastard that is about to stick me with the battle ahead of them - I figure it is only fair that I warn them that in the course of attempting to find a usable vein in me, they may very well leave the room in tears so frustrated that they re-think their career in nursing and opt for a more leisurely position at McDonalds or something.

Nurse: Wow, you have the smallest veins.
Me: Ha, yeah, I know...sorry, I am a hard stick. There isn't enough water in the world to fatten them up.
Nurse: Well, lets see what I can find,....................hmmmmm............................okaaay......................hmmmm............wow.......................(the dots each represent a fucking 10 minute span of time she is feeling up my veins, like some sort of vein molester or something)
Nurse: Wow - I cant find anything - lets check the other arm.
Me: (thinking, FUUUUUUUCK!!!!!)
Nurse: Wow.........................................hmmmm............................haha, I cant find anything on this arm either....................................................
(the vein molesting continues....)
Nurse: Wow, you're worse than my boyfriend - he has small veins. I take butterfly needles home to practice on him. I've only been doing this for a year and, wow...

I QUIT LISTENING at that point because ONE, I don't want to know what the fuck you do to your boyfriend at home unless I give you a credit card number first and watch that shit online and TWO, don't subtly tell me that you don't think you will be able to find one because you are INEXPERIENCED. LIE TO ME FOR FUCKSSAKE!!! JUST LIE!!!

Nurse: Okay, let me go get the other Nurse. She knows what she is doing.

Me: (grrrrr....fucking FANTASTIC. How bout you go out and get that homeless guy down the street - he looks like he could find a vein drunk off his ass....)

NEW Nurse: Lets see what we have here - (molest, poke, done.)

The moral of the story here is this: if you have small veins, treat a blood draw as if it were an interview. Tell her up front you need to see a damn resume first, or just save both of you some time and get the nurse that has been doing this for awhile.

Or bring that homeless guy in with you - I bet he has the skinny on those drugs I want, too. Just wish me luck tomorrow. If you just think about me for a second around 1:30 or so tomorrow afternoon, that is all I ask you to do for me.

It would be interesting to see if you can macrame after 7 or 8 beers, but count me out.

It's funny how Friday nights as an adult take on a whole new meaning. When you are young, you SWEAR you are gonna drink every night and party with your friends and marry the hot romantic Old Spice Commercial guy and live on a yacht while you vacation off the coast of France and buy diamonds and horses and 50 pairs of shoes and shit.

So you grow up, and yeah - you party it up a lot and eventually get married to, well, not the Old Spice Commercial guy but someone who at least uses Old Spice body wash. Okay, so maybe not Old Spice - Lever 2000. And he's just so cute you forget about buying the damn horses. The diamonds and shoes still get bought. Even though they come from Payless more often than not and those diamonds are really chips. The vacation is a weekend at friggin Dollywood - not exactly Monaco. But that shit's expensive when you're buying the house in the suburbs and paying off student loans. Still, it's all good.

Then you realize the older you get the hangovers get worse from all that partying you are still trying to accomplish. You get bored one day and decide "Gee, lets add some kids into the mix." So you 'party' again, but this time its a better party because there is just two of you and well, I digress.......

You have kids. You love them and worship them and SWEAR that you will step out in front of a Monster Truck Rally sized gaggle of rabid hilljacks before you ever let anything happen to them. But you still feel that urge to let loose from time to time, even though the hangovers are REALLY bad now and there's that 'thing' that you have to have your kid at in the morning and there is only a plate of butter and some 28 day old eggs in the fridge so you have to grocery shop with the $24.72 left in your checking account so you really can't afford the beer (diamonds and shoes ARE expensive, after all...) and the other kid has a project due but they are puking everywhere due to some violent-ass flu that he got while attending the fucking party at PukeECheese the day before and............

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!!!!

I guess my point is this: When did becoming a parent mean that you have to instantaneously surrender your sense of self?

This question popped into my head last night and haunted me for hours afterwards. My Friday now consisted of hanging out with some good friends downing a couple beers (who CARES that it was on Facebook and I was actually AT home, IN jammas, DOING THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY). We were childishly poking fun at a group of mothers who were discussing fucking coloring pages you can print off and the joys of cornstarch, water, and food coloring to create quality family time and how you can turn your goddamn rotting christmas tree into a sanctuary for springtime birds. We laughed and drank and commented on how we felt the sudden urge to macrame sex toys (Thanks SO much Cindy F. for that one...). We joked about rumbling with these bitches, West Side Story style. Martha's and Ho's.

Then I just got PISSED. Ghetto style, old fashioned pissed. Who the hell is anyone to determine how good or bad of a parent I am simply because I have a drink or two or keg and still want to wear shit from Abercrombie and act like a MILF? So I cuss sometimes. A lot. Okay, every other friggin word. I CAN turn that shit off whenever I need to - not like I go into parent teacher conferences with a 44oz in my hand and asking where the fuck the classroom is. So I have a warped and very deranged sense of humor. Does that mean I am going to burn in the depths of hell? Please tell me so I can grab my tanning lotion real quick.

If printing coloring pages and doing weird shit with corn starch and whatnot is in fact your cup of tea, more power to you. If you are happy catering completely to your family with a friggin sunshiny smile on your face while wiping their asses daily, then I am thrilled for you. If you think that not cussing or drinking is going to produce better children in the future than I can turn out, well, now you have got another thing coming.

I could simply laugh and say, "Don't Judge me!!! I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME!!!!", but I cant. Not my style. Gotta say it.

I stated once before I already won your dammned Mommy Olympics when I gave birth to twins vaginally. I also won Best In Show when I gave birth to my 9lb 11oz 'midget' with no fucking drugs. I bake cupcakes for fucking birthday parties until the sun comes up. I coached soccer. I do shit with colorguard. We have family game nights and movie nights and go hiking. We color with chalk on the driveway until you cant see the ass-tastic driveway underneath. I wake my kids up at 1:30 in the morning to drive to the middle of nowhere to watch the fuckin meteor shower, and then we have pancakes afterwards. We have cupcakes for breakfast on birthdays because its AWESOME. Ive gotten up at 3 AM to sprinkle glitter from the windowsill to my daughter's pillow so she will think the tooth fairy is real. I've nursed every flu, chicken pok, skinned knee, earache and nightmare and YES - I have gotten completely shitfaced after each trial and tribulation and STILL managed to have three children on Honor Roll who at least SEEM to be very happy, well rounded individuals. They have huge aspirations in life, want to be doctors and lawyers and shit, and my oldest refuses to have sex until she accomplishes what she wants in life FIRST. And guess what?? I did that LAST one without even stepping foot in a church. Is that GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??

So you can take your corn starch, go have a good time, and let me have mine. Talk about me behind my back, feel good in the fact you think we are doing a horrible job with our children, and rest assured in the knowledge that I don't give a shit WHAT you think.

Besides, my children are so damned 'well-rounded' that it will be my daughter taking care of your old ass someday. Put THAT in your glass and drink it.

It's official - I will accept my award for WORST MOTHER EVER now. Thank you, Thank you.

(Repost from October, 2009.)

Let it never be said that when I strive to do something, by God, I don't go all the hell out. Never one to do anything half-assed, I really exceeded even MY expectations this time.

I sold my son's Wii.

Thank you, thank you - wow, this award was SO unexpected - I didn't even have a speech ready.

I made my son take a 0 on his homework a few weeks ago because his continued irresponsibility forced him to forget his homework several times. He just assumed we could make a copy of his sister's homework and he would be home free. Um, no, I do not play that way. Take the '0', suffer the consequences, and be grounded in the meantime.

The last few days have been quite hectic - my elbow, my friend Colleen's daughter, getting ready for Homecoming weekend - nothing is ever exactly 'calm' around here, but this week has just been exceptionally crazy. Add into all of that craziness the fact my twins both have science projects due tomorrow. These projects were assigned two weeks ago - hardly enough time, in my opinion, to conduct a really cool science project, but oh well. Do your research kids, start typing the shit you need for the boards, and I will help you put it together.

Wednesday night, 9:42 PM - I have just come home from Columbus, I am tired, I am cranky, all this is already equalling a cold dark night in the Hawley home, about to get colder:

Me: Where is your research?
Them: Well, my project is blah blah blah blah....
Me: Okay, where is the research you have done?
Them: What research?
Me: (my blood pressure is starting to rise out of control...) Uh, the research that will tell you why or why not your project will work the way it is supposed to - the research that you are supposed to use to write your paragraph which is due tomorrow...you know, research.
Them: We haven't done any.

WHAT THE FUCK???????????????????????

Panic mode sets in. Angry mode sets in shortly thereafter. Insane mode is quickly approaching.

After quite sometime helping them do research, I tell both of them I am contemplating making them take the '0' on the paragraph and to go to bed. Here is where the 'Insane' portion of the night begins.

Me: You two need to learn that YOUR homework is YOUR responsibility - you have told me you have been working on this, I find out 48 hours before project is due that you haven't done shit, and so now you may very well have to suffer the consequences. I will decide if you are taking the zero - go to bed.

(Crying from Mackenzie...Johnathon is surprisingly calm...)

Johnathon: It's okay Kenz - we will only hafta miss 15 minutes of recess - no big deal.

I think I felt the remainder of my eggs go sterile at that exact second, as my body knew I was gaining an animal instinct leading me to possibly eat any future young I may produce.

And then, here it goes:

Me: Guess what - see that Wii I grounded you from? Say goodbye - I'm selling the damn thing.

INSANE crying then ensues, the oldest spawn throws a complete fit with a "HEY!! I DID MY SCIENCE PROJECTS!!!" and all three kids go to bed.

This morning, I think the son feels I am blowing fluff up his ass - I am not going to sell the Wii, and Elizabeth seems amazingly calm for something that is not her fault, so he just gathers all of that stimuli as "shes full of crap." (side note - Elizabeth is only calm because she doesn't give a crap since she never plays it anymore anyway...)

Nope - I posted the following Craigslist ad as he got home from school:

Wii Gaming system with 2 'wii-motes' and nunchucks. Will throw in third wii-mote and nunchuck for free (works fine but the battery cover is chewed on the wii-mote) Four games included: Wii Sports which came with system, Lego Star Wars, Final Fantasy Chocobo's Dungeon, and Super Monkey Ball Banana Blitz. All cords and the sensor are of course included. Selling to teach my son a very valuable lesson that grades are more important than video games, and priorities do not include Zelda or what level he conquered today. Would prefer he conquer his spelling list and his science project. $170 FIRM - he invested way more than that money wise into it so this is a VERY fair offer. I am not interested in trading, holding it until you get your allowance, or bartering for anything else. Cash Only.

Cheap, (used consoles at Gamestop are $169, so this was comparable to other offers I saw for used systems) Ad was up for 10 minutes. Buyer contacted me, drove straight here from Fairborn, gave me the money, and is gone. Johnathon is devastated.

I am sure he hates me, I am sure everyone thinks I am nuts. I, however, know this is the ONE way to get his attention. I aint messin around, and if you think your balls are big enough to play with me bring it on.

You'll be doing your science project and looking at the hole in the entertainment center where the Wii once sat.

If drinking the Kool-Aid is bad, then bring me a pitcher of it.

Today is the day I officially start sharing my randomness with more of the world that is not subjected to the rantings of my Facebook or Myspace pages. Testing the waters there, I only allowed my friends to experience the inner workings of my sometimes deranged mind - deranged may be putting it loosely. It was comfortable there; they KNOW me. They know my idiosyncrasies. They know I am a loon. They know I am a now haggard representation of the inner hot 19 year old I used to be.

I am a married mother of three, living in a world of competition in the Mommy Olympics and acting like I am still that 19 year old kick-ass-now-and-take-names-later kind of girl. My 'notes' and 'blogs' on Facebook and Myspace centered around the craziness that is my life - I am a drama magnet. It follows me everywhere and when bored, I admit I create it also. My kids and my husband are my life and soul - yet they can EAT my soul at the same time. I was told by a publisher, "You should write about it....that's some funny shit". Shit is always funny when it happens to someone else, but especially when you can relate to the same distinct smell.

So I do it; write my life's hell and blessings at least weekly. My oldest daughter initially didn't like the fact that I was yakking about her everyday blips all for the purpose of potentially making a buck off of her misery, but now loves the fact that I do. I suppose she feels like a celebrity and I am the friggin paparazzi following her. My youngest ones, boy and girl twins, are still blissfully unaware that I use them almost daily as blogging fodder; however, I suspect they caught on to my game when, during my high school reunion, everyone kept saying, "So THIS is the infamous Johnathon. THIS is the infamous Mackenzie". My cover was blown.

I used to wonder if somehow I was causing irreparable harm to my children in the way I handled their everyday bullshit; I do not think children come equipped to handle my 'in your face, take it like it is' attitude. It must be genetic though, because they are turning out better than I could have hoped for. I have to be doing SOMETHING right, right??

So, while looking for inspiration, or at the very least, SOLACE in the fact that I was not alone in the world of mothers who swear like a drunk sailor, drink like they are still in a sorority, and still turn out very well rounded children with some semblance of success, I found my home. My soul sisters. The EXACT same thing I was doing. Moms who drink and swear.

Like a fat kid stumbling across 50 free cakes, I was giddy. Almost in TEARS giddy. I came home to the motherland. There are actually other moms (and DADS! ) out there who tell it like it is. They drink. They cuss. They spew venom that even I had not encountered. And they love their children more than life itself. I felt like I had joined the cult I have forever searched for and joyfully partook of the free kool-aid.

I stayed up until the wee hours of the next morning reading and reading. The cults leader, Nikki, shares DNA with me, I am sure of it. I was instantly addicted to her wit, her style, her outlook on life and family and kids and the fucking insanity of it all. That publisher was right - there IS a demand for this shit. There ARE more of US out there than these crazy assed Stepford Wife Wannabes. I am now sure of it. We are REAL LIFE. So, with his persistence and pushing, I am officially joining the blogspot for continued exposure.

Nikki - thank you for what you do. I thought I was nuts writing blindly until I found you. If I end up being half the awesome bitch you are, I will be thrilled with the outcome.