A Sappy Valentine Poem (I couldn't resist!)

He stole my heart at only fifteen
Before then I only dated boys who were mean

I soon learned what it was to be swept off your feet
Two fools more in love you would never meet

But we grew up and nearly parted ways
Love can be tough, so proved those days

We hung in there with faith and our love grew
Took root even deeper and followed through

A family was next, from two hearts to three – to four?!
We found out there were two, and he almost hit the floor

Our life now a circus, we rarely get to stop
Sometimes it’s all perfect; sometimes we’re a flop

But even on bad days, we know where we stand
Beside each other, hand in hand

He’s good to me in ways that could make only a mother’s heart sing
Laundry and sleep-in Saturdays-- to heck with a fancy ring!

And for Valentine’s Day I am truly blessed
A gift of sprinkled donut holes—he surely does know me best!


I love you, Silly Silly Suntan Man!

Where's Truh?

I will cut to the chase.

Ben has a friend who may or may not be imaginary. His name is Truh (like "truck" without the "-ck" or "Duh" with a "t"). I'm pretty sure he came up with this name completely on the fly when someone called him out on who this "friend" was that he was constantly referring to all the time... and I only wish I was exaggerating by using the term "constantly."

Before I delve further into this subject, I have to say this: I can understand why kids who have no one else to play with would invent a friend. I don't hold it against them or think they're strange or whatever. But a child with a TWIN SIBLING? Their very own personal built-in playmate for life? Is this not enough?

Apparently not.

First, the facts. So far with random questioning we've learned the following about Truh.

- He's really tall.
- He's USUALLY at Grant's house (Grant is a super-cool cousin). However, a visit to Grant's house conveniently revealed no Truh.
- He's nine years old.
- He's really good at lots of sports and games.
- He has blue hair and black eyes.
- He has no parents.
- He lives in a factory in the big city.

As you let these facts sink in, consider also that all of this information was relayed by Ben with no hesitation or reluctance whatsoever, but instead with the absolute confidence and self-assuredness of a self-possessed pathological liar... okay, okay, maybe he just has an overactive imagination.

Whatever the case may be, I'm stuck between thinking this is an imaginary friend and thinking that perhaps he's just made this friend up to enhance his own coolness... "MY friends do this..." "MY friends do that... " Unfortunately, this talk isn't restricted to our house. Preschool, church, the YMCA and who knows who else are subjected to this talk... And it's all said in that snot-nosed-kid-next-door-who-brags-nonstop-about-how-cool-he-is tone.... I'm starting to think it's related to... vanity? At age three?

But I have to consider also that both boys have agreed on another character out there. Cank the Trashman, aka Cank the Junkman. It's been determined that Cank doesn's necessarily come to pick up the trash but he DOES reside in the trash truck. He's also "not very nice." We've also heard muttering about someone named "Dew" who also lives in the big city.

So....a figment of the imagination? A scam to make everyone think they're really cool and popular? Or simply a world of their own that we just happen to be living in?

You be the judge.

I know, I know

Yikes... it's been OVER a month since I've posted a blog. And I haven't even been posting with regular consistency since well before Christmas.

What's my deal? I've been asking myself the same thing. The same sorts of things happen to me as they always do. My days are full of irony. I'm humiliated on a daily basis. My kids are still hilarious. My life is still... my life.

And yet I feel even more drained lately and unable/unwilling to take the effort to post here. All I can figure is that my creative juices are being even more used in my job, and there's nothing left at the end of the day. Or sometimes even at the beginning. The other night I had an absolutely perfect opportunity to do this... . and then I got sucked into the Discovery Health Channel, where they were running a feature on one woman who was 76 years old with a calcified baby in her womb, and another woman who was pregnant with twins AND a third baby growing in her abdominal cavity... I mean, how was I supposed to turn THAT off?

But I digress.

The longer this dry spell does, the harder it gets for me to sit down and just spit out a blog.

This is all just another example of my life cramping my style.

But I've never been one to be submissive to the rat race. Whether it's part of my nature or I learned it in my angst-drenched teen years, I hate the feeling of Rules backing me into a corner. Rage against the machine and all that.

So life, watch out. I'm writing a new blog today. Not because I have the time, but because I'm making the time.

Besides, with quotes like these that literally came from my childrens' mouths just in one day, how can I continue to keep my life from you all?

"Hey! I peed on my face!"

and

"Mommy, are those wipes getting dried out? They hurt my bottom when you wipe. Are you using toilet paper instead?"

and

"God made us to be funny kids, didn't he?"


See?

My New Year's Revelation: It's Not About Me

I've posted two different blogs in the last few months about Michael Angelo, the little boy from the Philippines. Those blogs and that information were not easy reading, and they weren't designed to be. I know it's not fun or appealing to be shaken, even momentarily, from the comfort of our lives. But acknowledging pain and suffering is one thing... doing something about it is entirely another.

For me, it took the face of MA to get to that place. For you, it might be something else... the homeless in your own town.... the child soldiers in Africa... the victims of natural disaster here in the U.S..... whatever it is, I encourage you this year leave yourself open to what finds you and then take it on. This life, this world, is not about us.

The video below is a teaser from an upcoming documentary from the music group Hillsong. Its message is unmistakable, and I can't get enough of it.

And the Award Goes To...

Because I could use a little cheering up right now (and because you might need the same), I'm going to share a story that I've been holding in my pocket for a while now, waiting until I really wanted to post it.

Before I begin, I will preemptively state that I know the words I'm about to write could easily land me a runner-up spot for the Worst Mother of the Year Award. I KNOW. But it's already happened, and I have to share this.

It all actually began several years ago one nice afternoon when the boys and I were itching to get out and enjoy the weather. About a mile from the house was a playground at a brand new elementary school. I'd seen it from the road and thought it was a grand idea to try it out that day.

A word about me and playgrounds that I've learned with time: I don't know what it is, but we tend to not get along. I use poor judgment about the boys' abilities, I often get even myself hurt, and other parents rub me the wrong way. Bad things happen there. But that didn't stop me that day, because the boys weren't really all that old yet and I was just getting started in the world of playgrounds.

After the excitement and anticipation of going to a special new playground, we arrived and I quickly deflated, realizing that upon closer examination, this playground was way beyond what the boys' gross motor skills were capable of. Perhaps it was because it was designed for elementary school age children and not two-year-olds.

But in typical stubborness, I was determined to make the best of it. We were going to play, by golly. I helped and assisted and demonstrated the best I could, but the look on the boys' faces clearly told the story: This sucks, Mommy.

At the end of the playground stood what might have been the redeemer of the afternoon-- a huge (that should have been clue #1, Sherlock), slicky-slide complex. After a long climb up some steep steps (clue #2), you had the option of taking three different slides: one that twisted to the left, one that twisted to the right, and one that went straight down the middle.

As I gestured and enthusiastically guided them to the slide, the boys just kind of looked at me. As if I was a total nutcase. But bless their hearts, they were good sports and I know they trusted my judgment... which was their first mistake. Up the stairs we all went. It wasn't until I watched (from the top) Ben get about 1/4 of the way headed down the middle slide that I realized this was a Horrible Idea.

Perhaps it was because he had no core strength in his little body.... perhaps it was because he weighed less than 25 pounds... or maybe it was because the slide was much steeper than I realized.... but as he headed down the slide, he started to lose control of his body and pick up more speed. As he flew off the end of the slide, he seemed to hang in mid-air, his whole body twisting superfast so that in one motion, he was facing downward, deposited facedown in the mulch.

Thank God for mulch. It was in his mouth, in his shoes, and down his shirt, but it saved us a trip to the ER, I'm convinced. Picking up and comforting the now completely mortified Ben, I first glanced around to see if anyone else had seen this and was dialing CPS. Coast was clear. I then turned my attention to Jake, standing at the top of the slides. Firmly (and wisely) resisting my pleas to slide down the slide and let me catch him, Jake insisted I come up and rescue him, which I did. Tail tucked, we packed up and went home.

Showing the true resilience of children, Ben never really let that experience bother him, and as he got older and stronger, he enjoyed slides of all types. So when we discovered that the great playground at the elementary school right over the hill from our new house had an identical triple slide, I never even thought twice about suggesting he try it out. He was nearly 3 1/2 now, and probably weighed a good, what, four pounds more now? (I wish that was just a joke, but it's probably accurate).

"Come on, Ben! Come down the slide!" I cheered from the bottom. I even had my camera ready to take a picture in the perfect evening sunlight of autumn.

He looked me square in the eye, scooted his little bottom to the top of the slide and pushed off.

I am sad to say that the same exact event occurred. Little Ben was doing fantastic until he got to the end of that slide and did a perfect re-enactment of his past slicky-slide mishap. I tell the truth-- I had no idea he'd bite the dust like that again. I would have gone down the slide with him. Or been there to catch him. Or not suggested it at all. But instead I stood there with my camera ready, like the ignorant, terrible parent that I sometimes am. I was even able to quickly snap a pic of him pre-flight (see Exhibit A below).

There were tears this time around, again, but most of all, he was just mad. And indignant. And clearly in disbelief that he'd been suckered into that one again. But once the mulch had been brushed off, the tears wiped away, and the boo-boos kissed, he got back up and marched to the slide again.

This time with Mommy's help.

Prove Your Point

Through the miracle of technology, a considerable donation is headed toward little Michael Angelo and his family in the Phillipines, gathered from family and friends who otherwise would have spent the resources on probably unnecessary Christmas gifts... What probably would have bought relatively luxury items such as sweaters, jewelry, and electronics has instead been wired across the planet to literally feed and clothe a family that has nothing at all.

But more on that in a minute.

Last week on Thanksgiving Day, I was going on a much-needed run and was approached by a stray dog that I immediately recognized as being some sort of Pitbull mix. Our neighborhood is a virtual landmine of dogs for a jogger, and as I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, I tightened my grip on my pepper spray. The dog seemed playful, but when he tried to jump on my back, I let loose with screaming and nearly used the spray. He ran off briefly, but by the time I'd finished my run, he was hanging around the house. He continued to stay around the house, making me uncomfortable and angry with his presence. I used to be a dog lover, but I wanted him gone.

A few days later on another run, he caught up with me again. He seemed a little aggressive, but on that day, I noticed he was looking pretty ribby and was scavenging trash cans. This dog was hungry and lost. Still annoyed with him, I continued to yell and try to shoo him away from me. Once back inside, I called animal control but only got a voicemail saying they'd open in a few days.

I kind of forgot about him, but today when I opened the garage door, there he was, right in front of the boys. I screamed loudly, waved him away and called animal control, who said they'd come pick him up. When we arrived home from preschool later in the day, I passed the animal control truck leaving the neighborhood and assumed they'd found the dog. But as I fixed the boys lunch I saw him saunter around the front lawn. Throwing the boy their lunch, I grabbed a fistful of dog treats and my cell and ran to the door. I was going to keep him on the porch until animal control came back.

As I reconfirmed my address over the phone, I really noticed for the first time how thin this dog had become. Every rib and point of his spine stuck out prominently. His stomach was completely caved in. His eyes were sunken in and dull. When he ate those first few treats, his tail wagged and he looked at me with hope. I considered what these last few days had probably been like for him and the uncertainty he was headed into within a matter of minutes.

I ran back and grabbed about ten more treats. And then back for a hotdog. And another hotdog. And then bowl after bowl after bowl of dogfood.

I have never seen a dog eat so fast in my life. It was frightening and heartbreaking. And probably also a little misleading to him about where this was all headed, as well as likely to give him a stomachache. But it was all I could think to do. I would have emptied out my fridge to feed that dog. And this is pretty much my MO when it comes to helping those in need, and possibly my tendancy toward co-dependancy. I just want to take the creature in, nourish them, fill them up, make them better. What do you need? I'll get it.

When I first saw Michael Angelo, my first instinct was to hop a plane and find a way to get him home where I could make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again. But then I looked at his picture again and saw two other brothers behind him, and I knew there were many more. What about them? What about their neighbors? Their neighbor's neighbors... it would never end. Finding a way to adopt him wasn't practical, and it wasn't the answer. So I've worked to find a way to help them in other ways. I don't know where our help will lead them or what Michael Angelo's future is, but I know that for a certain period of time, they will eat decently, drink clean water, and have items like new clothes and beds that they could only dream of before. And for now, that will have to do.

So as I watched that dog fill his belly as fast as he could, wagging his tail furiously and nearly gasping between bites, all I could think was Eat, poor creature, eat. Eat as fast as you can, take whatever you can fit in your belly. I can't fix the problem that got you into this mess in the first place, I can't take care of you once that truck shows up, and I can't promise you your life is going to get better with this. But for right now, I can feed you, so eat. For goodness' sake, eat.

I cannot fix the world's problems. I cannot take all of the hungry, hurt children into my home. And I've learned over time that I cannot bring all of the pain in this world into my heart, or it will shut down and break forever. But I can focus on this one boy, this one family. And I'll do it, for a multitude of reasons, beginning with His command to love one another, and not this world, for it it not our true home. But I'll also do it as my way of proving a point (however small) to the world that I will not be changed by it and its darkness.

If you also want to make your statement to the world in the Philippines, PCF (The Philippine Community Fund) could not have made it any easier, practical, or effective. Go to http://www.p-c-f.org/ and check out what they do. Online donations can be taken through the site, and if you want your contribution to go directly to a certain cause (such as Michael Angelo's family, or another family they choose for you), simply e-mail Ange ange@p-c-f.org to let her know.

I promise you'll make a difference.

How Do I Love Thee, Doritos?

Confession Time.

I'm addicted to Baked Doritos. Completely, unequivocally, obsessively addicted. I want them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I try to resist them all evening and then I just can't help myself. Even if I'm not really hungry, it's an itch that has to be scratched. When I notice we're getting low, I'll make a special trip to Wal-Mart to buy some more (they have the best price on them there, belive me I've checked) under the guise of needing something else to buy. I even have a special way of eating them: I crunch them up into tiny pieces so it lasts longer. Strange? I don't think so.

But I think my family's on to me and intervention is imminent.

Last night as I settled down with the computer I tried to discreetly munch away, but it wasn't long before Hilton noticed in the next room. Busted.

"Do I smell Doritos?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I smell Doritos."

"At least they're baked! It's not like they're the real thing!"

Even the boys know Mommy Has a Problem. When Jake saw me getting stuff together to make dinner the other night, he had it all figured out.

"Mommy, you making Doritos for dinner tonight?"

Step #1: Admitting you have a problem. Check.