You, my dear readers, are amazing! I will admit, my eyes filled with tears when I saw my kiddo’s email inbox overflowing with email greetings and Valentine hellos. You all went above and beyond with the cards and the pictures etc. Just the fact that people from all over the world send him email meant so much to him. Thanks for helping a broken hearted kid feel better.
You all rock!
Thank you.
Excuse me for a moment while I indulge in a bit of parental sympathy for a child with a broken heart. You see, today at school they passed out what they call Friendship Grams. Each child can buy one for $1 and send them to their friends. Most of the selling was last week. When Zarek was out of school. I don’t know if it is “out of sight, out of mind” or what, but he didn’t get any from his friends. The only kid in his class to not get any. Actually, that is not entirely true. His brother (without any prompting from his mom at all, folks) sent him one.
Zarek was devestated. I want more than anything to make it better. But really, think back. Is anything your Mom says when your feelings are hurt going to make it better? So, I am asking if maybe, just maybe you you, dear readers, will help heal his broken heart.
I usually don’t use my blog to ask for help. But when it comes to my kids, I have no probleming asking. If you have a second, will you take a moment to send my little man a Valentine’s Day email?* Even if it is just to say, “Hi.” It would make him smile and certainly help his Mom to possibly fix a bad day and make it a bit better.
Thanks, dear Internet.
* Email address removed. If you still want to participate, feel free to email it to my email address. Thanks!
Is Big Brother watching or are schools just looking our for your child’s best interests?
This article in the Seattle Post- Intelligencer discusses an elementary school in Sutter, California that has issued a policy requiring students to wear radio frequency identification badges that can track their every move. And, it was done without the parents permission or input.
“The system was imposed, without parental input, by the school as a way to simplify attendance-taking and potentially reduce vandalism and improve student safety. Principal Earnie Graham hopes to eventually add bar codes to the existing ID’s so that students can use them to pay for cafeteria meals and check out library books.”
Many parents voice concerns over their children being tracked when not in school or having the information fall into the wrong hands. Others are outraged about the loss of their children’s privacy . For whatever reasons, the parents want to put a stop to it.
There is a way to make kids safer without making them feel like a piece of inventory,” said Michael Cantrall, one of several angry parents who complained. “Are we trying to bring them up with respect and trust, or tell them that you can’t trust anyone, you are always going to be monitored, and someone is always going to be watching you?”
So, what do you think? In an attempt to keep our children safe, are we robbing them of their privacy and treating them as just a piece of inventory to keep track of? If your child’s school adopted this policy would you accept it without a fuss or would you stand up and fight it?
I want to hear from you. Let me know in comments or on your own blog to add commentary to this.
As for my children, they would lose it the first few days and it would be a mute point.
Well, I took your advice, dear Internet, and talked to the Mom of the neighborhood kid. We did get our Gameboy back and some of the games. I would love to say that it all worked out well, but let me just leave it at this: Sometimes I wonder if maybe it is better to just leave things alone and not push. Of course I am not saying that anyone should be able to get away with stealing. I certainly don’t condone it. It just wasn’t a very good scene. That’s all I should say about it.
I suppose the bottom line in my own home is that Zarek did get his Gameboy back. I just wish it had been an easier process.
Thanks for your support, my friends.
I can’t believe in all the excitement that I forgot to mention the new baby. I found out about our addition in the beginning of December, but I guess it didn’t seem real until now. Another mouth to feed? Another to be responsible for? What was I thinking?
For those of you who just spewed their beverage of choice all over their computer, relax. The new baby in the house is not of the human variety and certainly not from my womb. Although I have been called a bitch before so perhaps some people think it may be possible. I am not as brave as some people.
His name is Harley. And yes, he has a middle name. You see, his breeder has “themes” for each litter. The theme of the litter that Harley came from is “Dime Store Novels”. Any guesses on his middle name? His full name is Harley Quinn. Get it? Romance. Harlequinn. Harley Quinn. Yeah, we crack ourselves up to. It is hard to come up with names for a boy that follow that theme. So anyway, a bit about Harley.
I will admit, he is adorable. Even if he is a doberman. I wanted a lab. It’s kind of like expecting a cute little baby boy and getting a hairy, ill-mannered monkey. Sure, you can still love the cute monkey. One day even forget you hoped for a real-live baby. But you still look at the new life and think what the hell happened here?!
Like I said, I will admit he is cute. See:
Although, he has totally become a bit arrogant when it comes to all of those pictures I take of him. The last time I started to take pictures of him, I swear I heard him say, “Who me? Me? You like me. You really like me!” Then he gave me that cheesy open mouthed, overly happy smile. Totally fake if you ask me.
Sadly, though, I am pretty sure he is going to get his ass kicked when he goes to obedience class. The other dogs are so going to pick on him and call him tampon ears. (For those of you who don’t know, after you clip a dog’s ears, you have to tape them upright until their ears become strong enough to stand up on their own. It looks like he is wearing two big tampons on his ears.) I am planning on buying him a studded color to perhaps fool the other dogs, but they may just think he is overcompensating. Nevertheless, we love him. Tampon ears and all.
3 of my 4 pregnancies came as a total shock. I was on birth control with all 3 surprises. (Those of you who are cursing my overactive fertility, I totally undedrstand. Feel free to call me names. I understand.) After Jacob died, I was terrified of getting pregnant again. I realized there are no guarantees. No promises. No reassuances. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be for me. Thankfully, cheap condoms that you buy on a “condom tree” are not always effective. Thus, we have Brandon.
After mothering Brandon for over a year, I knew that I wanted another baby so badly! I couldn’t imagine not having another baby and soon. It took a lot of reasoning and begging and Victoria’s Secret lingerie to finally convince Clint that he, too, wanted another baby. I can tell you for sure he finally caved in on a Thursday. How do I know that? Well, he bascially told me that I could either come get that baby made or I could watch e.r. on tv. After deliberating a bit (it was a new episode and e.r was in it’s heyday! I needed to think.) I realized- VCR! I taped e.r. and chose conception.
When you have tough pregnancies and are on bedrest for half a pregnancy, you are ready to get that baby out with any assistance necessary. Hell, at that point, you’d accept a melon baller to get that little sucker out if it would help. They started my induction at 6:00am on a Monday. They didn’t want to jump straight to pitocin, so they used some sort of magic cervix gel that would piss my body off enough to kick it into labor. Basically the plan was: gel, walk-walk-walk, gel, walk-walk-wak, gel cuss a whole lot, walk-walk-walk. Well, by the time I got to the cussing period, I was tired. (I walked for miles.) I was pissed off. (Why the hell hadn’t that baby gotten here yet? Magic gel my ass!) After the last gel application, the doctor said it wouldn’t happen that night to get ready to go upstairs to sleep for the night.
Have you ever told a pissed off, humongous, hormonal woman who has been in labor for 10 hours that it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, you will know that it is not uncommon to see her eyes turn read, her head spin around and her spew venom and language that would make any sailor blush. I was so mad. Clint got yelled out like he had never been yelled at before. I am pretty sure I threatened Clint’s family jewels when he told me it was time to walk again. So up my elephant ass went to walk the halls of the hospital again. 50 feet out of L&D I dropped to my knees and scream. IT’S COMING NOW! No one believed me until I broke the handrail in the hallway and threatened an orderly with it.
An hour later, my baby boy was snuggled up against my chest, both of us in a state of shocked bliss.
My baby boy.
Over the past 9 years I have watched him go from my little baby to a smart, creative young man. He has an imagination that tops anyone I have ever met. In so many ways, he is a smaller, male version of me. The sensitivity, creativity and humor are so endearing. He is a friend to everyone he meets. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes I want so badly to protect his heart and tell him not to give so much of his heart to people. But, that is who he is. That is what makes him so very special. He amazes me with his compassion for everyone.
We thought he was our last child, so for 5 years I cherished every second of his life knowing that it would be the last “baby” moment I would experience. Then, when Gabrie came, I realized that although he would not be out last child, he was my last son. The baby boy who stole my heart the moment I held him in my arms.
I could never, ever express how much I love this little guy. He is my baby boy. All of my children are wanted, but this is my baby that was planned for and prayed for and tried for.
Today my sweet boy turned 9. I am amazed that he is 9 already. Yet, I can’t remember a time in my life that he wasn’t a part of it. He has always been a part of my heart. I was just finally able to hold that part of my heart in my arms 9 years ago on the night he was born.
Happy Birthday, Zarek. I love you so much.
I survived Zarek’s birthday party. (Tomorrow is his 9th birthday.) Well, more like a mini-party. He had 3 of his bestest ( I can use that word if I want to, Favorite Teacher Who Cringes at Bad Grammar) friends. All boys. Eight and Nine year old boys. Hyper 8 and 9 year old boys. Hyper, loud 8 and 9 year old boys. Hyper, loud and very active 8 and 9 year old boys. Who decided that their bedtime should be 4:00am. Luckily, I got to send them all home this morning. Their parents have to deal with the fall-out this weekend. (In all honesty, these kids are all really good kids. I cannot imagine if they were boys that I either did not like or who were obnoxious.)
For some odd reason I have a headache this morning.
Even stranger, my Xanax seems to be running low this afternoon.
Must be a coincidence. Right?
At least I have a year to recover.
I heart these parents!!
ENTERPRISE, Fla. - The dishes, garbage and dirty laundry would pile up for days when Cat and Harlan Barnard’s teenage children refused to do their chores. So the Barnards went on strike, moving out of their house and into a domed tent set up in their front driveway. The parents refuse to cook, clean or drive for their children
I went to a birthday party for a 4 year old this weekend. Whereas in some instances that could send me racing to lock myself in the bathroom and refuse to come out, this was a really great party for these kids. It was 100% geared towards them and their age group. It was at the local rec center. The kids had a ball.
Well, at one point they got out that giant parachute that kids love to play with. Well, I don’t think I am revealing anything shocking if I tell you that I am not the most mature mom in the world. (What?! Like you would be even half as entertained by me if I was mature.)
So, the kids start playing a game with the parachute and I got the giggles. Badly. The game is called (or at least I call it) Find the Monkey. Here’s what happens:
You choose a kid to sit in the middle of the parachute (on top of it) while all of the kids are holding onto the outside of the parachute. Then, you take a second child and tell him to crawl under the parachute. When the leader says GO!, the child under the parachute starts to crawl around in order to avoid the kid sitting on top of the parachute from finding him. All the while the rest of this group is frantically shaking the parachute with all of their God-given 4 year old might. Frantically. Complete chaos. While everyone is shouting “Find the monkey! Find the monkey!”
Now come on, that is some funny stuff. In and of itself is enough to make someone giggle. However, my twisted mind kicked into gear. All I could picture is this boy in 12-15 years waking up in a pool of sweat having hallucinogenic type flashbacks of all of these bright, vivid colors flashing wildly around his face while disembodied voices are shouting Find the Monkey! Find the Monkey!”
I lost it.
In the extended entry you will find a picture of it. Yes, it is blurry. That is totally not my fault. I was laughing too hard to hold the camera phone still.
Why is it that children decide that the best time to hurl up everything they have eaten is at 3:00am? Can they not do this, oh say, at noon when everyone is awake and the sun is shining and their parents are actually not comatose in their bed?! Zarek decided to toss his cookies with a mighty force last night.
Thank god Clint and I have a deal–written in blood–that there are two things in this relationship that I will not do. (Okay, there are more, but these are the ones that I insisted be included in our wedding vows.)
1. I do not sort socks. I will wash them. I will dry them. I will NOT sort them. I am strongly of the belief that everyone should get 365 pairs of socks for New Years. A new pair for every day. Never ever to be dealt with again after being worn. Clint is in charge of socks. It is a mental necessity. Trust me.
2. I do not clean vomit. Ever. I don’t do it. I can’t. I am a sympathetic puker. If you hurl in my presence, look out. I will join you. Every. Time. This is not enjoyable for anyone at 3:00am. Usually I can just take care of the child and get them cleaned up while he does the disgusting work.
However, I couldn’t even do that last night. As I walked near his room the fumes actually burned my eyes and melted my face right off of my skull. Never have I been so grossed out before. I had to frantically flee back to the safety of…well, anywhere. Sympathetic mom? Not so much. I am pretty sure that there was a toxic plume of chemicals hovering over our home
I did what I could but everytime I went near him or his room, again with the face flesh burning. I managed to get him as cleaned as I could before racing back to my room to hide in my closet curling up in a fetal position in shock and horror.
Thankfully, it was something that he ate and not the tragedy of an ongoing stomach virus. No other major event to pretend I am sleeping through. But tell me…is it wrong that I offered to pay him $100 to NOT throw up while his Dad wasn’t home? It must’ve been a good incentive because he didn’t get sick again. Now I need to pay up.
Let me tell you, though.
SO. Worth. It.
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