Are you ready for some football?

             If you live in my house, the answer better be yes.  And it’s not because of my husband---though he’s a super-fan too---it’s because I’m a football junkie.  From the moment Super Bowl ends until pre-season begins, I literally feel an enormous void in my life.  Sure, there’s the Pro Bowl and people discussing their fantasy picks, but for six months out of the year, there is a hole where football should be.  And it certainly does nothing for my nerves when there’s a lockout.

I didn’t grow up in a football-loving family.  In fact, no one in my family really watched sports at all.  My stepdad watched NASCAR, but I didn’t really have any interest in that until I lived in Daytona Beach while in grad school at The University of Central Florida.  It’s impossible to live there and not succumb to the ridiculousness that is NASCAR.  And once you get to the race, it’s actually really fun.  On TV?  Not so much.

Somehow, around the age of ten or eleven, I discovered the wonder that is televised football.  I watched religiously on Sundays while I did homework.  I listened to the commentators attentively, trying to learn the rules without having to ask other people what was going on.  And eventually, I fell for a football player in high school who patiently answered my questions.  Since then, I’ve been hooked.

Some girls like to shop.  Ok, most girls do.  But not me.  I’d rather be cooking up an enormous meal for football-loving friends; preferably at least ten of us huddled around the various flatscreens in our house.  On weekend mornings, I’d rather be watching College Gameday (Drooling over Kirk Herbstreit) and NFL Sunday Countdown (Man, I adore Chris Berman) than getting my hair done or having brunch.  Football, is what fall and winter is all about.

I’m so glad this lockout is over and I can move on with my pre-season plans.  And in case you didn’t know, I’m a Jets fan.  I love Mark Sanchez and Rex Ryan.  Brian Schottenheimer is awesome.  And Mike Westhoff is a total badass of a special teams coordinator.

So even though it’s over 100 degrees outside and the fall vegetables I use for my signature Sunday Night Football acorn squash and chicken chili aren’t yet ripe for the picking, I’m dreaming of crisp air and yelling at the TV screen.  C’mon Jets.  This could be our year.  Even if my youngest kid does look like Tom Brady.

The Hangover.

            Last night I celebrated my birthday in a civilized manner.  A bunch of friends joined me at Leaf for dinner, stimulating conversation, and chuckles. 

            Alright, so that’s not how it went down at all.  We did go to Leaf.  There were a lot of friends.  There was also an entire case of wine, and for some, liquor drinks.  The conversation was definitely stimulating.  Perhaps at times inappropriate, but really, who’s to judge?  And I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.  It was awesome to be completely surrounded by people who love and support me.

By 10 o’clock, I should have been heading home like the more sane members of my party.  Instead, my I-can-still-go-out-and-drink-like-I-used-to alter ego reared its ugly head, and I continued on to the next bar with the six remaining drunkards.  Oh, but before that, I slapped someone.  Twice.  I think he asked me to do it, but neither of us can remember the particulars.  I apologized this morning.  It’s all good.

Anyway, after arriving at watering hole number two, even though I’d reached the point where I refused to drink any more, I continued to act more like a 20-year-old than a 33-year-old.  I was loud, obnoxious, probably slurring at some point.  And though remembering those things is embarrassing, it’s not even the worst part.

The real low point, or so I thought, was at seven o’clock this morning when I attempted to open an eye and thought someone had hit me in the temple with a sledge hammer.  After a full hour of moaning and wondering if I’d managed to brush my teeth and wash my face before getting in bed, I managed to peel myself off the mattress and stumble down the stairs. 

Between the light from the TV and the sound of my children playing kazoos (Thanks Chris), I only lasted downstairs for 15 minutes.  It was imperative that I return to bed.

Three Aleve and one hour of sleep later, I could at least stand up, but it didn’t feel good.  Then the nausea began, and of course, the sweating.  Now, here it is almost 5 o’clock and I still feel pretty bad. 

When did hangovers become a horrible all-day affair?  I guess when I passed the age of 30 and had two kids who expect me (and rightfully so) to be on my toes every day by six-thirty AM. 

I had a blast last night.  I think the pain of today was worth it.  But I won’t be partying like that again for a solid year.  Maybe more.  So now I’m going to go sit on the couch and wait for bedtime.  Mine and the boys.  And I'll continue to funnel Gatorade like it’s a magic potion.

Meet Kate.

            This is Kate.

            Kate makes my life as an aspiring writer possible. 

For the past 17 months, she has spent at least 15 hours a week watching my boys so that I can crawl into my little writing nook and churn out pages for the books I’m hoping to sell.

But Kate does so much more than just watch my boys.  She enriches their lives on a daily basis.  She also keeps my life running smoothly and makes sure I stay sane.  And the very best part?  I absolutely, 100 percent, totally trust her with the safety of my kids.  She’s that good. 

The first time I met Kate, I couldn’t believe how pretty she was.  She also had the coolest eye shadow (Super gold!) I’d ever seen.  The kids liked her right away and so did I.  So after interviewing about 30 people for the job, I offered it to Kate and crossed my fingers she would say yes.  Luckily, she did, and  here we are almost a year and half later with the coolest chick around.

Kate is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met without even trying.  The delivery and timing of her stories will leave you falling out of your chair, thinking you might snarf.  She is ridiculously creative, artsy, and crafty (Three things I am not).  So it’s a great opportunity for my kids to see that some people are.  She is also the best baker I know; she makes a mean sugar cookie.  And I don’t think  more than a week has gone by that she didn’t bake with the kids and leave us with delicious treats for the weekend.

Kate also happens to be one of the most responsible 20-year-olds I’ve ever met.  She is always on time---for both of her jobs---and she has never once forgotten about a plan we’ve made, even months in advance.  Sadly, she has to remind me of lots of things I forget about.  Like this week when she said she would come an hour early because Colin was out of town and Crews would be napping when Teague needed to be picked up from camp.  Seriously, the issue had never crossed my mind.  It would have eventually, but probably not until that morning.

Another thing I love about Kate, is it’s clear how much she genuinely loves my kids.  Sometimes on days when she’s not working, she will swing by to swim with Teague, just because she wants to see him.  And if she’s craving a Sonic grilled cheese and shake, she will always call and ask if Teague can go too.  Teague loves her to pieces---even though his nickname for her is, “The Worst,”---and Crews would follow her anywhere. 

I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge how important she is and how much we think of her.  It’s rare to find someone so young, who is so dependable, trustworthy, smart, and has the instinct of a mom.  Thanks for picking us, Kate.  I think you’re “The Best.”

33 years ago today I was born.

      My, how quickly time flies.

What Glee and Lady Gaga taught me about anger.

            I’ll admit it: I’m a Gleek.  In case you aren’t completely obsessed with the TV show, Glee, a Gleek is someone who is completely obsessed with it.  I’ve been hooked since the first episode I saw over a year ago and I love it for many reasons. 

First, the music spans both generations and genres.  One episode may be devoted to Fleetwood Mac while the next one covers Rihanna and a variety of Showtunes.  My favorite is when they do a “mash-up,” combining two totally different songs into one awesome track.  Like the brilliance that is Bon Jovi’s “It’s my life” mashed up with Usher’s “Confessions.”

            But it’s not just about the music.  They cover a zillion relevant issues from the President of the abstinence club/Head cheerleader getting pregnant and giving the baby up for adoption, to a gay guy getting bullied by a closeted football player.  Not all of the issues are so extreme.  Most are just things a lot of us faced when we were in high school, and some that we still face today.

            So last night, I was catching up on the final five episodes of the season.  The premise of one episode was being comfortable in your own skin.  Accepting who you are, as you are.  The group performed Lady Gaga’s ‘Born this Way” and each character had to select the one thing they disliked most about themselves and print it on a t-shirt.  One said, “Nose.”  Another said, “Bad Dancer.”  The dumb girl’s shirt said, “I’m with stoopid.”  As I sat watching it, I thought about what I would print on my own shirt.  And I discovered it wasn’t something I should accept.  It’s how I handle anger.

            I don’t think I’ve ever been very good at dealing with anger.  I usually stuff it down until I can stuff no more.  Then it bubbles up and explodes on whoever is closest (Generally, my unsuspecting husband).  But lately, my five- year-old has really been trying my patience and there isn’t even time to stuff the anger.  We just get into a screaming match and then I’m standing there all frazzled, realizing I am in fact, fighting with a five-year-old. 

I don’t want to teach my kids my angry habits.  They suck.  And they are really hard to break.  So this morning, the two of us sat down and talked about what happens when we start to feel angry.  We talked about the faces we make and the way our tummies feel.  We talked about how he wants to throw things (I didn’t tell him sometimes I want to throw him).  Then we talked about all the things we could do instead of what we actually do now.

Much like being grateful takes a lot of effort and practice, I know that handling the way we interact when we’re mad is going to take A LOT of work.  But I think it’s something we both need right now.  Summer is hard.  Five-year-olds are tricky.  Apparently, almost-thirty-three-year-olds are too.  And sometimes, TV and music can be educational.

I love you...Justin Timberlake?!?

          For some unknown reason, I tend to have adverse reactions---a.k.a. the rarest of rare side effects--- to even the most mundane medications.  I have them to the stronger ones too.  Like when I was little, every time I took codeine, I had the exact same nightmare.  I remember the alligators all too clearly to this day and how I was forced to walk through a darned greenhouse full of them, over the tiniest stepping stones ever made.  Of course, it took a few years to make the connection between the codeine and the nightmares.  Probably because I was four and didn’t want to talk about it.  But who knew one drug could inspire the exact same nightmare every time you took it?  Maybe it can't.  Perhaps it's just me.

            When I got older, I found I also reacted conversely to Nyquil.  Whereas normal people who ingest the foul-smelling, bitter-tasting, green liquid quickly pass out and enjoy a night of restful sleep, I get jittery, anxious, and stay awake for hours upon hours swearing I can hear my pulse in my ears.  Not the most efficient way to offset cold symptoms.

            Then, a few months ago, I took Ambien for a week in an attempt to “reset my clock.”  Considering I’m usually in bed by ten and snoozing by eleven, the whole staying-up-until-two thing needed to be rectified.  So I took Ambien for seven days and when I started passing out on the couch by 9:30 again, I quit.  The next day on the way to the grocery store I started feeling loopy.  And by the time we were halfway done with the shopping, I was using the cart for support.  Luckily, this was the first time in years my husband had tagged along and he sent me ahead to the car.  And when he joined me, I was experiencing facial tremors.  It wasn’t pretty and the withdrawal symptoms lasted about a day.

            This leads me to last night’s dreams about Justin Timberlake.  Around eight-thirty, I took Tylenol Severe Cold and Allergy Nighttime.  It didn’t knock me out, but when I did fall asleep I started having weird dreams about the former N’Syncer, which is strange for a number of reasons.

For one, I was a Backstreet Boys fan.  I thought NSync was lame.  So dreaming about him being cool and loving their music is bizarre.  Two, I’m just not a big fan of him period.   He has really strange hair and is not a very good actor.  But for whatever drug-induced reason, last night, I thought Justin Timberlake ruled.  I was following him around like a lovesick tween and praising his new album (I don’t think there really is one).  And I also wrote a ridiculous blog post about how wonderful he was and anyone would be incredibly lucky to spend time with him (In the dream of course.  If I start sleep-blogging as the result of a drug, the blog might have to go bye-bye).  Oh, and we may or may not have gotten married.  The details are a little fuzzy.

Anyway, from now on, I might need to stick to my daily dose of gummy vitamins.  They are delicious and apparently the only thing that doesn't turn me into a total spaz. 

And as for you, Justin Timberlake: Stay out of my head.

Hitting "Send."

           Whether it’s an email of significance or a blog post I’ve spell-checked repeatedly, sometimes I have a really hard time hitting “Send.”  But it’s not just the age of email and blogging that causes me to hesitate.  I remember writing letters---way back when people actually did that--- and reading them a zillion times before sliding them into the mail box and raising the little red flag.

            I think this has something to do with why I’m such a Facebook/texting junkie.  Statuses and texts are brief.  They’re easy to review and get out of your hands quickly.  And if there’s a mistake, it’s almost expected.  For example, how many times have you made an effort to correct someone’s misspelling on Facebook?  You pretty much know it was done quickly and that your friends don’t lack an understanding of capitalization and punctuation. 

And let’s face it, if you have an iPhone, you have definitely sent at least one embarrassing text due to the autocorrect feature.  My favorite is when I invite someone on a “playdate” only to discover later that I invited them over so we could have a “Playmate.”  Yes, it actually capitalizes the P.  Try it.  I also like that when I type the word “probably,” it is sometimes replaced with “proletariat.”  Because that’s a word most people use on a daily basis.

But all kidding aside, it just took me almost three weeks to hit “Send” when I found out I needed to send five pages of my working manuscript to the Executive Editor of Random House.  Given, those first five pages have been written for months.  They have been read, re-read, edited (Thanks Ray!), altered, re-written, and then sat as an attachment in my inbox since the last week of June.

I wish I was one those people who could just hit “Send.”  But at this point in life, I have to accept that I am not and respect my own goofy writing process.  And now you know why you get 100 short texts from me instead of one lengthy email.  Because I am a ruminator down to my core.

How I learned to cook and gained 60 pounds.

One of the greatest things about my mother is her ability to serve up the absolute best, authentic Southern fare you’ve ever tasted.  I challenge you to find a fried chicken recipe that comes anywhere near that of my mom.  Seriously, I’m not joking.  Not once have I ever had fried chicken at a restaurant or in anyone else’s home that comes close.  I’ve also never been able to duplicate it. 

She also makes homemade biscuits and tomato gravy that will knock your socks off.  And since my mom comes to visit for my birthday every year---and my friends have figured out she usually makes both of the dishes when she does--- the requests to come over have been pouring in.  Her food is really that delicious.

But even though I grew up watching her cook every single day of my life, I was never really interested in learning.  Maybe it’s because I never saw her use a recipe once and I’m extremely concrete.  I just assumed cooking wouldn’t really be my thing.  But when I told my husband I was ready to start a family, his response was: “I think you should learn to cook first.”  Sure he was probably trying to buy a little time, but it turned out that his statement would completely change my life. 

I started out with a cookbook which only required 5 ingredients for each recipe.  It was a great jumping-off point and within a week I’d grown more confident.  After watching hours of the Food Network and learning everything I could about knives, gadgets, and cookware, I moved toward more difficult dishes.  And within three months I’d become a pretty darn good cook and I was pregnant.

While carrying Teague, my skills matured further and I got much more comfortable with complex (or as my mother calls them “frou-frou”) dishes.  Pretty much the only thing that got me off my growing butt was food, and some days I cooked up to 3 full meals.  I ate them all too which is why I gained 60 pounds.  Well, that and Wendy’s Triples.

Soon, I became a recipe hound, seeking them out online, in magazines, on TV, and from other people.  I even started building my own recipe book.  Now, as nerdy and Type A as it sounds, I quickly learned that laminating my recipes was the way to go.  Cooking is messy and I ruined more than a couple of my favorites before remembering I bought a laminating machine in grad school.  So after testing the recipe a few times, adding my own notes, and making sure it was  a keeper, I laminated it and added it to the book.  Five years later, I have created a recipe Bible (actually, there are now 5: Appetizers, Entrees, Drinks, Sides, Desserts) that friends and family alike come over to peruse.  Sometimes I even have it copied and give it as a gift.

But no matter how many times I watch my mom cook her fried chicken and tomato gravy and regardless of all the notes I’ve taken, I still can’t get those recipes right.  It must be that extra dash of love she throws in.  So I hope when she gets here next week she is ready to get in the kitchen.  My mouth is already watering as I think about the salty, greasy goodness.  After all, “frou frou” is delicious, but nothing beats a good old Southern home-cooked meal from your momma.

First sleepover.

Outside, it’s a hot, overcast, lazy type of day.  Inside, it seems unusually cold in my house and my mind is anything but restful.  This is because my kid just left for his very first sleepover and I’m a huge wiener.

It’s not like I didn’t know this day was coming.  Recently he’s been invited over to friend’s houses much more frequently and the once two-hour playdates have evolved into all day adventures.  Not to mention that right now sleepovers seem to be the only topic of interest amongst the five year-olds I know.  So when Teague was invited out to Kiawah for an afternoon, evening, and following morning, chock-full of swimming, fishing, and cupcake eating, I felt I really needed to say yes.

Of course I immediately felt like I was going to throw up after I did.  But the look of excitement on Teague’s face and his immediate plans to start packing three days in advance led me to believe I made the right decision.

So tonight, Colin and I will have only one child to snuggle and tuck in, and Teague’s bed will be empty for the first time ever.  Anyone want to take bets on how many hours of sleep I get?

The not-so-empirical results of my very grateful day.

           Two days ago I decided that for a full twenty-four hours I was going to refrain from any and all complaining to focus on the many positives in my life.  I knew it would be a challenge, especially after looking over my Facebook statuses for the last few months.  I was shocked by how many of them were complaints.  I really am as whiny as my five-year-old sometimes.  And that’s just not cool.

Here’s how yesterday went down:

            My sweet husband got up with the kids and let me sleep in because I was tossing and turning all night.  I came downstairs and thanked him; he asked me why I couldn’t sleep.  I almost launched into a full-blown explanation detailing that I was too hot, had a nightmare, had to pee, and perhaps had a little too much wine with my friends the night before…But then I remembered I wasn’t allowed to complain.  I just shrugged and said, “Thanks,” again.  I’d only been awake for three minutes and already I was starting in with the grumbling!  I feared it was going to be a long day.

            Then Crews peed in the potty.  Teague got dressed after being told only once.  My husband folded the laundry.  And we got out of the house early. 

Success!  So many things to be thankful for.  I laid on the praise and swore not to lay on the horn.

            I turned off my street and got behind that person who drives 12 in a 45.  But this time, I told myself it was alright.  We left early.  We had plenty of time to get to camp.  I turned up Justin Bieber (I challenge you to listen to Eeeny Meeny and try to stay mad) and sang as loud as I could. 

After a few minutes of some of the slowest driving on the planet (I did notice some lovely flowers I’d never seen before!), my two-year-old started yelling, “Really?  Oh, come on people!”  I cringed knowing those words were my own, but tried to throw a positive spin on it: He’s speaking in full sentences!

            After dropping Teague off at camp (Still two minutes early!  Yay!) I went to Target to pick up Green Lantern and Phineas and Ferb PJs.  As soon as we got to the back of the store, Crews pooped his pants.  I told myself it wasn’t a big deal (At least he wasn’t wearing underwear) and after a quick trip back to the front, continued with the shopping experience (I have the money to buy the special PJs my kids request!  So thankful).

            I texted a few friends who were having a rough week.  I talked to a few more just to make sure everything was good in their lives.  Then Kate watched the boys so I could hunker down and "get my writing on" in preparation for the conference in three weeks.  (Grateful translation: I have great friends, the best sitter on the entire planet, and I’m about to go to LA for 6 days with my Mom!)  Not bad, Whit.  Not bad.

The afternoon was peaceful, easy.  Because I was in a room alone and there really isn’t much to complain about when you have two boys, it’s quiet, and no one is asking you for anything (Yippee!).

            But then I was asked about a book I’m reading.  A book I really don’t like but have to read.  It was then that I realized I was kind of cheating.  Although I wasn’t voicing my complaints, I was still having the negative thoughts.  In true psych fashion, I quickly implemented thought-stopping.  In other words, each time I was having an unvoiced whiny moment, I forced myself to think of something super-happy.  Something totally incompatible with the moaning and groaning.  Like Justin Bieber (Yes, I really love his music), the Disney Cruise we are taking in October (So fortunate!), Bora Bora (The most beautiful spot on Earth where I was lucky enough to honeymoon), and an agent finally saying “Yes,” to publishing one of my books (It could happen!).

            By the time my friend Amanda called at 6, I found I was catching myself much earlier in the complaint process.  Determined to finish strong, I actually declared aloud, “I will make it through and I will become a more grateful person.”  Teague and Crews stared at me like I was nuts and asked for dinner (But they did say please!).

            By 8 o’clock, I was completely exhausted.  I couldn’t believe how much energy it required to be persistently thankful.  But I felt really good.  I climbed into bed next to Teague and read four Ms. Spider books before passing out next to one of the two things I am most grateful for: My boys.  At least appreciating what a gift they are isn’t hard.  And the most important thing this simple little experiment taught me is that I really couldn’t be more blessed.

           Now about that 90-year-old man I keep getting behind every morning…

              

A little experiment.

            It has come to my attention that I am not grateful enough for the things I have in life.  No, nobody pointed this out to me.  I actually reached this conclusion by listening to my whiny five-year-old after he stayed up too late last night. 

According to him, this was “the worst day ever.”  His underwear was too tight.  His pajamas were too long.  I forgot to put ice in his cup…  Oddly, I thought his day was pretty perfect.  He attended Star Wars camp from 9-12.  Went to Cupcake for a “Decorate your own cupcake” event.  Then spent the late afternoon and evening with his friend Jack and his family on a boat in the harbor.  Did I forget to mention he also got to ride a child-sized Ducati and stay at his friend’s house playing until 9:30?

Completely annoyed, ready to tell him to shove it, and that his life wasn’t so bad, I realized there are plenty of times when my kids, friends, and husband probably want to yell the same thing at me.  Therefore starting tomorrow morning from the moment I wake up, I will not allow myself to complain about a single thing for twenty-four hours. 

Instead of getting frustrated by the person driving 12 mph in a 45, I will be thankful that I have a car.  After all, a lot of people don’t.  Instead of accusing Crews of leaving sticky fingerprints all over my iPhone, I will be grateful I possess one.  It still works fine when it is sticky and it only takes 10 seconds to clean.  But more important than possessions, I plan to acknowledge the people I hold dear.  The ones who live two streets over and those who are a five hour plane ride away.  Yesterday, I knew four people who were in the hospital.  Four people!  That’s a lot of illness, injury, and unfortunately for a friend of mine, one heartbreaking loss.

I need to let all of the little, unimportant things slide.  I need to spend less time focusing on what is wrong and much more appreciating what is right.  I think I’ll start with my husband and kids.  And if you get a random phone call from me for the first time in months, you’ll know why.  I’m just checking in, letting you know how grateful I am to have you in my life.

The day of no complaining begins tomorrow.  Wish me luck.

Yes, I'm still blogging! It's been a busy few days!

     There are times when friends and family need you more than you need to write.  The last few days have been that way for me. 
     Tune in tomorrow for an all new blog.  And remember to be extremely thankful for the times when everything is good in your life.

My mother is my rock. My mother is my cornerstone.

           Cornerstone: something that is essential, indispensable, or basic; the chief foundation on which something is constructed or developed.

Happy Birthday, Mommy.

            This January my mother and I took our first trip alone together since 1999.  I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her until it was just us.  After arriving in Phoenix, Arizona and renting a car, we made the two-hour trek to a destination spa in Sedona.  During the car ride, I plugged in my iPod and played Taylor Swift’s Never Grow Up for her.  I cried like a baby because it was the first time I’d really ever left my boys.  I think she cried because she was alone with her only child for the first time in 12 years.  And during that ride, as I watched the tall cactuses creep by, I thought about our history.  Our life together.  And I’ve never been more grateful.

My Mom and I have always been a pair.  Bravely, when I was very small, she removed me from a less than stellar situation and struck out to raise me in a more positive light all on her own.  She ran her own business full time and still managed to pick me up from school every day.   She tucked me in every night and always assured me when it wasn’t her weekend that she would be waiting for me when I returned.  She was my best friend.  My confidante.  My rock.  She made me who I am today.

Spending those days in Arizona with her was a wake-up call.  A reminder of what we were and should be again.  Sure, I’m married now and have two boys of my own, but what we have is different.  We are mother and daughter.  Pieces of each other than can never be shattered.  And sometimes it’s hard to remember you are someone’s daughter when you are a mother yourself.

In the four days I spent with my mom at Mii Amo, we shared a room, slept in parallel queen size beds, and almost couldn’t get to sleep at night because we cracked each other up so much.  I’m pretty sure we both snarfed at least once.  We shared three delicious meals a day, some in our PJs while sitting in bed.  We even shared a tarot card reading.  And at night, we sat in front of a roaring fireplace and discussed our lives in peace.  It was truly one of the most magical experiences of my life.  I wish I could do it every year.  I want to do it every day.

Mom, today is your birthday.  I won’t give away your age, but I will say that the absolute best years of my life began when I had Teague and Crews and got to share them with you.  I hope that the last 32 years, 11 months, and 8 days have been the best of yours.  Can you believe I’ll be 33 in less than 3 weeks?!

I can’t hug you today because you are across the country celebrating.  But please know that with every blink, each move, all breaths, you are part of me and I love you.  Thank you for being the mother I hope to be and the most giving individual I know.  Your birth is definitely an event to celebrate.

Thirteen Reasons Why

Since having kids I’ve done a lot of thinking about bullying.  I think about how to teach them it’s wrong and how to share the possible consequences of pushing someone too far.  I also worry about my own children being the victim of such behavior and it terrifies me.

Now that I have friends with kids who are in middle school and high school, I’ve found the most surprising part of the equation is the lack of intervention by the schools.  At least in the private ones.  It has even become a plot line in one of my books, which wasn’t planned when I started writing it.  But with teen suicide and school shootings on the rise, I’ve been craving more information on the topic.

Last night at 8 o’clock I began reading a book called Thirteen Reasons Why.  By 11 o’clock I had finished it.  It was mesmerizing, incredibly paced, and haunting.  It’s the story of a teenage girl who commits suicide and leaves a series of cassette tapes behind detailing the 13 reasons why she did it.  And each reason is related to one individual who did something large or small that sent her life snowballing out of control.  In the first tape, she instructs the thirteen people involved to listen and pass them along to the next individual.  Everyone involved will hear in her own words what they did that hurt her so badly and made her desperate enough to end her life.

Though the book is technically about rumors and how one lie can have widespread effects, rumors are a form of bullying.  I want my children to know that and I will probably hound them every day trying to determine if they are torturing or being tortured when they’re out of my sight.  I don’t care if they think I’m annoying.  It doesn’t matter if they find me overbearing.  At least they will know I care.  And who knows?  Maybe one day, one simple conversation will be the moment they want to talk about it.  Not just about bullying but about anything that’s going on.

This book will stick me forever.  I might even force the boys to read it someday.  I highly recommend it.  It’s by Jay Asher and was just released in paperback this week.  So pick it up and step into the world of Hannah Baker.  You won’t soon forget it.

33 sure seemed old when I was 20

            And Thursday night, it felt as old as it seemed back then.  Two of my college friends and I decided to go out to dinner at new Italian wine bar/restaurant, Osteria.  The meat and cheese plate was to die for.  The wine was sublime.  The stories were hilarious.  And the entrees knocked our socks off.  After devouring everything on the table, we opted out of dessert and instead decided to head over to a new bar, The Cocktail Club, on Upper King.

            As we ascended the stairs, greeted by a handsome guy in a super-trendy vest and hat, I thought, “Wow, it’s nice to be out in a cool new place.  Especially after dark.”  That last part should have tipped me off to my oldness.  I usually don’t make it out after dark anymore.  I put the kids to bed when the sun’s still up and then retreat to my couch to read or watch mindless entertainment like Swamp People.  For the most part, being “out” is now reserved for daytime. 

            So after we secured a high-top table and took a look at the extensive cocktail menu, my friends and I started noticing something: We were definitely the oldest people in this bar.  By a lot.  Like probably by ten years.  And it was ten o’clock and people were just starting to arrive.  It really made us laugh.

            We joked about the days when we didn’t go out until at least eleven and I mused that eleven is now about an hour (sometimes an hour and half depending on how many places the boys and I went that day) past my bedtime.  We admired the girls' cute dresses and discussed who wasn’t old enough to be there.  We ordered dessert and split it three it ways.  I’m pretty sure we were the only people eating in the entire establishment.  I watched a sloppy drunk almost take a header down the stairs.  And after an hour of reliving tales of our lives together over ten years ago, we packed it in and I was at home in bed by eleven.

            In three weeks I’ll be 33 and believe me, I get it.  In the grand scheme of things, 33 is NOT old.  I’m happy with where I am and what I’ve accomplished so far and being this age is in no way terrible.  But there’s nothing like living in a college town to remind you how fast life is moving.  Thankfully, I have my friends right there with me reminding me that it’s ok and we’re facing it together.  Cheers to the next ten years.

Summertime Friday morning ritual

           This summer the boys and I have developed several new rituals.  We watch the Crocodile Hunter every morning at 8.  We go to Yogurt Mountain at least twice a week.  We have scooter races in the driveway.  And every Friday morning at 7:30 we sit on the front porch in our PJs and wait for the tractor and dump truck that come by to pick up the yard debris.

            I honestly don’t know what it is about tractors and dump trucks that makes boys so happy, but my kids look forward to it all week long.  Today, I decided to bring the camera along to document our practice.  And as the woman driving the loader saw us approaching, she waved and honked.  I think they found it more exciting than seeing Mickey at the end of the Disney parade.

Waiting patiently.

It's almost here.

There it is!