Summer Killed the Blog

I wish I had a crazy good story to explain my lack of posting. The truth is pretty boring.
I’ve been busy.
this month has been BRUTAL and it’s not done screwing with me yet.
I am counting down the days until it is over. (8)
It’s not been all bad. There have been some great times– Like, when my daughter decided she wants to “pee like a boy for the rest of her life!” SEE? FUN TIMES IN JULY!
The fun isn’t over. Tomorrow, my little brother is getting married and I’m a) going to be the photographer b) learning a song to sing for their first dance. So much potential for disaster! The following week, my other brother is moving to Texas and taking my son with him for a week and then flying him home. Alone. I have never one of my kids fly alone and I am not happy with my decision to let him do so. However, He wanted to do this more than anything and my brother assured me that he’ll be safe (because the airlines will take good care of him?) He’ll be flying home the day before I leave for NYC, so that will be great for my Pre-Flying Stress!
And because things weren’t stressful enough, I waited until 2 days before my brother’s wedding to get my hair done. I love my stylist. She is amazing and her work is flawless. Except, something happened yesterday and she wasn’t.

I hate the cut. I tried to like it. My sister was all “it looks great!” and I was all “you really like it?” And she was all “I do. Your bangs are short, but I like it.” I tried to believe her. I wanted to believe her. But, the day after? I hate it.
Too many layers. Bangs are too short.
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(Seriously. I don’t understand it. But I think I just have to get used to it. It’s not a bad cut, it’s just not what I was going for, I think?)
But the color is awesome, so, focusing on that! (So as not to cry or take scissors to my head. Which, we all know would BE VERY BAD. Like, SSUPER DUPER THE WORST, BAD.)
To sum things up.
Busy. Kids. Peeing. Wedding. Singing. Crying. Stressing. Bad haircut. No time to blog.
I plan on blogging regularly again once the kids are back in school (COME SOON, AUGUST 9TH.)
I hope you’re well. We’ll be in touch soon, Wonderful People Who (Still) Read My Blog.

His (Not so) Good Mother

I believe that I am a good mother. I base that belief on the fact that I always strive to do what is good and right for my children. I have their best interest at heart and I love them with every fiber of my being. That said, there are times I fail my children. I don’t always feed them the healthiest food. Sometimes, I yell too much or say “no” too much. Sometimes, I don’t give them all of the attention that they need.
I’m not perfect, that’s for sure.
But when I make a mistake, I apologize. When I’ve not done right by them, I let them know that I’ve failed them and I do what I can to make things right.
Today, I failed my children in a monumental way.
It’s been a rough week filled with stress, deadlines and PMS. I feel overwhelmed with all that needs to be done and all of the people depending on me. I’ve asked for help, but no one has taken me seriously.
Today, I succumbed to the stress and frustration that has been building up inside of me.
I didn’t physically hurt my child. I never would do that. But I broke his heart.
I screamed. I hit the wall. I slammed a door.
I’m ashamed and heartbroken that my children had to witness that kind of behavior from their mother.
When I apologized to my son, he broke down and cried. And this boy NEVER cries.
“I’ve never seen you act like that. You’ve never talked to me that way, Mom.”
I hugged him and I apologized over and over again. I can’t tell you how low I felt in that moment. I can’t begin to express what a failure as a mother, as a person I felt like. All I could think was “I can’t ever take this back. He’ll always remember this day and what I’ve done here.”
I had a very honest and candid conversation with all 3 of my children. I have apologized over and over again and my children have forgiven me. I am truly grateful for their forgiveness, but there is a heaviness that remains in my heart that I was capable of such ugliness towards one of my children.

I Blinked and This Happened

I blinked and THIS HAPPENED
Today The Boy Who Made Me a Mother took his senior portraits.
I was feeling emotional about it, but managed to make it through my morning without shedding a single tear.
He decided he wanted a haircut 2 hours before his appointment. I dropped everything I was doing and ran him down to the barber shop. I sat in the chair as he told the woman what kind of cut he wanted. As he sat there, I admired him from the torn up bench in the waiting area. “What a handsome young man he’s turned out to be!” ! I thought.
I allowed my eyes to wonder around the room a bit and that is when I noticed the little boy. He couldn’t have been more than a year old. His mother sat in the chair with him and held him tightly as the barber carefully cut his hair. He was fussing and his mom was doing everything in her power to help him cooperate.
And that, my friends, is when I lost it.
I started to cry, right there in that old, dirty little barber shop.
Because I remember holding my first baby while he got his hair cut. I remember telling him it was going to be okay while his daddy jumped up and down to try to distract him from the clippers.
I remember those moments like they were yesterday. But they weren’t yesterday. They were years and years ago. And now, that boy I once held in my arms is facing adulthood in just a few short months.
Today, while that mother held her son tightly, I sat across the room, ever aware of how much it will pain her heart to release the tight grip and let that baby go.
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Happy (Almost) Independence (From Your Body Image Issues) Day!

This year, we’ll be spending our 4th at my sister’s house, like we always do.
I imagine it will be the same as it always is– good food, laughter, fireworks.
And of course, swimming.
However, for me, this year will be a little different.
This year, for the first time in many years, I will not be sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else enjoy the cool, refreshing water. This year, I will not be wishing I was with them, instead of baking in the hot sun. Because this year, for the first time since 2005, I will be splashing around in the water with my family.
That’s right. I bought a swimsuit.
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(Hell YES, I bought one with a skirt.)
To a normal person who isn’t riddled with Body Image Issues, this might not be a big deal. But I’m not a normal person. This is A BIG EFFING DEAL.
I’m nervous and not at all comfortable about wearing it.
But I’m going to do it anyway. Even though I’m still fat (and make no mistake about it, I am still fat.) Even though I hate the way that I look in it. Even though I may have cried when I saw my thighs in the mirror.
I’m going to suck it up (and in) and wear the damn swimsuit and jump in the water and play with my children and pretend like I don’t care that my thighs are too big and my arms jiggle too much.
Deep breath.
I know that I’ll never regret putting that damn suit on and having fun with my children. But I know all too well that I most certainly will regret it if I don’t.

“He thinks I’m his girlfriend, but I’m not.”

So, remember the story I told you about how Gabby got to meet Keith Urban on our flight back from Chicago? I know, you’re probably so over that story, but! Apparently, I took video of her reaction (how did I forget that I did this!? Jet lag is REAL!) and it is absolutely precious.
I wanted to post it here. Please note that I feel like the worst mother in the world that I did not assure he HE ABSOLUTELY MEANT IT and was not faking it.

Writing Through It.

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I want to write.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. I want to write something that will make you cry. I want to write something that will make you nod your head in agreement. I want to write something that will make you shake your fist at your computer monitor in anger. I want to make something that will make you think. I want to write something that will make you appreciate what you have a little bit more. I want to write something that will make you jealous. I want to write something that will make you want to be my friend. I want to write something that will make you hate me just a little bit. I want to write something that will make you pick up the phone to call someone to tell them you love them. I want to write something that will make you want to hug someone. I want to write something that will make you want to turn on your music and dance all by yourself. I want to write something that makes you wish you were a kid again. I want to write something that makes you want to grow old. I want to write something that will make you close your eyes and remember the time. I want to write something that makes you weak in the knees. I want to write something that gives you butterflies. I want to write something that makes you crave something delicious to eat. I want to write something that makes you never want to eat again. I want to write something wonderful. I want to write something awful. I want to write something that doesn’t make sense. I want to write something that makes everything clear. I want to write something that inspires you to be a better person. I want to write something that makes you appreciate every minute you have with your loved ones. I want to write something that you wish you had written first.
I just want to write.
Words. Thoughts. Stories. Observations. Opinions.
Good. Bad. Stupid. Funny. Smart. Thought provoking. Silly. Hilarious. Serious. Simple. Complicated.
Words. I want to write words.
But I’m afraid.
I’m a wimp.
I’m plagued with insecurities.
I’m afraid you’ll hate it. I’m afraid you’ll love it. I’m afraid it won’t be good enough. I’m afraid it will be so good. I’m afraid it won’t make you laugh. I’m afraid it won’t make you cry. I’m afraid you’ll roll your eyes. I’m afraid you’ll shut the page and never come back. I’m afraid you’ll go on message boards and talk about how much you hate me. I’m afraid you’ll mock me. I’m afraid you’ll call my children names. I’m afraid I’ll never write another post as good as the one before. I’m afraid it’s all been said before. I’m afraid I’m too boring. Too fat. Too dumb. Too ugly. Too bland. Too generic.
I want to write. But I hold back. I hold back so much, so many times. I’ve written and deleted post after post after post. Too chickenshit to hit publish.
I want to stop worrying and just start writing again.
I’m going to hit publish on this post and walk away. And I’m going to do the same thing tomorrow and the day after that.
Every day that I can find time, I will write. No matter what you think. No matter what I think. No matter what my one troll in Alabama thinks.
Writing is what I love to do and I’m tired of not doing what I love.

I Took a Ride on This and Lived to Blog About it.

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I am afraid of many things.
Earthquakes. Bees. Beetles. Porta-potties. Bears. Raw chicken. Flying on airplanes.
And those are just a very few things. My list is long. I am a paranoid, overly cautious person who begs my kids not to dive into pools because I am afraid they will hit their heads on the bottom and paralyze themselves. And that is a true story. Just ask my boys who absolutely HATE when I come out to watch them swim (at other peoples houses because we do not have a pool.)
At the top of my Things I Am Afraid Of list is “Ferris Wheels.”
It’s not the *height* that scares me as much as the thought that the car (box? seat?) that I am in will flip over and because there are NO SEATBELTS (which, WTF, Ferris Wheel Safety Board?) I will fall to a painful, messy death.
On Saturday, my family spent a few hours on the Navy Pier in Chicago. There was no doubt in my mind that the second my daughter saw the ferris wheel she’d want to go on it.
I was right.
“Mommy, can we please go on the ferris wheel?” Is what she said most of the time we were walking around. I finally told her yes, she could go on with her brothers and her daddy because Momma don’t ride ferris wheels.
When I got in line to buy their tickets, the kids started begging me to go on with them. They said things like “it would be so great if the whole family rode it together!” and “we want you to go with us, it won’t be fun without you!”
I kept politely saying NO! WAY! until Ethan said something like “Ohh, you’re the one who forced us to go on roller coasters! You’re the one who said not to be afraid of them and now you’re too chicken to go on a ferris wheel?”
I couldn’t say no after that. I would have looked like a (rhymes with) “wussy.”
So, I said yes.
While we were in line, I made sure that my family was clear on the rules. Basically, the rules were “DO NOT MOVE ANY PART OF YOUR BODY WHATSOEVER IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM.”
I realized .03 seconds into the ride that it was a mistake on my part to make such a big deal about the whole “moving your body thing.” The second they shut the little gate on our car (cart? seat? WHAT IS THAT THING CALLED?) my kids started making Unnecessary Movements. And they continued to do so throughout the entire ride. This prompted me to freak out more than once. Which of course prompted them to laugh at me and say things like “Mom, you’re being too paranoid. Calm down.” And then they’d move their arm again FOR NO GOOD REASON.
The important thing is that I did it, I rode the effing ferris wheel.
But I can promise you this– I will never do it again.
It wouldn’t be fair to my vagina.
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My Daughter Has a Boyfriend and He’s Famous

She fell in love with his music when she was just four years old. She would listen to his CD with her dad while they drove around town running errands. They’d walk in the door from a long day and she’d be singing his songs.
Oh, how she sings his songs.


She fell in (4 year old) love with The Man the first time she saw him on TV.
“That’s Keith Urban?” She asked, with her eyes wide open.
“Yes. It is.” I responded. “Isn’t he handsome?”
She giggled. “I want to marry him!”
She would talk about him daily. She would draw pictures of him and for him. She would write letters to him.
“I want to be your girlfriend, Keith Urbin.” She’d scrawl across the blank white paper.
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The day she found out he was married, she was devastated. “You’re lying!” She shouted. “He’s MY husband!”
Once she accepted this reality, she started writing letters to his wife, “Micole.” They were sweet and said things like “I like the way your husband sings.”
But she never stopped loving Micole’s husband. She never stopped singing his songs. She never stopped writing him letters and drawing him pictures.
One night while we were sitting on the sofa watching a Keith Urban special, she asked me to pause the TV. “Mom, if he has a show by our house, will you take me there to see him?”
“Of course I will, love.”
“And after the show, will you take me to meet him? I just want to meet him so bad.”

I explained that it probably wouldn’t be possible to meet him after the show, but you never know! Maybe?
“Oh, I hope I can’t meet him!” She said, with her hands folded as if she was saying a prayer.
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“Babe, doesn’t that look like Keith Urban?” My husband asked as we were sitting in the airport waiting to board a flight from Chicago to LAX.
“That IS Keith Urban!” I gasped.
Gabby was sitting next to me. “Gabby! That’s Keith Urban sitting over there.” I said, as I pointed. (Pointing is rude! I know! But I had to show her!)
She wants to meet Keith Urban and there he is sitting just a few feet away from her.
I wanted to go say hello to him, to introduce my daughter– his biggest, littlest fan- to him. I wanted to watch as she met the man of her dreams right there in the airport terminal.
But he was on the phone. And I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt his phone call. So, I sat and waited for the right time.
The right time never came. An American Airlines employee came over to him and walked him over so he could board the plane first. I was bummed for my daughter and quite possibly for myself because there’s nothing more beautiful as a parent than watching your child’s dreams come true.
“Mommy, where did Keith Urban go?” Gabby asked when she noticed his seat was empty.
I explained to her that he had already boarded the plane. I told her that maybe we could say hello to him when we got on the plane, if he wasn’t busy.
“No, Mommy!” She whined. “I was just kidding about loving him! I don’t love him and I don’t want to meet him!”
“You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, but I think it would be so wonderful if you said hello to him. You’ve always said you wanted to meet him.”
She got very quiet as we stood in line.
“Mommy? My heart is beating so fast. Is yours beating fast too?”
I about died right there. HER HEART WAS BEATING FAST.

Sweetie, it’s okay to be nervous and it’s okay if you don’t want to say hello. I don’t want you to be nervous.”
“I do want to say hi to him, Mommy. I’m just so nervous.”
When we stepped onto the plane, I noticed Keith was sitting in the first row. He wasn’t on the phone, so I politely made my move.
“Hello, I am sorry to bother you, but my daughter adores you and she would love to say hi to you.”
He smiled at her and said “Hi, what’s your name?”
“Gabby.” She answered.
“She just loves your music.” I said.
“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite song, Gabby?” He asked.
She was silent and I’m pretty sure it was because her little heart was pounding so hard.
“I Wanna Kiss a Girl.” I said.
“I wanna kiss a girl…” He sang.
She smiled.
I thanked him and we walked to our seats.
Shortly after takeoff, Gabby asked if she could write Keith a note. “I just want to tell him thank you for saying hi to me.” I told her she could write the note, but that I didn’t think we would be able to give it to him. However, I had a fabulous conversation with the flight attendant while waiting to use the restroom. I told her all about Gabby’s encounter with Keith and how much she loved him. I mentioned the note she wanted to write for him.
“Have her write that note and I’ll take her up front to give it to him.”
I practically ran back to my seat to give Gabby the good news.
She wrote her note (I helped make sure she spelled all of the words correctly, but they were definitely her words.)

Dear Keith Urban,
Thank you for letting me listen to your songs. I like you.
Love,
Gabby

The flight attendant walked over, took Gabby by the hand and said “let’s go give that to Keith Urban!”
I sat in my seat and watched as my daughter made her way to the front of the plane. I watched as Keith leaned over and accepted the note she had written. I watched as she smiled and spoke to him. My heart felt like it was going to burst open. IT WAS THE SWEETEST MOMENT. You just have to believe me. It truly was.
When the flight attendant returned my daughter to me, I asked her to replay what had just happened. She told me what Keith had said to Gabby and what Gabby had said to Keith. The absolute funniest moment was when Keith asked her if she wanted his autograph.
“No thank you.” She answered sweetly.
We both agreed she had no idea what an “autograph” was. So, the flight attendant took the notebook to Keith so he could sign it.
This is what she brought back.
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When we read it together, my daughter smiled. Then started to giggle. That giggle turned into laughter.
“OH MY GOSH!” She said while putting her hands over his face. “Why did he call me HIS GIRLFRIEND? He must really love me or something!”
I cried. I did. Because it was the most precious thing to witness.
She stared at that paper for the entire flight. Sometimes giggling. Sometimes asking me questions about it. Sometimes doubting that he was being sincere.
“I think he was just faking it. I don’t think he really wants me to be his girlfriend.”
My husband and I can’t stop talking about how great Keith Urban was to Gabby. It was a late night flight, he had just done a show. It would have been understandable if he didn’t want to be bothered. But he was gracious to our daughter. He was genuinely kind. A true class act, that man.
I’m buying a frame for that note tomorrow and hanging it on her wall. I never want her to forget the day Keith Urban sang to her and called her his girlfriend.
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(Happy, but SO VERY TIRED. Traveling is hard, y’all.)

I’m Totally Bringing an Annual to BlogHer

“What is this book, Mom?” my daughter asked, as she held the journal up for me to see.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“In the hall closet.” she responded.
What she had found was The Infamous Journal of 1987. A.K.A. The Infamous Journal of AWKWARD.
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Being different or a little weird wasn’t new to me. I was the child of an evangelist who believed that we were “from this world but not of this world.” So, I wasn’t allowed to do any in any activity that did not involve “glorifying Christ.”
That meant no dances. No sports. No field trips. No boyfriends. No wearing makeup. No wearing anything stylish. No “high bangs.” No hanging out with friends after school or on the weekends. No going dressing up on Halloween. No pretty much ANYTHING AT ALL. It made for a AWESOME high school experience!
My sophomore year in high school, my parents would not buy me a yearbook. It was just ONE MORE THING that made me Different Than Everyone Else. I was devastated! Mostly because I wanted people to sign it so I could spend all summer reading my yearbook (only after I finished reading my bible, of course!)
I came up with the most brilliant plan ever!
I went to Pic’N Save and bought a journal. And I called it my “Annual.” And I wrote my name on it and called it “My Annual.”
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And I took it to school and asked my friend’s if they would “sign My Annual.”
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They would all laugh. But then, they’d say things like “this is really cool, love writing on lines!” or “hahaha you so crazy!” Or “DEAR DIARY.” I’d laugh with them, but deep down inside I was embarrassed.But hell if I was going to let anyone know that. I walked around as if I was PROUD of My Annual and as if it was a privilege if I allowed you to sign it.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was a total badass.