It started just after breakfast. My Little Sunshine looked up from his trains and said innocently, "I need a sister." I nearly shot hot tea out my nose. "What did you say, baby," I replied. "I want a baby," Sunshine said again. "Um. OK," I said. "You want mommy to have another baby?" "Yeah. I needa play with her," Sunshine said with a big smile on his face. "Um. OK," I said hesitantly. "I'll have to talk to your daddy about that one."

Things got a little out of hand for most of the day from that point on, so I completely forgot to mention this to Soul Mate when he got out of bed. In fact, I didn't think about it again until Sunshine took a second shot at his "simple" request.

We were all loaded in the car and on our way home from exercising when I heard from the backseat, "My teacher say no to me." "Why did she tell you no, honey," I asked. "She say no to me when I toucha baby," Sunshine replied...then quickly added, "I need a baby." "Do you want a brother or sister," I asked. Silence. "A sister is a girl baby," I said, "and a brother is a boy baby." Quick response this time: "Sister. I need a sister. I put her on my lap and a I give her big hugs and kisses all over her face," he said, very sure of what he wanted. "I needa bring her to my home and put her on my floor and play with her," he added. Not stopping for a breath..."and I show her my toys, and I be gentle, and a nice boy, and I love her." "Well," I replied. "We'll have to tell this to daddy when we get home."

Sure enough, Sunshine ran into the house, went straight up to his daddy and whispered, "I need a baby." It was so quiet, Soul Mate had to ask him to repeat himself. He did, with more confidence this time. He added to the dialogue this time, "I needa teach her to walk." I nearly cried it was so sweet.

Who would have thought that my little man who believes (rightfully so) that the world revolves around him would want to share his universe with another kid? I certainly wouldn't have thought that he would have made this request, and I'm his mama. It's interesting timing, because I've been feeling that little twinge again and hearing that loudly ticking clock, but I've tempered it with worry about how a second child might affect My Little Sunshine. I would never want him to feel less loved, and I wouldn't want his development to suffer because my attention is divided.

He's pretty into the idea right now, but who knows what will happen if and when we have another baby? If he feels at all threatened, I will have my hands full. He will certainly beat the shit out of the poor thing seeing how he reacts when kids his own age aren't doing what he wants them to do when he wants them to do it. I'm not sure if I can handle that. It's one thing when he's pushing down Little John Doe who's a brat anyway...or just ugly. It's another thing entirely when it's your own baby. I might have to lock him up in his room for a couple years.

We can't possibly get this lucky a second time, and that's another reason I'm hesitant. Sunshine is so smart and funny and energetic. He's an awesome sleeper and has been since he was just a couple months old. I can't imagine how hard it is to be painfully sleep-deprived for an extended period of time. I don't know many parents who have been blessed with two good sleepers. This is an important issue for me, because I needs my sleep. A lot.

Sunshine will be three in August. I'll be 32. When my mom was my age, she had a 16 year old, a 9 year old, and a 7 year old. Not that I'd want to be in that boat, but my point is, I'm already an old mom compared to most in the South. There most certainly is a regional difference in America. Pregnancy, labor and delivery are gruelling work. Plus, from a completely selfish perspective, I want my body back. It's not entirely yours when you're in your child-bearing years. You're either doing things to your body to prevent getting pregnant, doing things to make yourself pregnant, being pregnant, giving birth, nursing, recovering, or anticipating when you might have the balls to try it all over again. I don't have that many more years to attempt to be hot (not that I think I'm hot now; I'm just attempting to be, and there's still hope that I can achieve that goal). Your body is never the same after you get knocked up. It is harder to get it back the older you are.

So, the "simple" request has been made. The paperwork is being processed. We'll see how the market research pans out, and whether our company has the equipment, manpower, and goals to grant the request. Depending on what the company executives decide, Sunshine could either be really happy he got what he wants, or he could be playing with a doll. Who knows?

Labels: Baby debate, My Little Sunshine, Parenthood

Parts of my new car are coated in fingerprint dust right now. We've been robbed in our own driveway, again. Last time it was Soul Mate's car. This time, it was mine. I need to make a trip to the car wash, because everything felt dirty when I touched it last night. It wasn't because of the fingerprint dust either.

I've always had a hard time sleeping when Soul Mate is on the road, but this latest violation has basically guaranteed that I won't sleep a wink when he's not here. Whoever did this was holding the key to my house in his hand at one point. I keep my garage door opener hidden out of sight, but he found it. It was out in plain sight when I got into my car yesterday. He had it in his hands, so at any point, he could have been in my house. Who's to say he won't try that next time?

In addition to My Little Sunshine's wireless headphones for his DVD player, Creepy Criminal stole the best present I've gotten my husband in a while. I'm sad that Soul Mate won't have them anymore, because they really improved his life on the road. I'm mad at the Creepy Criminal for taking them, but I'm also mad at my husband for leaving them in my car. That's always been a big difference between him and me. He always thinks nothing bad is going to happen; I always think everything bad could happen. We're constantly trying to find a happy medium.

What's crazy is we had friends over for a lot of the night. There was a period of time between 10pm and 2:30am when there weren't people all over our property. When the boys got back to my house at 2:30am, it was insane. I heard them coming a mile away. They were all over the neighborhood with their silliness. We were all up until about 4:30 or 5am. So it either happened between 5 and 7:30am or during the time I was home alone with my kiddo. Either way, I'm totally creeped out.

We're going to make some big changes on Mt. Otis for me to feel secure again. I want an alarm system and some security lights on that side of the house. I also want to be able to park my car in the garage. Any of you fine people who've been here for the party that bears my husband's name knows that that will take a lot of work to accomplish. Our garage houses a bar and a whole lotta crap we feel we need but can't fit anywhere in our house. You mean we're supposed to put cars in there? Who knew?

Right now, everything I touch in my car gives me the heebie-jeebies. I wonder if Creepy Criminal had his grubby hands on it. I think it must be dirty, because a scum bag like that certainly doesn't worry about spreading his disgusting germs while he's fondling my personal property. My husband thinks I'm making too big a deal out of this, and that whoever did this is just a petty thief. He's probably right, but you never know. Criminal profilers have said most rapists and murderers start out as petty thieves and escalate. I just don't want to make it easy for this fuckwad to escalate on me or my family.

Late add: In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit something. The Creepy Criminal didn't exactly have to break into my car. I accidentally left it unlocked in the rush to get ready for our party. This is completely out of character for me, since I am an extremely paranoid person. I am officially taking responsibility for my part in this unfortunate incident for all the blogosphere to read.

Labels: Car break-in, Crime, State of Mind

I feel like I've just gotten off a time machine. I just spent a few hours with some of our favorite people. We had dinner on our deck just like we used to do all the time. A few years ago, our lives were very different. It seemed like we hung out with our friends 24-7. We worked hard together, and we played harder together.

Our house was often filled with these people, and even better, with their laughter. We laughed so much we cried. It's funny because we're all so different in so many ways, but so much the same in the ways that matter. We're all pretty smart, creative, and share the same insane sense of humor. We respect each other in so many ways, but mostly, we just love spending time together. The G-Vegas crew (even though we're not all in G-Vegas anymore) is just so much freaking fun.




Job changes and family changes have shortened the amount of time we get to spend together over the past few years. I've missed having them together. I've missed hearing their laughter on my deck. Sure, our conversations were a little different tonight than in the good ole days. We talked a lot about pregnancy and childbirth, since one of our crew is With Child. We still had the obligatory boob talk. We still listened to good music. And we still laughed. So much has changed, but we're all still the same. It never gets old for me.

It was so cool for me to see some of our kids playing together. We've spent so many years playing with each other that it was inevitable that our kids would get along. We're all similar in spirit, so it would make sense that our kids would be, too. We've discovered that our two year old male child is crazy similar to our friends' seven year old female child in spirit--don't start the jokes. That's not what I'm talking about. They have so much fun together it's crazy. They run, they yell, they throw things, they throw themselves, and they laugh. They laugh. Just like their parents. I love hearing their laughter even more than I love hearing my friends laugh together. It's just so cool.

I hope we can find more time for moments like this. These simple times shore up my spirit for the times that are a lot more complicated. A lot more cluttered. A lot more bullshit-filled. Just us, sitting around laughing feels so good. It's easy to let those times fall by the wayside when you get wrapped up in the day-to-day maintenance of life, but they are so important. Nights like tonight remind me how much those people and those times mean to me. Thanks, Uncle Ted, for giving us a reason to laugh. Smooches.

Labels: Friendship, Laughing

Getting old is a real pain in my ass. Seriously. It's really cruel that I treat my body better than I ever have in my entire life, and, yet, when I look in the mirror, I quickly lose count of all the bulges and dimples and stretch marks. My mom always told me I'd pay the price for all those Snickers bars. Well, I guess the Landlord of Life wants his fucking rent money, and I ain't got no J.O.B.

I guess it was easy to stay skinny when I never stopped moving and ate like a bird. Then came college. I never stopped moving. I ate like a bird. But, I also drank like a fish. I added a size every year of college, but when you start out at a zero, you've got some room to grow. Plus, very few people would consider a size six fluffy.

Then came the working world and marital bliss. I worked in TV news, so I ate nothing but fastfood during the work day. After work, my husband and I would either cook a big meal or go out to eat with our friends. After dinner was usually drinks with the "boys" or a pint of Ben and Jerry's on the couch. In my schedule of hardcore working, eating and partying, there was little time for exercise. That size six quickly moved to the back of the closet.

At one point before I got pregnant with My Little Sunshine, I decided I didn't like myself very much. The most tangible thing I could fix was my physical appearance. I did pretty well. I lost twenty pounds that go-round. I tried to make better selections at the fastfood establishments, but I was still eating fastfood, and I was still going out drinking quite a few nights a week. Just before I got pregnant, I had gained a good bit of that weight back. When I got pregnant, well, I just got huge. Totally fucking huge.

After My Little Sunshine was born, I lost all the baby weight and a lot more. Last summer, I started to feel good about myself again. I didn't hate what I saw in the mirror. Then came fall, and then dreaded winter. I always get fat in the winter. Now, here it is almost May, and I'm working my ass off. I work out more than I have since my teenage years. I eat fastfood once a week at the most, and then I usually eat the healthiest thing on the menu. I still eat icecream, because without it, I'd be really lonely. I simply will not deprive myself of that pure, wonderful pleasure. Not that I'd rather be fat. Trust me. I wouldn't. I'm just not that desperate. Yet.

I was talking with some of my skinny girlfriends the other night. Even though they are still quite skinny, they agreed with me that something changes when you're older than 30. Your body starts to torment you in so many ways. The most obvious way is how it holds on to those fat cells for dear life. They latch on and multiply under cover of skin, and you don't notice they're there until your clothes don't fit anymore.

It's not this way for most men I know. Otis eats a lot more than I do (and very late at night some times), he drinks more than I do, and he hasn't exercised since, um, 2000 I think. He rarely gains a freaking ounce. In fact, if he does gain an ounce, he obsesses about it, and that mere obsession makes it go away. He doesn't have to actually DO anything. He just has to think about it a lot and POOF! it's gone. Just like that. Fuck him and the rest of you skinny punks.

It was different when I was a working woman in my twenties. I simply never wore shorts. And certainly not a bathing suit. I always had something else I could be doing, and I did it. Whatever it was. But now that I have a toddler, I actually want to get outside and do things with him. I don't want to have to wear a moo-moo while I do it. I would like to be able to wear what most American women wear when they go to the pool, and I'd like to be able to do it without my neighbors thinking that Shamu has gotten lose from Sea World. Is that too much to ask?

Labels: Aging, Self image, Weight

It was nice to wake up this morning without a pounding head. That's why I hardly ever drink anymore. I'm a light-weight, plain and simple. Thanks for putting up with my drunk-typing.

I watched American Idol last night, sober this time. I have to say that I'm touched by what they're doing with the Idol Gives Back campaign. The cynic in me says it's a publicity stunt just like everything else, but the majority of me says, "Rock on." I mean, at least they're doing something. That's more than we can say for most people. Plus, they touch more people than any media program or publication in America, likely the world, so why not try to use that power to do some good?

I was touched by the people dying of AIDS and malaria in Africa. A couple of those stories made me cry. Those people deserve our help. I was downright outraged about what I saw in America, though. I guess I'm used to seeing people dying in Africa. I've seen those images my whole life. Even though I would like to do something about that, I'm pretty desensitized to those pictures. I can't stand to see suffering in this country. It's not that the lives of Africans are any less valuable or important. It's that we pay a shitload of taxes in this country, and it all seems to be going nowhere.

Gagillions of our dollars are going to fight the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. That's been effective so far. I don't even want to get off on the PORK, PORK, PORK (as one of South Cackalacki's former lawmakers used to say) problem in Washington. It sickens to me to think about all the millions we are wasting so that the fat cats can say they're serving their constituents. That makes me want to vomit, especially when I see things like I saw last night.

American Idol talked to a family who lives in a FEMA trailer park in Louisiana. The mom said she couldn't let her kids play outside because of all the crime and drug dealing that's going on there. Come on, people! Do you mean to tell me that our federal government can't stop this shit? Please. If they wanted to, they could give these kids a safe place to live. Problem is, they don't want to. They want those people out of there, so they're trying to make it as unliveable as possible. Grow a pair and help these people in a productive way. Spend my money helping them get jobs and find safe housing. Spend my money giving them hope instead of pushing them further and further into the blackhole of poverty and despair. You have the power to do this if you want.

The other sickening thing about all of this is that the majority of Americans doesn't know that this is going on because few people were allowed in to tell these people's stories for quite some time. I Googled to try to find out the whole story about these FEMA trailer parks, but I didn't find what I was looking for. Many of the stories I found were about journalists and humanitarian groups getting kicked off the property by private security guards. The Society of Professional Journalists had to fight really hard to get FEMA to change its media relations policy. The rules are less stringent now, but they're still not as open as they should be. What do you have to hide? We're paying for these little villages, so why can't we see what our money has bought?

I don't know if I'll ever see what my money has bought when I click a coupla buttons on my computer screen on the American Idol web site. For all I know, my money will help pay the salary of some asshole sitting in a big office with a lot of windows, but I'm going to have some faith today. I'm going to give these people some money and hope that they will use it to do some good instead of lining the pockets of assholes. I'm going to hope that for once, Corporate America is sincere. Hell, maybe they'll even do something on which I give the American government a failing grade: helping the people who need help the most right here in this country.

Labels: Africa, AIDS, American Idol, Katrina, Malaria, Poverty

Yup. My drunk-typing prediction was correct. 6:52am sucked big time. Right now, 8:17am is sucking big time, too. The attempts to soak up some Shiraz with a bagel and cream cheese have failed miserably. I guess I'll have another and see if that helps. I want to take something to stop the pounding in my head, but I'm afraid it would kick in the gag reflex and undo any possible good the bagel's done. So, right now, I've chosen the anti-puke route over the headache-stopping route. Will I change my position? Ask me in a coupla hours.

You know how bad alcohol sits in your stomach all heavy yet squishy like that slime they used to throw at people on Nickelodeon? Every time I get up to do something for My Little Sunshine, I feel like that gooey blob is going to make its move, one way or the other. I'm almost praying for it to at this point. It's current position is not conducive to mothering a two year old. At this point, it wouldn't be conducive to anything, including sleeping. Ain't that a bitch?

Next time I get the misguided notion that it would be a good idea to get drunk alone and watch American Idol, I certainly hope someone or something stages an intervention. I think I've said this before, but it's still true (I guess it becomes more true every day). I'm too old for this shit.

Labels: Drinking, Hangover from Hell, My Stupidity

Um. Yeah. I may puke. Next time I think I'm 24 again, will somebody please freaking shoot me? I can barely make out the words on this screen right now. You can think Shiraz for that. That's not my friend's dog who has made her way to the great doggy park in the sky. That is some yummy red wine that I started sipping on at dinner tonight. If there are any wine snobs reading this, fuck you and the fermented grapes you suck on. I don't know shit about wine, but I like this stuff, OK? OK.

My dear darling friend from elementary school who has stayed with me through moves from state to state to state to state called this evening. To be honest, I was already half-crocked when the phone rang, but whatever. I put My Little Sunshine to bed just before 8pm so I could catch all of American Idol. When I saw T was on the phone, I paused my TiVo. I've been wanting to talk to her forever. She is all preggers and stuff, so I felt like it was my responsibility to drink for her since she can't. As we talked about all the stuff women talk about when they're pregnant, I "sipped" on my drink. I can't remember how many times I refilled during our conversation, but it was a couple or so. I didn't really feel anything then.

Well. Um. That was then. This is now. I called my friend K back after I got off the phone with T. I was walking to the kitchen as I dialed. Um. Yeah. Walking is a bit of an overstatement. I guess I didn't realize it until I was nearly there. But when I got there, I thought, "What the hell. I'm here, and this bottle is open, and I can't get the fucking cork back in." I poured the rest of the bottle in my glass. Why the hell did I do that? Can anyone tell me? Even more, why the hell did I drink it? There was really no point. I was already wasted. Clearly. I didn't need the rest of the bottle. I didn't even need to do anything other than GO. TO. BED. But, NOOOOOOO. I like to pretend like I'm all tough and stuff.

Fuck me. I'm not. I'm not tough at all. Not even close. At 6:30 or 7:30am when My Little Sunshine wakes up, I'm going to cry. And puke. And then cry some more. It won't matter. I will have to tend to my little man. It is my job. I am his mother. His STUPID. FUCKING. MOTHER. By the way, DSS, if you're reading this, screw you. I haven't had anything to drink in as long as I can remember, so if I want to drink wine and watch American Idol, I think I can. At least right now I think that. Tomorrow, I may have an entirely different opinion. Fuck you anyway.

Labels: American Idol, Drinking, Stupid Stuff I Do

My two-year-old son and I were sitting at the kitchen table about a half-hour ago. We were eating and staring out the window. We had plans to play tee-ball outside, but it was sprinkling just a few minutes ago. I think both of us were praying for the sun to come back out. Our prayers were answered. It's once again beautiful outside. I'm going to give it a few minutes to dry out a little, and then we're going to hit some balls in the backyard.

Anyhoo, we were staring out the window, and a carpenter bee flied in front of us. "What's that bee doing," My Little Sunshine asked. "He's building a nest in our house, baby," I replied. "No he not," Sunshine quickly rebutted. "Bees don't build nests. Birds build nests," he correctly pointed out. Topping it off, he then said, "He building a hive. Bees build hives." Duh and fuck. Fuck and duh. I think he just likes to rub it in every now and then. I think he knows he's exponentially smarter than his slightly-above-average mom. He always puts me in my place with perfect comedic timing. There was a pause between him pointing out that birds build nests and saying bees build hives. It was as if he was giving me the chance to correct myself. Hell, I knew bees built hives, but I didn't remember I had taught him that word. I was just trying to keep things simple. Sunshine does not like simple. He likes correct. Alrighty then.

Labels: Curious Questions, My Little Sunshine Memorable Moments

It seems to happen in slow motion. My Little Sunshine stops dead in his tracks. He never stops moving, so when he does, I know to brace myself. Then, he gets this glimmer in his eye. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head. It's like he's weighing the cost/benefit ratio. Is this going to be worth the price I'm sure to pay? Lately, his answer has been "yes" most of the time. Next, he strikes. It's either a push, a punch, or a full-body tackle. Sometimes, it's all of the above. Ninety-nine percent of the time it's a boy he's attacking. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the victim of his attack has done nothing to provoke it.

Today, My Little Sunshine went after four boys and one girl at Gymboree. For you non-parents, that's a place where they have classes for kids and their parents. It can either be a general, age-appropriate singing/dancing/pretending class or an art class. We're doing the general class. I'm debating whether to continue paying the money, because although he loves parts of it, he really just wants to play basketball and jump off of the equipment. I spend a good bit of the class chasing him and bringing him back into the structured fray. There are several other boys in his class who do this, but he's certainly the most "active" of all of them. I'm OK with the chasing part, but when I spend the entire hour apologizing to other parents because my kid attacked their innocent, little angels, I'm not digging it.

I don't really know what to do. Some parents say this is typical for little boys his age. Some give me a look like I'm the WORST. MOTHER. EVER. I've dragged his little ass out of there kicking and screaming before as punishment for his behavior. That didn't seem to work. I've offered him rewards for behaving well. That didn't work either. It's making me question my no-spanking philosophy, but I don't want to give in. It still doesn't make sense to me to constantly tell my kid he can't hit, and yet I can hit him as a punishment. All I can do is pray this is just a phase and try not to lose my mind before it passes. At this point, I think a straight jacket might be in order. For both of us.

Labels: Hitting, My Little Sunshine, Parenting Dilemmas

Compiled from CBSnews.com:
The Topeka, Kansas-based Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) has announced plans to protest at the funerals of the victims of the Virginia Tech massacre.

The organization believes the United States has condemned itself to destruction by accepting homosexuality and other “sins of the flesh.” Founder Fred Phelps’ daughter, Shirley Phelps-Roper, said the Virginia Tech teachers and students who died on Monday brought their fate upon themselves by not being true Christians.

“The evidence is they were not Christian. God does not do that to his servants,” Phelps-Roper said. “You don’t need to look any further for evidence those people are in hell.”

Phelps-Roper said Cho Seung-Hui was sent by God to punish those he killed and America as a whole for moral decline. Even though she says God sent Cho Seung-Hui, Phelps-Roper believes he is also in hell for violating God’s commandment to not kill.

“He is in hell,” Phelps-Roper said. “But he was also fulfilling the word of God.”

Because of its anti-gay message and condemnation of Catholics, Jews and other groups, the WBC has been classified as a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center and is monitored by the Anti-Defamation League.
***********************************************************************

I don't even know where to begin on this one. I don't believe in bashing people for their religion, because that's exactly what these people want to do, but this is downright evil. Imagine being the parents of a young student killed in this massacre. Imagine how much it would hurt to arrive at your child's funeral to see protestors outside. Then imagine that those protestors are saying that your child deserved to die. Imagine those people saying this massacre was your child's fault because she wasn't a "true Christian."

It seems to me that WBC just wants to get on television to capitalize on someone else's unimaginable grief. If these innocent people brought this violence on themselves, then I guess they're saying rape victims deserve it because they're not "true Christians," abused children deserve it because they are not "true Christians," and people killed on the streets for drug money deserve it because they are not "true Christians." That's the kind of logic being employed here.

I'm sorry, but I don't know any true Christians who use their religion to justify hate. I know there are a lot of alleged Christians out there who find justification for their prejudices in the Bible, but I would argue that those are the people who are not true Christians, not those innocent students and teachers on the Virginia Tech campus.

I believe in free speech, but I don't think this kind of speech is free. I think we all pay a price when people like this spread their messages of hate. I just hope this display doesn't incite more violence. That would not be free speech. That would be downright criminal... oh, and not "truely Christian."

Labels: Free speech, Virginia Tech, Westboro Baptist Church

I don't know why I try so hard to make sense of the senseless. It's always been an obsession of mine. It stretches from my own life all the way to world events which have little or no effect on me or my family. I just have this overpowering need to understand why things happen. I often keep myself awake at night thinking about things that will never, ever make any sense. I just can't stop it.

Of course, right now, I'm constantly thinking about Cho Seung-Hui and why he would snuff out so many promising young lives. I've watched the video he sent to NBC. Hearing his voice and looking into his eyes sent chills down my spine. I've looked at the pictures of him holding guns and knives. I'm especially disturbed by the one of him holding a gun to his head. I don't know why. I should be more freaked out by him pointing the guns at other people, but I think it's the look on his face in the gun-to-the-head picture that's getting to me. It's so angry and hopeless and vengeful. I guess those are the qualities his professors and classmates noticed in him in real life. I've read what they have to say about him, and it makes me so sad that nothing could have been done to stop all this before it started. It's not like no one tried. Lots of people apparently did. I've seen evidence of his disturbed mind in some of Cho Seung-Hui's writings. I'm reading to understand, and, of course, that's never going to happen.

Cho Seung-Hui clearly wanted to be famous. Why else would he produce a multi-media presentation and send it to NBC News between killing sprees? He ensured with his work that he would be on television and the internet for the indeterminable future. Now that they have all these disturbing images and his motivation in his own words, on camera no less, the producers can't help but use it. What makes me sick about this is that he's going to get exactly what he wanted. Even though he's not here to see it, he knew as he was producing this insanity what the result would be. Anyone who's spent more than five minutes watching American television could have told you that. I'm angry that his on-camera diatribe will get countless hours of airplay, while the victims of his massacre will get seconds by comparison.

I can't imagine what the families of Cho Seung-Hui's victims are going through right now. It's difficult enough to grieve the loss of a loved one. Doing so in an international spotlight must make it exponentially more difficult. The people they lost were all special in some way. They all had something to offer the world. We will never know what they could have done if only given the time.

Ross Abdallah Alameddine was 20 years old. and from Saugus, Massachusetts. He was triple-majoring in English, French and Business Information technology. His friends say he was "an intelligent, funny, easy-going guy."

Jamie Bishop was 35 years old and a German professor at Virginia Tech. He sounds like a kind of guy we would have been friends with. He was a Fulbright scholar who spent four years in Germany. He said he "spent most of his time learning the language, teaching English, drinking large quantities of wheat beer, and wooing a certain fraulein." The "fraulein" was his wife, who is also a German professor at Virginia Tech.

Brian Bluhm was 25 years old and getting ready to start a new life. He already had a job in Baltimore, and he was getting ready to defend his Master's thesis in Water Resources. He was a huge Detroit Tigers fan. In fact, he apparently went to a Tigers' game last weekend and watched his team win. A good friend of his says Brian would have wanted to be remembered for his faith and work with the Baptist Collegiate Ministries.

Ryan Clark was 22 years old and one of the first to die at Virginia Tech. This kid from Georgia was amazing. He was maintaining a 4.0 grade-point average in a triple-major of psychology, biology, and English. He was an RA at Ambler Johnston Hall and a member of the Marching Virginians band. A friend of Ryan's said, "He was just one of the greatest people you could possibly know. He was always smiling, always laughing. I don't think I ever saw him mad in the five years I knew him." It sounds like Ryan made the most of his 22 years.

Austin Cloyd was an 18 year old freshman. Her father is an Accounting and Information Systems professor at Virginia Tech. Her former pastor said Austin was so inspired by an Appalachian service project that helped fix up homes that she and her mother started a similar program in their hometown. That pastor said Austin played basketball and volleyball in high school and was a "very delightful, intelligent, warm young lady."

Jocelyne Couture-Nowak was dedicated to education. She was a French instructor at Virginia Tech. She was instrumental in creating the first French school in Truro, Nova Scotia, where she lived in the 1990s with her husband, who is the head of the horticulture department at Virginia Tech.

Daniel Perez Cueva was 21 and from Peru. Cho Seung-Hui shot him in his French class. His mother said Daniel dreamed of going to Virginia Tech because of its prestige. He grew up in a crime-ridden neighborhood in Lima, Peru. His mother brought him and his sister to America. I'm sure they didn't expect to encounter this kind of violence here.

Kevin Granata was a 46 year old professor. One of his colleagues says Kevin was one of the top five researchers in the country working on movement dynamics in cerebral palsy. Another professor described Granata as a family man. His colleague said, "With so many research projects and graduate students, he still found time to spend with his family, and he coached his children in many sports and extracurricular activities." All of the accomplishments in the world don't mean as much as those special moments with your family. At the end of it all, I bet he would have traded everything for more time with his kids.

Mathew Gregory Gwaltney was 24 years old and was also ready for the next chapter in his life. He was about to finish his Master's degree in Civil and Environmental Engineering. He was working on his thesis on ways to predict droughts. He had already gotten several job offers from engineering firms, and he planned to move back to his hometown of Chester, Virginia to be near his parents. He was a big Hokies fan and sports editor of his high school newspaper. His high school prinicpal says Mathew was named "Best guy to take home to your parents."

Caitlin Hammaren was young, only 19, but a bright star with a lot of potential. She was a sophomore double-majoring in International Studies and French. Her high school principal from New York said, "She was just one of the most outstanding young individuals that I've had the privilege of working with in my 31 years as an educator. Caitlin was a leader among our students." What a shame she didn't get the chance to show what she could do outside the walls of her school.

Jeremy Herbstritt was 27 years old and a graduate student from Pennsylvania. He went to undergrad at Penn State, majoring in Civil Engineering, Biochemistry, and Molecular Biology. One of his friends describes Jeremy as a talkative guy. I'd say from his list of studies, he was also crazy smart.

Rachael Elizabeth Hill was an 18 year old freshman. She was studying biology, and she was too young to die.

Emily Jane Hilscher was one of the first to die on the Virginia Tech campus. No one knows yet why Cho Seung-Hui decided to go to her dorm room first. She was 19 years old and an animal lover. She was majoring in Animal and Poultry Sciences. Her eyes are haunting in the pictures they keep showing of her. I think I read her boyfriend had just dropped her off at her dorm that morning. I can't imagine the hell he's going through right now knowing what happened after he left. Not to mention that he was the first suspect interrogated by investigators.

Jarrett Lane was 22 years old. He was the valedictorian of his high school class. His brother-in-law says he was fun-loving and "full of spirit." Jarrett liked Christian Alternative music, "The Simpsons," and "ESPN SportsCenter."

Matt La Porte dreamed of being in the Air Force. He was a sophomore from New Jersey majoring in Political Science and Leadership. He graduated from the Carson Long Military Institute in Pennsylvania in 2005. A young man who wanted to serve his country shot dead while trying to get an education. That's disgusting.

Henry J. Lee described himself as "your typical short Asian (Chinese) guy," but he wasn't at all typical of his peers in school at Virginia Tech. He was one of 10 children. His family fled Vietnam and moved to Roanoke, Virginia in 1994. He was a Computer Engineering and French major. His friends say he was a serious student who wasn't necessarily a serious person.

Liviu Librescu is one of the many victims of this massacre I'm having a hard time accepting. This man was 76 years old. He survived the Holocaust. He was known around the world for his research in Aeronautical Engineering, and he had been teaching at Virginia Tech for 20 years. He blocked the door while his students jumped out the window of his classroom. The last students to jump turned around to see Cho Seung-Hui shooting Mr. Librescu in the head. Come on. He survived the Holocaust. Seriously? This is how he dies? I can't accept that.

G.V. Loganathan was born in India. He had been a Civil and Environmental Engineering professor at Virginia Tech since 1982. His family back in India is absolutely crushed. It must hurt them so much to know that they've been so far away from him for so long and then to hear the horrible way he died. He was rewarded for dedicating his life to educating Americans with a bullet. It's sick. Just sick.

Partahi Lumbantoruan was from Indonesia. He was a 34 year old graduate student in Civil Engineering. He dreamed of becoming a teaching in America. His family sold property and cars to pay for his tuition. Patahi's stepmother says he called home almost every day. The last time he called, he asked what was going on in Indonesian politics. His stepmom reportedly wept as she asked why people can bring guns to campus. I'm sure a lot of Americans are asking this question right now as well.

Lauren McCain was 20 years old. She worked at a department store to save up money for college. She was a Christian who had been homeschooled. She planned to major in International Studies. Her uncle says she loved to read. She was learning to speak German. Let's all hope her faith provided her with some comfort as she suffered through the horror of her last minutes on earth.

Daniel O'Neil was a 22 year old graduate student from Rhode Island. He was a guitar player who wrote acoustic folk songs and posted them on residenthippy.com. One of his neighbors from back home says he was highly intelligent and "He probably would have gone really far in life and been successful."

Juan Ortiz was 26 years old. He leaves behind a wife and his parents in Puerto Rico. He was a graduate student in Civil Engineering. Neighbors back home say he decorated his family's home on Christmas and played with his father in a salsa band on the weekends. His father said he was "an extraordinary son, what any father would have wanted."

Minal Panchal wanted to be an architect like her father. She was 26 years old and from India. A friend in India says Minal was "a brilliant student and very hardworking." She was known for helping children in her neighborhood with their schoolwork.

Erin Peterson went to the same high school as Cho Seung-Hui. She was 18 years old and planned to major in International Relations. She was 6'1" and played center for her high school basketball team that won a district championship her sophomore year. Her godfather says Erin was inseparable from her father. Their only disagreement was about professional football. She was reportedly a Redskins fan, and her dad was a Cowboys fan. His heart has to be breaking right now.

Michael Pohle was 23 years old and from New Jersey. He was majoring in Biological Sciences. He played football and lacrosse in high school. One of his former coaches says he was "a good kid who did everything that good kids do."

Julia Pryde was a 23 year old Biological Systems Engineering graduate student. She was from New Jersey and was known for her sweet demeanor. She was also an exceptional student. One of her professors says Julia had gone to Ecuador to research water quality last summer. She was planning to go back. She might have been the one to help children in that country get clean drinking water.

Mary Karen Read was from a military family. She was born in South Korea. She lived in Texas and California before she moved to Virginia. She was 19 years old and an Interdisciplinary Studies major. Her aunt says she had trouble adjusting to life at Virginia Tech, but she had just started making some friends, and she was thinking about joining a sorority. "I think she wanted to try to spread her wings," her aunt said. Let's hope she did.

Reema Samaha was an 18 year old dancer. She enjoyed ballet and belly dancing and was a member of VT's Contemporary Dance Ensemble. Her friends say she was captivating on stage. A friend of hers who happens to attend Clemson University here in the Upstate says, "She was just beautiful and when you watched her, I thought she was one of the most gorgeous girls in the world inside and out."

Waleed Mohammed Shaalan was 32 years old and from Egypt. He was a doctoral student in Civil Engineering. He was married and had a one year old son. He came to Virginia Tech to work with GV Loganathan, an engineering professor who also died in the massacre.

Leslie Sherman was a History and International Studies major. She loved traveling and was going to Russia to study this summer. Her grandmother said Leslie loved reading and socializing with her cousins, who were attending colleges all across the country. She apparently text messaged one of them the night before she died.

Maxine Turner was going to graduate in May, and she already had a job lined up in chemical engineering at a company in Maryland. She had already completed all her required courses, but she wanted to stay in school and take German. She helped found the Virginia Tech chapter of Alpha Omega Epsilon, a sorority for women in engineering. Maxine loved Tae Kwon Do, Shakespeare, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Nicole White was 20 years old and from Hampton Roads, Virginia. She was an International Studies major and a lifeguard at the YMCA.

Please remember these people when you're watching Cho Seung-Hui's message to the world. He got to do what he wanted with his life. These people were robbed of that chance.

Labels: Cho Seung-Hui, Victims, Virginia Tech

I have no connection to Virginia Tech personally or professionally, but my heart is so heavy for them and for the loss the world has suffered this week. I've never felt what it's like to be connected to a tragedy of this magnitude. I can only imagine the weight of the cloud of grief that hangs over the entire community.

The tragedy of loss is somehow confounded when the life that is lost seems so unfairly short. I remember the anger I felt when a lost a friend, a cousin, and an uncle who were all in their 20s. Just last year, we lost a dear friend who was in his 30s and living a wonderful and happy life. It made me so angry that he had to die when so many people who contribute nothing to society get to live and all the while scoff at the preciousness of the gift they've been given. I didn't understand it then, and I still don't understand it nearly a year later. One of the people who spoke at our friend's funeral said that a good life can't be measured in the number of years. That it had to be measured in love and what that person gave to world around him. With those criteria, I know my friend led a good life, but I'm still mad as hell that he died. He deserved more, and so did we. All of those people who died yesterday likely deserved more as well. Their families should have had more.

I'm so sad about what happened yesterday at Virginia Tech. I can't imagine something like that happening on a college campus. There's so much hope in every classroom. Most people are there to make their lives and the lives of their families better. They are there to experience life, to taste it, to touch it, to soak it all in. They are there to grow. They are there to be a part of something greater than themselves.

The entire Virginia Tech community lost something more intangible than the lives of their friends and colleagues. They lost their sense of security. They lost their innocense. The students were robbed of the carefree spirit of college. There are a few precious years when you get to walk around thinking you're all grown up but live a life free of most of the world's responsibilities. Those kids will never get that back.

I hope this community will find a way to heal without hate. I hope these kids can all get back on track. I hope they will never forget what happened yesterday, and that they will spend the rest of their lives fighting against this senseless violence. I also hope they wake up every morning knowing what a precious gift they've been given and make the most of every day they have.

Labels: Grief, Loss, Virginia Tech

I'm not going to bother to write what I think about that douchebag Don Imus and his producer What's-His-Name. I don't have time, because my mother and father-in-law are on their way here and I still have a lot to do. Besides, douchebag will do it.

Those douchebags did get us talking about race again, which I think is never a bad thing. There's a lot we need to talk about in this country. We only seem to talk about it when things like this happen. That's sad, because we have a long way to go.

Case in point:
I was at the car wash this morning (another preparation for the parental visit). I watched half a dozen guys swarm my car, seemingly burning hundreds of calories a minute and not missing a spot, even though it was freezing cold and they were certainly a little damp. I was thinking about how hard they were working, but clearly there was something else on the mind of another person in the room. I heard two men greet one another with the standard southern greetings, and then one of them said, louder than the rest of the conversation, "I feel like I'm in GD Mexico." I could feel the rage rising up from my toes. My face turned red, and I spun my head around. I glared at him hard. I was about to scream at him when I thought the better of it. This guy was old as dirt. Nothing I said to him was going to change his mind. I closed my mouth and turned around, shaking my head back and forth. In hindsight, it was a passive-agressive response. I should have either turned around and yelled at him or simply not turned around at all. I wanted to tell him about all his good ole American cousins who were sitting at home collecting welfare, while these Mexicans were doing work they could be doing if they felt the need to get up off their lazy asses, but again, I said nothing. The dude must have noted my glare, however, because I heard nothing out of him from that moment on. I just don't understand how people like this get by in the world. What a sad, pathetic existence.

I've written a lot about race, but I've never written about a story that's very personal to my husband and me. It's the single most hurtful thing that has ever been said about me personally and professionally, and, frankly, it started me on my path out of television news. The only reason I didn't quit after this incident happened was because I didn't want the person who did this to us to win. In the end, however, I think she did win. I never felt the same about myself or my position in the newsroom. The thing that hurt the most was that no one ever publicly stood up for my husband or me. Some people privately supported us, but no one ever stood up and said, "Hello! This is bullshit, and we all know it!" The one person I thought would always be in my court told me to my face he "had to investigate" me. I never really recovered from that. To this day, it is an open wound. If you would like to read what happened to us, go to my husband's blog.

Another discussion about race that really touched a nerve with me is by Doog of Continuation Bet. I hope you'll take the time to read his story, and see how prejudice can affect innocent children in America, even today. He also makes some excellent points about the people who are using the Imus incident to take the spotlight, instead of promoting a substantive discussion on race in America.

I don't have any answers to the race problem in this country. I don't claim to. All I know is that my husband and I will teach our son that all races are beautiful and that hatred has no place in his heart. Hopefully, he will pass that on to his own children and their children and their children...

Labels: Don Imus, Race, Soul Mate

The first thing I noticed when I pulled up in front of the store was that the door was propped open, which I thought was odd for a business that caters to children and their parents. That would be the first of several strange things I would see in my short time there. As I approached the store, a cute little blonde girl wearing a frilly, flowery dress had just discovered the path to her freedom. She was on her way out when her mom grabbed her by the arm and led her back inside.

As soon as I neared the threshold, the acrid smell slapped me in the face. It nearly knocked me over it was so strong. I immediately decided that I wasn't screwing around. This would be an in and out trip if I had my way. Unfortunately, I don't rule the Earth. Damnit. I hate it when people remind me of that ugly fact of life.

The two women at the counter were on the phone. There were two women sitting on a bench to my left. They were there before me, and that meant they would probably escape this sensory beating before me. To my right, the little girl who greeted me at the door was sitting next to her mother, whispering quietly. Clearly, there was going to be some waiting involved.

Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw a Pull-Up training diaper scraping the ground between two skinny, beastly legs. The animal and its failing diaper quickly darted back behind the counter before I got a good look at it. I thought to myself, these fucking people keep a poodle in a diaper in their place of business. Weirdos. The little girl noticed it, too. She pointed excitedly to her mother, then crinkled up her nose and asked, "Is that why it's so stinky in here, mama?" I wanted to say, "Yeah, sweetheart. It's because these fucking people are buying diapers made for people for their fucking poodle. Seeing as how this one is serving as an ankle warmer instead of its intended purpose, I'd say that is why it's so stinky in here." But, I didn't. I was too busy trying to breathe through my mouth so the stinch of urine didn't burn my nose.

When one of the women got off the phone, I heard her say to the other woman at the counter, "I'm going to take Bella outside." Then, she looked down at the floor and exclaimed "Bella lost her britches! Bella!" Dear Lord, woman! How can you matter-of-factly talk about this animal and the fucking diaper its not wearing in front of a room full of customers? I mean, don't you think this is weird? Man, I obviously didn't know where this was going. She sweetly looked down at the floor and said, "Bella, outside! Come on, Bella!" As they rounded the corner of the counter, I nearly pissed on the floor. Not that it would have mattered. It certainly couldn't have smelled any worse in there. I was wrong about it being a poodle. Nope. Not a canine. It was a fucking sheep! Trust me. It was too early in the morning for me to encounter a diaper-wearing sheep in the city. Granted, this isn't exactly a high-rise kinda metropolis, but it's not the damn country either.

The lady flashed me a neighborly smile as she and her sheep passed me to go outside. I'm not exactly sure where Bella was going to do her business, since the building is surrounded by asphalt, but apparently, this kind of thing happened all the time. Bella did as instructed and followed the lady outside. No leash. No diaper. Just a sheep taking a crap in the parking lot. Awesome.

Mercifully, the other lady at the counter quickly got off the phone and gave me what I came to pick up, and I was on my way quickly. I found myself shaking my head all the way to my next stop on my to-do list. I wondered if it was just me until I made it home to share the story with Soul Mate. Turns out, it's not just me who thinks this is weird. I may have once considered going to this joint to get my kid's picture taken, but I'm pretty sure I'll have to spare my nose the pain. It's still burning from my first (and likely only) encounter with this establishment.

Labels: Memorable moments

Our holiday celebration got off to a bang shortly after midnight. I heard my son scream "Mommy," and then I heard him choking. I ran up the stairs to find my baby boy and his bed covered in vomit. He had basically refused to eat anything but icecream for dinner, so you can imagine what this smelled like five hours later. Not good. Not good at all.

I scooped my little man up, ran him into the bathroom, lifted up the seat, and propped him up. Then I ran into my bedroom, called my husband, and said, "I need you to come home NOW." He replied, "I'll be home in ... " "NOW," I finished for him. By this time, My Little Sunshine was screaming in the bathroom, and I knew we were in for a long night. I was correct. It was a long night.

Around 3am, Soul Mate joined the Puke Party. Three hours into Easter, two very sick boys, and I hadn't even cooked a thing yet. Sunshine stopped getting sick about the time Soul Mate started, so I got a few hours sleep in there somewhere before Sunshine got up sick again at 7:30am. We stripped him down, cleaned him up a bit, and put him into bed with us. We turned on the Disney Channel, and the three of us spent Easter morning dozing in and out of consciousness.

Sunshine felt well enough around 11am to come down and see what the Easter Bunny had brought him. Even though he was sick, he had a blast finding the eggs and tearing through his Easter basket. We spent most of our holiday watching movies and laying on the couch. I did, in fact, cook Easter dinner. My boys didn't eat much of it. I'm not sure if that was the residual sickness, or if my latest culinary masterpiece wasn't so much a masterpiece at all. I'm just going to hope it was the stomach bug.

I wish my boys had felt better today, but I am thankful for the day we had together anyway. Sure, it was smelly and disgusting, but we spent the day focused on little else than taking care of our little family in our little house. That's really what the holidays are all about, right?

Labels: Easter, Ilness, My Little Sunshine, Soul Mate

I was planning for most of the day to write one of my I-Hate-People posts, because, well, sometimes I hate people. I was having one those days where I was in a wicked bad mood for no one reason, just a bunch of little stupid things that piled up. Since it's a holiday weekend, the population of our city seems to have doubled, and the humanity is doubly unbearable. People have been pissing me off all over town. At one point I even called my husband and told him I wanted to lock myself in the closet until Monday.

I lost count of the number of people who annoyed me. I starting writing about one such person, but I've since deleted it. Recounting the incident, even to my computer, was killing my Easter Bunny Buzz, and that would have been unfortunate. I've already spent too many hours today pissed off at the world. Instead of targeting particular people, here's a glimpse of stupid things that ticked me off:

1. Waking up to below-freezing temperatures
2. Getting whacked in the back of the head with a sippy cup while driving
3. Getting trapped in the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru behind a broken-down car with no way out and a screaming kid in the backseat
4. Going across town in holiday weekend traffic to spend my Pier One gift card, only to discover I didn't have said gift card

The day started to turn around when we had a fun dinner with some friends and their kids. Sunshine and I then went over to our friends' house and played with their new Wii, which is so damn cool. I think I, I mean, Sunshine needs one. By the time we got into the car to head home, Sunshine was super tired. He went right to sleep, and I turned into the Easter Bunny!

I put together what I think is a pretty cool Easter basket for a two year old. It includes a coloring book and some new crayons, a Nemo bubble blower and some bubbles, some U.S. Coast Guard vehicles from Matchbox, and a Charlotte's Web DVD.



Then, I filled some plastic eggs with miniature candy bars and "hid" them in plain sight outside his door, down the stairs, and all over the living room. Next, I made sure the video camera was charged, because I can just imagine his little face in the morning. I think it's going to be even cooler than Christmas, because he's four months older now. That much time makes a big difference at his age, and I think he'll enjoy this holiday a lot. We've decided not to color eggs this year, because at Sunshine's age that's best reserved for an outdoor activity. Last year, we were able to dye eggs in the driveway, IN SHORTS. It's expected to be 23 degrees in the morning. I may not leave the house at all. I freaking hate the cold.

Anyway, here's to hoping we can all enjoy a good Easter Bunny buzz tomorrow. Hug your families, eat some good food, and, if you're somewhere other than here, enjoy some nice spring weather. Hoppy Holiday, everyone!

Labels: Bad mood, Easter, Humanity, My Little Sunshine

Should one take it as a bad sign that the meal she lovingly prepared for her husband's return from a long trip required a half a bottle of Tabasco and a great deal of salt and pepper? Oh, and what if said meal made the cook's two year old gag and puke in his mouth a little bit? Would that reflect poorly on one's culinary abilities? I'm just asking because .... um... a friend of mine wants to know.

Labels: Cooking

Soul Mate is back home after a week and a half in Europe. He'll be sharing his travel tales here and here. My Little Sunshine missed his daddy a lot this trip. We spent a lot of time talking about our feelings while his daddy was gone. It's hard trying to help a two year old express what it feels like to miss someone, but he's learning how to do it without throwing himself on the floor and kicking, screaming and sobbing uncontrollably.

We had another Hard Day today, even though Soul Mate is back. I was tired and frustrated, and My Little Sunshine was tired and frustrated. In turn, we made a jet-lagged daddy tired and frustrated. We tried to make the best of the day and go to a little outdoor concert our city hosts every week in the spring and summer. Sunshine loved this event last year. I'm sure he's going to love it this year as well, but today was not the day to test it apparently. Let's just say we didn't end up staying very long, and when we left, our car was full of unhappy people.

Something happened about an hour later that made me thankful for having a crappy time at the concert. Soul Mate and Sunshine held their own little concert in our living room.

Sunshine was really into it. He was requesting songs, singing along, and even pretending he was playing with a pick like his daddy. It was one of those moments you just want to freeze in time. The pure joy. The admiration. The love. It's what life's all about. I hate it that Sunshine had to miss his daddy, but this evening was certainly worth the wait.

Labels: Memorable moments, My Little Sunshine, Soul Mate

Sometimes, I don't think I'm qualified for this mom thing. I think every now and then, I just wake up so stupid, that I should just roll over, call for backup, and go back to sleep. Today has been one of those days, and it's not even 1pm.



I had this brilliant idea today to go to the season opening of George the Train. It's a rinky-dink ass little train at a recreation complex in our town. It's very small. It goes very slow. It even has a whimpy horn. But kids freaking love it. So being the Adventure Mom that I am, when my kiddo woke up this morning asking what we were going to do for fun today, I told him we were going to ride George the Train! Instant Super Hero Mom! I ruled for about five seconds.

Trying to get the kid to calm down and eat breakfast with all that excitement pumping through his little veins was quite a challenge. Trying to get him dressed was even worse. Getting him in the car was like pulling out my own teeth without any drugs. A smart mom would have taken that as a sign. As I've said before, sometimes, I'm just an idiot.

I should have known when I pulled up near the parking lot that this was a VERY BAD IDEA. Nearly every space in this large parking lot was occupied. I had to drive around a bit to find an open space that wasn't half taken by a poorly parked mini-van (why can't these bitches drive?). My Little Sunshine hadn't yet seen the train. I could have just made up some story and left, but NOOOOOO. I love a challenge, often at my own peril.

Once we finally got out of the car, confusion ensued. There were several very long lines, but no one seemed to know which one to use. I picked a line and pulled out a dollar for Sunshine to hold while we waited. I stupidly thought he would think it was so super cool to buy his own ticket that waiting in line for 30 minutes IN VIEW OF THE TRAIN would be fine with him. Stupid, stupid mom.

We only had one minor meltdown in that line before we paid. They didn't even give us a freaking ticket. They just told us to go to the other line. If I were a dishonest person and I knew their very flawed system, I would have already been on that fucking train, twice. There was no one monitoring the "already paid" line, and it was snaking back into the parking lot. Anyone could have just walked up and been riding the train much sooner than the rest of us dumbasses with consciences. I mean, I would have thrown a fucking dollar on the table on the way out, but I would have saved myself some major heartache.

The real fun started about five minutes into our glorious time in the "paid" line. Sunshine started jerking away from me, picking up sticks and swinging them at nearby children, throwing rocks, blowing his nose on his face and smearing the results all over himself and anyone within reach, and screaming. I tried holding him. I tried letting him stand on his own, but he's Running Child, so that didn't work. Other parents started giving me that "I'm-So-Sorry-Your-Kid's-a-Fucking-Brat" look that I hate. I just wanted to scream at them, "He's not a brat, really. He just hasn't developed a great deal of patience. He's only two! Oh, and fuck you and your self-righteousness!"

When I started making threats I knew this wasn't going to end well. I started to do some Producer Math in my head. I counted the number of seats on the train. I timed how long it took the train to take a lap around the track. Then, I figured that, at minimum, we'd be waiting in that line another 30 minutes. My son was in hell. I was in hell. As a result, everyone around us was in hell. What did these other parents do? Drug their fucking kids? Why was mine the one flailing on the ground while the other kids smiled and talked excitedly about George the Train? Well, after he punched me in the face as hard as he could, I had to follow through with my threat to go home without ever riding George the Train. As I picked him up, I prepared myself for all the stares and judgemental looks I was going to get on the long walk to the car.

I don't need to workout today. The Train Tantrum likely burned more calories than anything else I'll do today. You try holding a 33 pound angry spitting hitting monkey while navigating a crowd of strollers. My arms hurt by the time I made it to the car. By the time we got there, Sunshine had snot covering his face, and he was doing that Gasping-for-Air crying thing that hysterical children do. He kept screaming, "Sorry, Mommy! Sorry!" I felt so bad, but I know I made the right choice.

My son would have never made it another 30 minutes in that line. If some miracle happened and he did get his butt in that seat, he would be pissed when the ride ended in two minutes and he had to get off and let other sweaty little beasts on. I felt guilty that I had subjected him to something I should have known he couldn't handle. We didn't HAVE to go on opening day. We could have waited. I chose to put us in this situation, not him. I couldn't tolerate his bad behavior, but I also knew it wasn't his fault.

I had to do something, so I offered the Consolation Prize: Chuck E. Cheese's. "Yeah, Mom. Yeah. Thatta be a great idea" Sunshine screamed from his carseat. I asked him if he could be a big boy and not pull anymore fits. He astutely responded, "and no more crying." Damn, he's a smart kid. "Right, baby. No more crying," I said. I had hope that this would be the perfect solution. WRONG AGAIN. I should have known the second we walked in the door and I tried to get tokens. Sunshine broke free and started running through the crowd. I forgot it's Spring Break around here, so Chuck E. Cheese's was packed. I was not comfortable with a two year old running wild in this environment. Apparently, quite a few other parents were, because there were lots of kids his age running around by themselves. Maybe I'm just over-protective. So be it.

There was no snot shed in our Chuck E. Cheese's adventure, but it was not what I'd call fun. I'm not even sure Sunshine had fun. He ran from one thing to the other, getting frustrated at every turn. He's just having a hard day. I think he misses his daddy. He said several times "I need to see my daddy." I kept reminding him that daddy's coming home in the morning, but at his age, that's still tough to get. His sense of time is not quite developed yet. All he really understands is NOW. When he wants something, he wants it now. I know this, but for some reason, I challenge that all the time. Why? Because I'm stupid. That's why.

Labels: Mommy Moments, My Little Sunshine, Tantrums

I feel like I've just gotten a big boost in my journey to find my place in this world. I just finished The Freedom Writers Diary, which was recently made into a movie starring Hillary Swank. I didn't want to see the movie before I got the story straight from the horses' mouths so to speak. I wanted to hear the voices of these students who have overcome so many obstacles and inspired so many others with their stories.

My only criticism of this book, and I don't even know if this is a valid point, is that the stories seem to be edited a great deal. The bad language that was in some of them remains, but nearly every diary entry is flawless in terms of grammar. Most college graduates I know don't use perfect grammar in their writing. Most of the people I edited every day in my job didn't use perfect grammar, and they were paid to write. I'm a Grammar Freak when it comes to professional writing. I don't always use perfect grammar here, but that's a conscious choice in most cases. However, I feel like we missed out on a very important part of these kids' journey if the entries were, in fact, edited as I suspect. It would have been cool to watch them grow as writers like we watched them grow as people.

Many of the Freedom Writers went from barely being able to write at all to becoming published authors, all because of the inspiration and leadership of this one passionate teacher. The book contains diary entries from their freshman year through their senior year. I would have liked to have seen the more tangible impact she had on their lives. I think I would have seen that better if the entries were printed exactly as the students wrote them. Again, I don't have any proof that they weren't. I just doubt a group of forgotten high school students who were considered lost causes by most of their teachers had grammar this great.

That criticism aside, I think this book should be required reading for every college student trying to get a degree in education. The work Erin Gruwell did with these kids is amazing. The work they did with themselves is equally amazing. It just goes to show what an impact one person can have if she truly believes in what she is doing. It is also proof that labeling children at an early age is unfair and often flat wrong. Most of the 150 Freedom Writers had given up hope, because the system had given up on them. They were constantly told what they could not do, and rarely reminded that with hope anything is possible.

The Freedom Writers got their name from the Civil Rights group the Freedom Riders, who fought against segregation in the South. These high school students grew up in Long Beach, California. Their school, Wilson High School, was a very diverse school, but it was almost entirely segregated. Students segregated themselves by choice on The Quad, and the school segregated them in the classrooms, mostly because of labels that had been placed on the students earlier on in their education. Although it wasn't technically racial segregation by design, that was the end result. Nearly every class was largely a single race of students with a few exceptions here and there. This was the case in my public high school in Jackson, Mississippi as well. Even though the school was 75% African American and 25% White (there were very few people of other races at my school), I had very few classes with any Black students. I was in mostly Advanced Placement classes for college credits, and nearly all of my classmates were White.

Erin Gruwell created an environment that celebrated diversity and encouraged understanding. She created bonds, while people outside her classroom walls worked to destroy them. She reached out to students who had been deemed unreachable by tailoring her curriculum to their needs. They needed to be understood. They needed to feel connected. They need to find the security of a family. Her lessons showed them that they could find themselves in literature, and that at the core, they were all the same. They lived in an area where people killed each other simply because of the color of their skin. Many of them expected to die before they were able to finish high school. They had no hope that they could escape the violence that surrounded their lives. Erin Gruwell showed them that education was their key to get out and create their own destiny.

Their stories touched me in so many ways. I saw myself or members of my family in so many of their diary entries. These kids who ranged in age from about 14 to 18 told stories of poverty, racial violence, domestic abuse, sexual abuse, and drug abuse. As I read their stories, I could either pinpoint instances like this in my own life, or I could relate it to another person I've known or loved. These issues cross all boundaries of race and class, and the students showed that. Some of the kids were from the projects, while others were from affluent gated communities. What they learned is everyone has issues. Not all White people live a Fairy Tale life. Not all Black people live in the ghetto. Not all Hispanics are illegal immigrants. We are alike in so many more ways than we are different.

I was born into the projects in Southern Ohio to a single, teenage mom. I lived with her and her parents and brothers and sisters for the first few years of my life. I heard racial slurs every day in that environment. My grandfather and many of my uncles made themselves feel better about being poor and uneducated by demeaning Black people. Their attitude was always, I may be living in the projects, but at least I'm not Black. They used terrible words. The "N Word" was thrown around like a frisbee. Even when I was young, this made me mad as hell. I just didn't get it. It didn't make sense that they thought they were better than some people just because of the color of their skin. I thought it was mean and hateful, and I vowed never to be that way.

As I got older, we moved around a lot. I got used to making new friends, and race was never a factor in that equation. I don't think it's a natural behavior for kids to segregate themselves. I think it's a learned behavior. I went to quite a few elementary schools, a different one every year, and I don't remember having a single segregated classroom, lunchroom, or playground. When I got to Junior High School in Mississippi, things were a little different, but it didn't really affect me much. I was on the dance team and the Student Council, which were both pretty diverse activities. Students did segregate themselves a little more than Elementary School, but I think a lot of this had to do with the systematic segregation in the classrooms.

When I got to High School in Mississippi, race was a factor everywhere, and it was very disconcerting. By High School, most White students were enrolled in private schools. I attended public school, but my brother and sister, who are much younger than me, went to private school. It was a financial struggle for my parents, but the decision came easily after someone was murdered in the bathroom with a pair of scissors my sophomore year. My parents didn't make the decision because of race. It was because of violence. My dad always said that education wasn't just about what you learn in books. He wanted us to learn to get along with the people we would meet in the real world. He didn't think it was beneficial for us to be surrounded with people just like us. He wanted us to be exposed to different races and different cultures. It was too bad that an act of violence took that lesson away from my brother and sister.

In High School, everything had a race factor. In every school election, there were mandated slots for White people. For example, if there were five open seats on the Student Council, the administration mandated three go to Black students and two go to White students. Even though I benefited from this, I didn't like it. I always felt dirty about it. I didn't want to win at the expense of someone who actually got more votes than me. Looking back, I guess this was a form of reverse Affirmative Action, but I didn't know what that was at the time. Students were very segregated by High School, just like at the school in the book: by choice and by systematic design. Early on in High School, I felt left out and afraid because of my race. I didn't try out for the dance team, because I was told only a couple White girls ever made it, and they were all considered "hoochies." This made me sad, but I went along with the crowd. I remember several times being afraid to walk through large crowds outside the school, because I would be a target of slurs or threats because of my race. I ended up finding a safe haven in a performing arts school, which I went to half of the day. I remember always feeling relieved when I got there, because only a small group of artsy students got in, and we were all hippie-like pacifists. There was never any fear of violence there.

When I was 15, I went to an international scholarship camp in Upstate New York. This camp, which my husband would later deem The Communist Camp, promoted racial and cultural diversity and understanding. I spent eight weeks living in giant tents with 49 other girls from around the world. We learned about the ways in which our cultures were different, but we found out that we girls were all still the same. We learned to respect and even value our differences. We created our own little Utopia, and we vowed to change the world when we returned to our homes.

When I got back to school, I tried to reach out across the racial divide and make a difference, but I often ended up feeling like my voice was too small. I remember several times feeling very hurt, because the people I was reaching out to didn't want to accept me. I felt like they truely hated me because I was a White girl. It made me so sad, and I often went home wanting to scream. Most of the Black girls at my school thought I lived some Fairy Tale fucking life because I was White. I spent so many years trying to be perfect, maybe that was the vibe I put off. I became so successful in school and activities that an outsider may never have known what I had already been through in my young life. I guess at that age, we're all so self-involved that nobody else really cared anyway. Nobody cared to look any further than the smiley outer package to see what was on the inside. I was popular, but no one knew me any better than the forgotten kids in the corner. I think I got so disillusioned trying to understand and be understood that I dropped out of almost all the activities I once participated in. I didn't want to be friends with anyone in any group. I bounced around from group to group, popular kids, nerdy kids, athletic kids, reject kids, punk kids, druggie kids. It drove my friends crazy. I guess it drove me crazy, too, because I never really felt at home anywhere except my performing arts classes. I was thankful to be done with High School. Overall it sucked. I had a few good friends, but mostly it was just an exercise in futility and frustration.

The Freedom Writers were able to make a difference because they had a strong leader. Like everyone in High School, they all had a desire to fit in somewhere. These kids who never really fit in anywhere found a home and a family in Room 203. One of their voices alone would have been too small to affect any kind of real change, but all of their voices together were powerful and could not be ignored, not by their school administration, not by their senators, and not by the U.S. Secretary of Education. Erin Gruwell changed the course of their lives and countless others, and I bet they changed the course of hers as well.

What I've gotten from this book is very valuable to me: a renewed sense of desire to make an impact somewhere, somehow; a reminder that we all have issues, and it is how we overcome those issues that makes us the person we are; and hope that I can find my way to a place I can be a leader for change in my life and the lives of others.

By the way, the Freedom Writers didn't just give up on their cause when they graduated High School. Their work goes on. If you want to learn more about how they're trying to keep the dream alive, go to FreedomWritersFoundation.org.

Labels: Education, Erin Gruwell, Freedom Writers, My Journey, Race