It’s been a long time since I’ve sat down and tried to write anything of substance. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. It’s partly that I don’t have much time these days to think about one topic for more than a few minutes. However, it’s mostly because I’ve been struggling with what to write, where to write, and for whom to write.

Since I could string together a sentence with a Number Two pencil, writing has been a form of therapy for me. I moved a lot as a child, so I spent a lot of time writing letters. Before my grandmother died, she and I would write letters and poems back and forth to one another. It was how we kept in touch, but it was also a way for me to vent about the challenges in my life to someone who had been challenged in many more ways than any human ever should be. She got me, and those letters to and from her always made me feel better about life.

I always kept a journal, even though I usually ended up destroying them. That makes me sad today, but back then, I never had a shred of privacy, and I was too much of a perfectionist to allow anyone a peek into the uncertain parts of my psyche. I don’t know why, but throughout my life, I’ve been the most prolific writer during the most uncertain times. Although I’m happy most of the time, a look at any of the writing I’ve done over the years in journals or even on this blog might give one the impression that I am a bitter lost soul with no self esteem. That’s far from the truth, but it’s the impression my writing might give people if they are reading it out of the context of my daily life.

The problem with this forum is that it allows anyone who might end up here a key to those parts of my brain that I often don’t share with anyone. Even though I have written here about some pretty personal stuff, I am a very private person. It’s one of the main reasons (besides the fact that I hate hairspray and makeup) I became a producer and not a reporter. I like being anonymous. I like being a bit of a mystery. I like to keep people guessing. Mostly, I don’t like the idea that people might draw conclusions about me based upon what I write. I don’t like to be judged. I don’t like the idea that people might think less of me because they read something I needed to write to make myself feel better on any given day.

I’ve never written for other people (except for in my job). I write for me. I write because I need to. When I don’t write, I feel a void in my soul. It’s a void that has been there since I stopped writing daily on this blog. I’ve tried to fill the void with little quips here and there on Facebook or Twitter, but that hasn’t worked. I never feel better afterwards. When I puke my soul onto paper or bang it out on a computer, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. After spending an hour on Facebook, I am left needing more. Sure, it fills a need to be connected to people I haven’t seen or heard from in years, but it’s not the therapy that my soul needs.

The void has been compounded by a complete avoidance. I keep pushing all these things down further and further because I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. I can give myself a million excuses: I don’t have time, the baby is going to wake up, the laundry needs to be done, the house needs to be cleaned, my pictures need to be organized, my closet needs to be cleaned out. The problem is that there is a never-ending supply of all that stuff that just keeps piling up on me. If I waited until all those things were done to do something that makes me feel better, I’d eventually end up in the loony bin from all the avoidance.

A friend of mine reminded me yesterday of why I started this blog in the first place: soul searching therapy, plain and simple. I love doing it. I miss doing it. I’m still at a loss, though, for how to do it. I’m not sure I want to spill my doubts and fears and hopes out into the ether like this. Maybe it’s because a lot of people who think they know me really don’t know me at all, and maybe it’s because I think they won’t like who I really am. I’m edgy. I’m opinionated. I’m often foul-mouthed. There are a lot of things that have happened in my life that have made me this way, and they are things I want to explore for me. I’m just not sure I want to explore them for all the world to read, and if I censor myself and write only about the things I want others to know about me, then what’s the point anyway?

Even though I’ve grown up to be a bit of a cynic and a tree-hugging liberal to boot, I’m still a devoted wife, mother, and friend. I still have a heart big heart and big dreams and a big thirst for life. Anyone who reads this is never going to get the whole picture. They’re never going to get me any more than they thought they did before. That’s because they’re never going to see all the sides of me. They’re only going to see what I need to get out of my head at the moment I’m banging it out.

I’d like to say I don’t care what people think. It’s what I’d tell you, but I’d be lying. I don’t care what most people think about me, but there are some people whose opinions I value, and I don’t want their opinions to be skewed by my therapy ramblings.

I could turn this into a happy online scrapbook about my kids. There’s nothing wrong with that, and some of my friends and family would enjoy that. I’d love to have a detailed record of my kids’ lives. It would be a fun thing to do, but I just don’t think it would serve the purpose I need it to…for me.

So here I am, at a crossroads I guess. I don’t have any idea which way I’ll go. I’m not asking for advice from anyone who might stumble upon this. I’m just thinking on the screen. I’m doing what I’ve always done when I need to work something out: I’m writing. It beats the hell out of the alternative.

Labels: Therapy, Writing

I always knew I wanted to be a writer. From the time I was seven years old, I carried around a little notebook and recorded the details of my life in journal entries or poems. It wasn’t until much later in life that I decided I wanted to use my writing skills in the field of journalism.

When I was a junior high school student in a Jackson, Mississippi public school, what I thought was going to be just another boring assembly changed my life. A man named Frank Melton, who owned the local NBC station came to speak to us. He was a smaller African American man with a big booming voice and an even bigger personality. He fired up that crowd of mostly lower income African American kids and struck a chord in my soul as well. I’ll never forget the chant he made us belt out:

“I CAN BE,” he screamed.

“I CAN BE,” we repeated.

“WHATEVER I WANT TO BE,” he bellowed.

“WHATEVER I WANT TO BE,” we echoed.

Frank had high expectations of young people. He didn’t allow excuses. So what if you were poor kids going to a crappy public school? Get up off your ass and make something of yourself. He said a lot of stuff that I remember, but I found this quote in a news article today. It is classic Frank Melton, and it made me smile:

“You need to give those earrings to your sister, put your pants up on your behind where they belong. If you're going to be a man, you need to act like a man and look like a man.”

Frank always said he wanted to help the young people in our city, and I believed him. I held onto his words for a long time; I’m still holding on to some of them. A couple years after I first heard him speak, I applied to a journalism conference in Washington. I was accepted and wrote to him to let him know. He wrote back with encouraging words that pushed me forward even more.

During the conference, I met a lot of kids my own age who came from wealthy families or from schools that had the resources to do more with their students. I went to an inner-city poor school in the worst state in the nation for education. None of my peers at home had internships. I’m not even sure any of my classmates would have known what that was at that time, but I felt the pressure from all these other kids I had met in Washington. I was behind, and I had to catch up.

When I got home, I was determined to make my own way. I decided to see if Frank Melton was a man of his word. At the ripe ole age of 16, I wrote him again and asked for a job. He set up an interview with his assistant. Afterwards, she called back and said they couldn’t give me a job, but if I could find a way to get high school credits for my work, Frank would allow me to create my own internship program.

I went to a regular high school part of the day and a performing arts school for the second half. I got the principal of my performing arts school to give me a class grade for my work at WLBT. I would conduct “classes” on television news with my theatre group in exchange for credit. This was enough to give me my start in the business.

I worked my ass off that summer of my internship. I learned everything I could about every job in the newsroom. I learned to edit video on my first day. By the end of my first week, I was the editor for the 5pm newscast. The regular editor was on maternity leave. I went out on some big stories with reporters. I loved that, but something was missing for me. When a producer took me under her wings and started teaching me her job, I was hooked. That was what I was meant to do. Within a few weeks, she started letting me “produce” the newscast with her supervising me. By the end of the summer, I felt like a producer. During that time, Frank would breeze through the newsroom every now and then. I was pretty sure he was checking up on me, but he never let on. We never really talked about what he had done for me. I wish we had.

After my internship was over, I was devastated. I had fallen in love with the people I worked with. I had fallen in love with the station. I had fallen in love with television news. I knew I had found my passion, and I was so sad to return to the regular life of a teenage girl.

A couple of weeks later, the news director called me and offered me a part-time job as an associate producer. I worked after school, on weekends, whenever they needed me. I know Frank had probably signed off on my hiring, even though he never acknowledged it. I never asked. I was so in awe of him, I barely ever said more than, “Hi, Frank” when he walked by. He was a god to me.

Years after I left Jackson for college and my career, my mom kept Frank updated on my progress. She worked at the grocery store where he shopped. Even though he never asked me, he apparently always asked my mom how I was doing. It meant a lot to me that he cared about what I was doing even after I had moved on.

In the past few years, Frank has gone through some rough times, many of his own making. He sold the TV station, headed up the state’s narcotics bureau, became a tough-on-crime mayor, and pissed a lot of people off. He always spoke his mind, even when it was extremely unpopular. He always fought for the little guy, even when he was rich beyond comprehension. He had some harsh and unorthodox ways of doing things that got him into a lot of trouble, politically and legally. He had been sued, arrested, charged with federal crimes. "When you look at the mistakes that I've made, you won't find one mistake that I have made to benefit myself. Those mistakes were made to help somebody else and that's it. I'm not going to change," Melton said in 2008. Take it or leave it, but that was certainly the truth. That was one thing you’d always get from him, like it or not.

Even though he fought for the kids of Jackson, Mississippi, he never lived full-time with his own family. His pediatrician wife stayed behind in Texas with their kids. That raised a lot of eyebrows in the community and stirred a lot of rumors over the years.

When he died early this morning, though, his wife was by his side. I don’t know what their relationship was. I don’t know why he chose to carry on his crusades in Jackson while his family lived hundreds of miles away. I don’t care. All I know is that Frank Melton touched a lot of lives. He touched mine in a very big way. I will be forever grateful for his words, his deeds, and his example. He might have been tragically flawed, but he was also profoundly inspirational. He changed a lot of lives with his own, and I hate it that the end of his life was so full of turmoil and criticism.
I will always remember the Frank Melton I met back in the 1980s. A man who inspired me to do better than my beginnings. A man who gave me a shot when no one really should have. A man who changed my life forever.

RIP, Frank Melton. I hope you finally have peace in your heart.

Photo courtesy WLBT TV.

Labels: Frank Melton

We're in the Final Countdown for Baby Number Two. The "official" due date is still twenty days away, but only Dos can decide when to make his grand entrance.

I've started feeling some of those small signs that we're getting close, which makes me crazy, since there are still a few things that I need to finish before I'm "ready." Packing my bag for the hospital is next on my To-Do list. That WILL get done this weekend.

I'm getting very tired very quickly these days, which also makes me crazy. I've spent the past few months being very productive. Now, giving my son a bath pretty much sucks the life out of me. The extra 34 pounds means I'm walking around winded, when I'm actually able to get up and walk at all.

I had dreams of going to the gym every day until I went into labor. I did pretty well for most of the pregnancy. At seven months, I was still working out pretty hard. The past two months, though, I've either been sick or exhausted, or both. I can't remember the last time I went to the gym. I doubt you'll catch me at the pool anytime this summer. I don't think my kid will come out a size 2T, so that's quite a few pounds that I'll actually have to work off. I HOPE my kid doesn't come out a size 2T. Dear God.

That's the other thing. I know I've done this before and chances are things will be fine, but I'm starting to freak out about the whole delivery thing. I almost think it's worse this time than last, just because I know what to expect. Last time was pretty brutal. I'm in much better physical shape this pregnancy, but still, you never know.

The recovery can also be quite brutal. It certainly was the first go-round, but this time, I'll have two little guys to take care of. I'm scared I'll lose my marbles trying to nurture my boys and get my poor body back to "normal."

I'm also anxious about how my four-year-old will adjust to the baby. I think he'll eventually be a great big brother, but there's going to be a period of time when it rocks his little world. I just hope I have the strength to help him through it, so he knows I still love him as much as ever.



So, tonight, I'm going to go to my neighborhood Drunco gathering completely sober. I'm going to enjoy the company of a bunch of strong and supportive women who will hopefully pump me up for the task ahead. And, I'm going to hope that Dos decides to come some time between the time I get my hospital bag packed and May 15th, not a day later.

Labels: Motherhood, Pregnancy

It’s mildly terrifying, but I’m getting close to being a mother of two. I have seven weeks or so left before my baby boy is due, and even though I’m not at all ready, I think this birth needs to happen sooner rather than later. If I’m pregnant much longer, I think I will officially be a Stupid Person. I hate Stupid People.

My four-year-old son is now telling everyone who will listen that his mommy has “Baby Brain.” I forgot to bring something to school the other morning, and My Little Sunshine informed his teachers that his mommy has Baby Brain, and that sometimes her head gets clogged up like a toilet. Even a four-year-old who remarkably still thinks I’m pretty cool can see that my IQ is dwindling to a very dangerous level.

Take today, for example. I woke up with a cold. Well, that’s not exactly true, since there was no sleeping happening in my world last night. I was lying awake with a cold and then got out of bed with a cold when my son woke up this morning. I already felt like shit. I really didn’t need any help to feel worse.

Note that the Stupid Factor affects this equation at many turns, so feel free to count up the many ways I screwed up. Make sure you shake your head and roll your eyes as you count.

Apparently, at some point, I had placed a gigantic bottle of olive oil on top of the refrigerator. Thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of putting that bottle of olive oil up there. I am overly safety-conscious, and that seems like a really unsafe thing to do. My husband says he didn’t do it, and I know our four-year-old didn’t do it, so that leaves me. I’m the one with Baby Brain. I don’t remember putting it up there, but I do remember thinking once this week that it shouldn’t be there and wondering why my husband put it up there in the first place (again, he didn’t do it). I could have taken it down the moment my mind accused my husband of putting it up there. I didn’t. My Baby Brain was concentrating on something else, and multi-tasking is not a good idea for Stupid People.

My father-in-law moved the bottle back several times this week when he noticed it teetering on the edge of disaster. I’m sure he wondered why the hell it was up there, too, but he didn’t judge. He just moved it to safety and went on with his day.

This morning, I felt like I had been hit by a bus. I am as big as a bus right now, but as far as I know I was not in a fiery bus crash overnight. I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention when I went to the freezer to get some ice. I closed the door and started to walk away. When I heard the crash, I honestly had no clue what in the world what could have fallen. Could it have been the bottle of doggie tranks? No, that would not have been nearly messy enough. Could it have been the dog’s leash that had been missing for months? No, that would have been too convenient. Could it have been the leftover Valentine’s Day candy? No, that wouldn’t have had a chance with the cranky pregnant mama.

No, no. Apparently, the Karma Police were paying me back for some serious Karma Violation. It would have been bad enough to have to clean up the gigantic oil slick that coated my kitchen. I’m seven and a half months pregnant, people. That is not pretty. It would have been bad enough to clean up a million shards of glass caked in extra virgin olive oil. Believe me, my fingers felt every little bit of Karma Retribution.

No, siree. I had to clean up the oil slick, the million shards of glass, and then deal with the really big problem: the broken glass stovetop. Yep. The olive oil bottle crashed onto the stovetop and bounced, causing two impact gashes and many little spider legs. I knew immediately this was going to seriously impact the diaper budget.

Welcome home from Uruguay, honey. I’m sure you missed all the stupidity flowing freely from your pregnant wife. Especially the variety that costs you hundreds of dollars.

After spending way-too-long on the phone with the company that sold us the stove, I had to call a service company. The woman on the other end of the line there clearly was not a native English speaker. She had a decent enough grasp of English, though, to gather that I was completely screwed. “Bummer,” she said after I explained what I had done. “That’s not going to be cheap,” she elaborated. I know. I know. I know, lady. I don’t need you to rub it in. I know I’m screwed. Just tell me how badly and when it’s going to happen, so I can be mentally prepared.

Bottom line, my Baby Brain is going to cost us more than $400 (this week), and we will be without a stove for approximately two weeks. That’s an expensive mistake. I can think of a million other ways to spend that 400 bucks. A million.

I really need my baby to cook (in my belly, not on my stove), for a few more weeks. I’m sure his lungs could use some more growing. The nursery isn’t finished. The car seat isn’t installed. However, I think I may need to be locked up or at least put on mandatory bed rest until this baby is ready to come out. This level of stupidity is not safe. I am a danger to myself and everyone around me. I need my IQ back. One of my friends told me that it was gone forever. I am terrified that she might be right.

Labels: Pregnancy

I was starting to get really bummed that My Little Sunshine hadn't seen snow this winter. I had pretty much given up hope as February came to a close. Then, a glimmer of hope in the four-day forecast with the appearance of those little snow flakes. I typically don't put a ton of stock in those snow forecasts, however, since we live so close to the mountains. Those giant mounds of mud and rock usually screw up any chance we have of getting fun weather here. They break up storms like sugar balls, and our weather usually stays pretty mild.

But, this time, the mountains didn't spoil our winter wonderland. We have had so much fun making a snowman, having snowball fights, and holding our own snow olympics. I'm hoping that we made some wonderful memories that Sunshine will cherish for the rest of his life. I know that I won't forget the March First Cackalacki snow when my little guy was four years old.

It's times like this that remind me why I quit my job. If I were still employed, I would have been in a building with no windows warning people to stay inside instead of rolling around in the snow with my boy. That, my friends, is a no-brainer.

Labels: Memories, My Little Sunshine, Snow

I had a delightful visit at the baby doctor’s office this morning. I can never get enough of the swoosh-swoosh sound of the baby’s heartbeat. It’s so reassuring to know that the little man is in there growing stronger and stronger by the day.

That sound also mitigates the torture I have to endure when stepping on the scale at each appointment. Today, I hit a “milestone” I hoped would not come for another couple of months: at 25 weeks, I’ve officially gained 20 pounds. I’ve tried not to let it bother me all day, but it’s bothering me now, damn it.

It doesn’t help that I’ve spent the past year or more on what I called Project Apple Bottom. That campaign to lose weight and improve my overall health turned out to be quite a success. Before I got pregnant, I was back down to my college size. More important, perhaps, I had reignited some of the spark that had dimmed over the past few years. I was strong, feisty, and, well, more like myself than I had been in years.

I still have about 15 weeks to go. I will likely gain at least a pound a week. That means even though I started this pregnancy exponentially healthier than my last, I’m still going to gain at least 35 pounds, probably more. I’m 5’2”. That’s a lot of weight for a girl my size.

I’ve been exercising as much as I can, I haven’t been eating fast food for lunch every day, I’m not making that daily trip to the Snack Machine of Death, and I’m not sitting at a desk eight to twelve hours every day. I am doing what all the “experts” say to do, with the exception of the occasional ice cream indulgence. Still, there is something in my body that says, “PACK ON THE POUNDS, SISTER!” when I’m not counting calories and working my ass off two hours a day.

I know I am growing another human being in my body. I expect to gain weight. I had just hoped that giving myself a better start and treating my body better in the process would pay off with lower numbers on the scale. I guess some women just get fat when they’re pregnant. I’m one of them.

I keep reminding myself that even though I’ve gained 20 pounds, I just now reached the weight that I was back in my chubby TV days. I’m nearly six months pregnant. Last time I weighed this much, I was just fat. That’s gotta count for something.

Labels: Pregnancy, Project Apple Bottom, Weight

I haven't blogged in a very, very long time. The reasons are many, but I'm not going to belabor the point of this post. I just don't have time.

I'm going to have to pause my live TV (thank you, DirecTV) in a few minutes to go pick my son up from preschool. I'm absolutely giddy watching the parade of people packing into Washington this morning to witness an historic moment. I'm going to watch every frame of it, even though it will not be "live." I want my son to watch it with me. I want to try to impress upon him the importance of this moment for our nation. I'm not sure a four-year-old can get it, but he's been following "O-rock Obama" for the past year or so. He screams, "Mommy! Mommy! It's the president we voted for! O-rock Obama," every single time he sees his picture or hears his voice. Those words go over well inside our home, but when we're out in public in our area, not so much.

On a completely ridiculous note that has nothing to do with our nation coming out of the dark ages...

If you haven't already given a limb or another valuable body part to purchase yourself a shiny new iPhone, here's my ringing endorsement:

I am a complete head-case right now. Unbelievably stupid, forgetful, ridiculous almost. Some people call it "baby brain." My Fit Pregnancy magazine this month told me it was an actual condition, proven fact, even, that women who are pregnant experience some serious mental lags. Thanks for the affirmation.

I've done and said a lot of stupid things over the past five months of my pregnancy, so much so that my husband recently remarked that I USED to be smart. Not so much right now.

This morning, I was trying to get my son into the car to get to school on time when I did a really bone-headed thing. My boy was dancing, kicking and singing his way to the vehicle when he kicked over a box full of hangers I plan to donate to Goodwill. There are at least a hundred hangers in this box, now scattered all over the garage floor, including under my car. I'm sure it would have been hilarious watching this hugely pregnant woman on her hands and knees gathering up dozens of wayward hangers underneath her SUV. It was not funny to me at the time.

I finally got the stinking hangers packed up and got the kid buckled into this car seat when I realized we were running extremely late. I HATE to be late. I hopped into the car and started backing out when I felt a bump. The first thing I did was look in my rear-view mirror to make sure my child was actually in the car. Thankfully, I'm not that ridiculous right now. That was the first time I almost cried this morning: realizing I had not run over my child.

I threw the car in park and looked down. That marked the second time I almost cried this morning. There, on the floor of my garage, with a big tire track on the side, was my Mama Purse, which contains my entire world outside of my husband, children and dog.

I ran to that Mama Purse, knowing I was going to find disaster. I first saw an envelope containing a bill I needed to mail. Also covered in tire tracks, crumbled and looking much worse for the wear. Directly under that envelope: my brand new shiny iPhone my husband got me for Christmas. Mark the third time I almost cried this morning.

I pulled out that shiny new device, noticed the cover was a bit off, but, wait. Wait a minute. (turning it over and over and over in my hands) Not a scratch. Push the button to pop up the menu screen. Lights, camera, action, bitches.

No time to waste. Running late. Must not be late. Jump in the car. Son immediately starts talking. "Please, don't talk, honey. Mommy just did something really bad, and I'm a little upset right now," I said. Don't tell a four-year-old you're upset and then ask him not to talk. Stupid, stupid move. A thousand questions commence.

I make three phone calls on the way to school, which is a three minute drive. No one answers, but it appears all calls are going out.

As I'm getting him out of the car, my beautiful little boy gives me a huge hug. "Don't have a bad day, Mommy. It's OK. Your phone is not crushed. It's fine. Everything's fine." What a wonderful child I have. His daddy told him to take care of his mommy for him. I'm not sure anyone knows just how much that little man actually does that makes my life better every day. He is an angel.

But, sappiness and Baby Brain aside, I ran over my shiny new iPhone with my SUV, and the little sucker is still tickin'. Still playing my music. Still texting like a maniac. Still making expensive international calls. Can somebody say endorsement deal?

Labels: Baby brain, Barack Obama, iPhone, Presidential election