The girls and I have talking alot lately about being thankful, or grateful, for things and people that we have. I am trying my best to teach them that there is alot we do without, but also alot we take for granted and we should be counting our blessings everyday. I decided to start this little diddy on Thursdays where we can tell about something or someone we are thankful for. Some entries will be serious and sentimental, some humorous, and some written by the girls. But this week I am going to go first. Because I’m the biggest. And I type the fastest.

When I moved from the country to the city I was most amazed about the lack of neighborly comaraderie. I naively imagined block parties and backyard bar-b-ques, and the girls running around in the backyard with their friends and having other women stop over for tea and crumpets. Ok, kidding about the last part. But seriously, when we moved into our first house it was on a street that was slow and quiet and populated by lots and lots of retirees. They were always home, their yards always looked better than mine and they always complained if we were outside past dark or up too early in the morning. Imagine if Erin Brockovich moved to Wisteria Lane. Yeah, kinda like that. Needless to say after a few weeks I stopped holding my breath that Susie Homemaker from across the street was going to bring me a hot apple pie or chicken casserole.

Then I moved to the house I’m in now. Most of my neighbors are still pretty strange. The people right next to me keep to themselves and talk really loud and I’m not sure but I think there are four generations living over there. There are like 42 people coming out of there every day. And they always take my parking space. That annoys me.

Then there’s creepy guy across the street that is always looking out of his blinds at ten o’clock at night with the light on, like you can’t see him.

Then there is Sue down the street who, God love her, just cries at the drop of a hat. Sounds like someone else we know huh? I use to really feel sorry for her until my other neighbor told me in the 8 years he has lived next door to her, she has probably been at his house crying about something or another 5,673 times.

And then, directly to the right of me in the only duplex on the street, is my beloved neighbor Joe, or Joey Joe as I like to call him. He came to my house the day after I moved in and brought me a cold coke and told me if I ever needed anything to give him a hollar. The second I heard his down home accent and the word hollar escape from his mouth, I knew we were to be great buds. And boy have we been. He reminds me of every good ‘ole boy I ever attended high school with. To give you an idea about the rural high school I attended:: working in tobacco was an excused absence and sometimes boys would drive their tractors to school so they could go straight to the fields from school. Yes, really. Joey is half hillbilly, half italian. His dad moved here from Italy a few years before Joe was born and met Joe’s mother, a kentucky drawl havin, fried chicken cookin, spitfire from Corbin. One minute Joey will be talkin about he reckon’s he’s fixin to go down the crick and get some fishin done, and the next minute he will remember he forgot his fishin pole somewhere and fly into an italian tyrade.

My kids love Joe and they him. Every night I cook they take turns taking him the plate we fashion for him and he gives them a little piece of candy. I once came out on the porch to check on the girls to see Emma leaning over the railing completely engrossed in watching Joey. “What ya doin?” I asked. “Oh mama, Joey is teaching me to skin a squirrel - Look!” “Ah, great. That’s great.” I grunted. Another time I walked outside to see what all the ooh grosses, and uh, yucks were about to see Joey teaching the girls to fillet a fish. From cutting it’s head off to peeling the skin back. Every city girl should see that at least once right? I hope those are little memories they always hold dear. I was blessed when I moved in next door to this kindhearted, hardworkin, redneck. Every single mom should have a Joey.

My neighbor Joe :: The mower of the grass, the dragger of the garbage cans, the teacher of fish-cleaning, the fixer of bicycles, the unclogger of drains, the mover of furniture,the cleaner of gutters, the giver of candy, the biggest of hearts!

Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer is looking for ideas today to keep the kids from getting bored this summer and I thought this would be the perfect post for it.

Do you remember the days when kids from the neighborhood gathered outside to play kickball in the street, or built ramps to skateboard over, or played pickle in someone’s backyard? Do you remember the days when a little plastic jug of bubbles or a tub of sidewalk chalk was all you needed to fill your day with fun and imagination? I remember my mother having to force me indoors to eat and shower on hot summer days. Now I practically have to shove my children outside and lock the doors behind them. Then they sit on the porch and stare at eachother and whine. “It is sooooo hot outsiiiiiidddddddeeeeeeeeeee. I wanna come innnnnnnnnsiiiiiiiiiddddddddddeeeee. It is boooorrrrring mama. Can’t we watch a movie?”

“NO! IT IS SUMMER. YOU ARE KIDS. NOW PLAY!!” I scream through the screen door before I again slam the door in their little faces.

So on Sunday I started to devise a plan. What if my children are normal? What if they would play like kids did when I was little if they were given the tools. Because obviously in the day and age of video games and Disney channel, you need some encouragement. So I stopped at this great little pharmacy on the way out to my mom’s house and stocked up on some little trinkets for the girls. For less than 20 bucks I got a smorgasbord of summertime fun. I bought bubbles and buckets and sidewalk chalk and balloons to fill up with water. I bought a big ole bouncy ball and a not so big ole bouncy ball and then I spotted these little puppies and I knew I hit gold. Because what little girl wouldn’t wanna spend hours doing this……

And what mama do you know that wouldn’t love to spend hours at a time watching them do it?

For more great summer boredom busters, check out all the great ideas at Shannon’s. No, really, all the best ones go there….links and links of awesomeness!

I had been looking around doing a little research on this whole Oprah religion broo-ha-ha and came across a very interesting and profound blog post going into depth regarding this whole nonsense. I was really disappointed to hear this about Oprah when it all came out because I really like Oprah. But this time, she just don’t get it. I planned a whole post about my feelings about it, but then decided this guy did such a better job, you might as well just go read what he wrote. I agree with all he says and was in such awe of his profound explanations.

Then I read the disclaimer at the bottom of the page saying he is a 17 year old junior in high school and I promptly called a lawyer and set in motion the suing of my high school. Clearly, I was jipped.

This was sent to me by a friend and is quite possibly the funniest thing I have read in a long time because it is SO, SO true. Each one of these things can be experienced/heard/seen at my family reunion - and it is just as funny there as it is here.

Only a southerner knows the difference between a hissy fit and a conniption fit and that you don’t have them you pitch them.

Only a southerner knows how many fish, collard green, turnip greens, peas, etc. make up a mess.

Only a southerner knows how long directly is - As in, “Goin to town, be back directly.”

Even southern babies know that “gimme some sugar” is not a request for the white sweet substance that sits in a pretty little bowl in the middle of the table.

All southerners know exactly when “by and by” is. They might not use the term, but they know the concept well.

Only a southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a neighbor who’s got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of potato salad. If the trouble is a real crisis, they also know to add a big banana puddin.

Only southerners grow up knowing the difference between “right near” and a “right far” piece. They also know that just down the road can mean 1 mile or 20.

Only a southerner both knows and understands the difference between a redneck, a hillbilly, a good ‘ole boy and po’ white trash.

No true southerner would ever assume that the car in front of them with the flashing turn signal is going to actually make a turn.

A southerner knows that “fixin” can be used as a noun, verb or an adverb.

In the south, y’all is singular and all y’all is plural.

Only southerners ask for Sweet Tea, meaning tea with sugar and lots of it.

A true southerner knows you don’t yell at little old ladies doing 30 MPH on the freeway. You just say “well bless her heart” and go on your way.

And for those of you that are not from the south but have lived here a long time, you need a sign to hang on y’alls porch that says “I ain’t from the south, but got here fast as I could.”

Bless your hearts. Y’all have yourself a great day, ya hear.

Noodle is Emma’s nickname. If you had ever seen her in real life you would know why. She is long and stringy and weighs a good 35 pounds soaking weight. But what she doesn’t have in baby fat she makes up for in personality. She amazes me with the things she says and with the tenacity and dead humor in which she says them. Yesterday she hopped in the car with my mom to go to church and prompty told her “Nana, I swear every time I see you, you have got a new purse. How does papaw feel about that?”

Then she gets to Nana’s house to discover that she had taken her bike home and didn’t have a bike to ride. To which she prompty told me, “Mama, we took my bike home and I think it is your responsibility to bring it back to Nana’s for me so I can ride it when I am here.” Responsibility noted.

Then sometimes she gets words wrong, and the way she says them as dead serious as she can be, can be so hilarious. Like last night when it was time to leave my mom’s and she started pouting.  My dad asked her what was wrong and she promptly told him “Well, Nana said when we got out of the hottup she was gonna get the cornball out for us to play, but now we have to leave.” I thought my dad was gonna pee his pants he got to laughing so hard. Of course she meant cornhole, but it was so cute I couldn’t even correct her. Which I know I should. Before long she will be the only kid in school looking for the lie-perry.

Yesterday morning my mom called to see if we were going to church. Hate to admit it, but I told her I had so much to do that I thought I would skip morning service. She said to get the girls dressed and she would come and get them so they could go at least. No need for her grandkids to be thrown into a river of fire and brimstone with their lazy mother. No, she didn’t say that but I could tell she wanted to. So I got the girls dressed and we met her at the gas station at the bottom of the hill from church and looked forward to the two hours I would have by myself to get a little power cleaning done.

I have been wanting to work on my yard lately. Ok, that’s a lie. I never want to work on my yard. I pretty much despise yard work. A lot. But I was tired of looking at the front of my charming little black and white house and wondering if I didn’t live there what I would assume about the people that did live there. Not that I look at the outside of someone’s home and judge them. I would never do something like that. (you know you do it too.) I decided we looked a little too much like the Beverly Hillbillies for my tastes. There is usually a small McDonald’s toy or two in the yard, at least two bikes, some sidewalk chalk and a tub that was suppose to be designated for the big legos, that somehow turned into the black hole of toys the girls would drag outside and then be too lazy to take back in. I also have two metal chairs on the porch that may or may not be in the sideyard or frontyard or right smack in front of the steps depending on what the girls are pretending and how the chairs need to be properly situated.

I decided I would tackle the yard for my first task of the day. Then I decided I needed mulch. Then I decided that going to Walmart by myself may be the best thing that has happened to me all week. Weaving in and out of the aisles without having to say, “come on Cori, stop touching that Emma, no, not today Olivia” was like a dream. I found myself wanting to browse but knew I had far too much to do for that, so I bought my one bag of mulch and a sprayer for my hose and then I walked back to my car. Without having to hold hands or block traffic while my little ducks made it to the car.

I got home and I got busy. I would have taken before pictures, but really, it was embarrassing. So after an hour or so of weed pulling and spraying sidewalks and sweeping and painting I stood back and looked at my yard. Then I did a little happy dance. It was so pretty I just wanted to stare it for a minute. Then I thought I would take pictures instead.

That flowerbed was so full of weeds it was ridiculous. This also happened to be Cori’s favorite “hiding place” for all her treasures. I found a bouncy ball, a fork, two ponytail holders, a mini flashlight and a polly pocket. I also found my birdbath! Yay! Yes, it was that overgrown. I had totally forgotten about it.

I also got reaquainted with my little birdhouse. My dad and I built this together when I was about 12 or 13 years old. It was grey and dusty and the craftmenship isn’t perfect. But it’s sentimental. I have had it at each place I have lived since moving out of my parent’s home and I love it. I decided to paint it blue with some leftover paint from Liv’s room. I think it looks great against the pink flowers.

I also found a little table at big lots. It was cute and cheap and the perfect size for the porch, but it was very pale yellow - almost cream - and it did my red metal chairs no justice, so it got a fresh coat of turquoise too. I topped it off with a lime green citronella candle, but it was still missing something.

Right about that time my neighbor came home and started oohing and aahing over my cute little flowerbed so I get distracted. “Wow, this looks great”, he said “Was your mom here?” (Told you I hate yard work)

“No, my mother was not here. I did it myself.”

More looks of shock and amazement.

“Wow, looks really good.”

Right then the girls came home and the oohing and aahing ensued. Then Cori said the flowers looked really pretty and she wanted to pick them all. I convinced her picking every single flower would be a mistake but that a vase of pretty flowers is just what we needed on our new little blue table so she went in the house and got the vase and we started cutting and arranging.

Perfect. Nothing like a little color to brighten up the place.

My boyfriend (whom is 14 years old than me) and I talk alot about our age difference. Not in a negative way, unless of course we are arguing in which “I am older and have lived more life than you” is his favorite line which is code according to him for “I’m older, I win”.  He also once called me young and immature in which I flew into a thirty minute tyrade about raising three kids on my own at an age where he was still chugging beer with his buddies and having his mama do his laundry. But mostly when we talk about our age difference it is him cringing when he talks about a song he loved in college when I was 8, or a show he loved in high school that I have never even heard of. He tells me alot that he felt himself change at 30 and 40. I told him that I feel like this year is my turning point. I don’t need to get to an even number age, I don’t need to get to the point where I need to check off a higher box on insurance forms. I know today, now, that I will look back on the summer I turned 28 years old as the first turning point in my life. This year has been particularly hard and I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I have also experienced this little sensation where I have started to stand up to my parents (gasp). Yeah you think I would have got the hang of that after say, uh, my third child. But up until recently I have worried so much about what my parents would say, what they would think, to really forge my own way. Yeah, nuff of that.

So a few days ago, I sat down in the middle of my bed with a yellow tablet and a blue colored pencil. (ok I know the writing utensils don’t really speak to my plan of growing up, but it was handy) I made a little list of priorities about big girl things I really need to be getting accomplished.

1. The House - I live in a nice house. Three bedrooms, two stories. Nice. I love it. But it’s big. Lots to clean, lots to pay for, lots to deal with. But the pride and excitement my parents had when they brought the idea to the table was a little more for me to say no to. The day my dad hung the doorknocker on my front door with our last name on it, I boo hooed and felt oh so proud of myself. Now four years later I realize what a big fat idiot I was. What the heck was I thinking? Big houses equal big money and I ain’t never had big money. So I have decided to move out of the house and into an apartment. I started to look around at apartments and about had a coronary. Now I know houses are bigger than apartments, but seriously for my situation this is a total no brainer. If something breaks, I call someone, whom I don’t have to pay, to come and fix it. If the grass needs mowed, someone else mows it. Garbage cans to pull up from the curb? Nope. Property taxes to pay? Uh uh. And the rent for all the apartments I have called on is significantly lower than my house payment. I mean like ‘make ya mouth drop open’ lower. The thought of not having a 500 dollar electric bill the same month I am trying to buy my kids Christmas presents is enough to make me want to do cartwheels.  The most exciting thing about moving into an apartment is having a real reason to get rid of half the crap in my house that I don’t need or use. Just “not being a lazy slob” isn’t really enough for me. I need concrete motivation. And the fact that having less crap means less crap to move from point A to point B. Less to unpack, less to hang up and put away, okay you get it. I also got sucked in to the hand me down approach to decorating my home. Some of the things I bought myself, but mostly they were given to me. One of the perks of being a single parent with a bunch of kids is that people feel sorry for ya and give ya stuff. 90% of the furniture in my home was given to me by someone’s grandma or great aunt Sally’s sister’s daughter or someone my mom works with. That leads to suddenly having a home that isn’t really your taste but the taste of whatever kind soul got new furniture and unloaded their blue, green and red navajo print couch onto me or the home interior prints they had in their first house with the matching sconces. And I am not talking vintage awesomeness here, I am talking early nineties blech. So the point of all that was that lately I have been incorporating the fun bright and funky part of my personality into my home as I can afford it and can’t stinking wait to get into this apartment that I can decorate all my own. And I must say the day I went shopping with my mom and bought a red microwave for my kitchen, the look she gave me was priceless. “Well, If you like it that is all that matters” she said. And you know what, that’s right. I like it. And I can’t wait to spue bright colors and movie posters and artistic prints all over my walls.

As corny and cheesy as it sounds, I feel like I am about to come up on a new frontier in my life. I feel like I am breaking out of some mold and am finally ready to get on with my own big girl life. So I am a single mom with three kids and their dad is a big ole fat loser and I am about to get rid of my house to move into a little bitty apartment. So what? I just can’t wait to be happy. To not stress about bills and to have extra money to take my kids to art museums and theme parks and save for our very first vacation ever. I can’t wait to get my big girl panties on and start living life already!

I remember being a kid and loving TV. I could tell you what show was coming on when or why it wouldn’t because of a special event or presidential special something-or-other. Where we lived we couldn’t even get cable until I was about 12 years old and when we did I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The endless hours of Nick-at-night at my fingertips was a glorious thing. I watched Fall Guy and Andy Griffith reruns every.single.day. Then the phenomenon that was Beverly Hills 90210 began when I was in high school and not a Wednesday night would pass from then on without me planted in front of my parents television set or having a VHS tape in the player recording away. Now don’t get me wrong, my parents did not let me just sit in front of the TV. We lived in the suburbs until I was ten. I was a tomboy and would be in the street playing kickball with the neighbor kids or riding my bike until the street lights came on. When I was 10 we moved to a farm and there was work to do; horse stalls to be shoveled, horses to brush and the trips to the bottom of the hill to cut firewood in the winter. But come nightfall I would be sitting in the glow of the TV, albeit this would be a great time (according to my mother) to snap green beans into bushel baskets.

I still enjoy TV. I could watch the Lifetime movie network or Forensic Files or Trading Spaces all day if life allowed. But six months or so I gave up cable. My middle daughter was becoming quite the TV head (as her sisters called her) and would rather sit and watch Raven or Zach and Cody on the Disney Channel rather than play or well, eat. Or shower. Being a single mom with three kids, the expense seemed a little more than I could rationalize so I called them to pick up the boxes and take the cable away. Now we have four TVs in our house. One of which works because there is an antenna. We get regular local channels, 5,9, 12, 64 and that is about it. The TV in the playroom never gets turned on. Not real sure if it is even plugged in. The TV in my room works but only for the DVD player and the 13 inch TV in the younger girls’ room works to play the VSmile and that is it.

I immediately noticed a positive shift in our household after the cable went away. More board games being played. More use of the doll house and barbie dolls. More coloring and dare I say it - using imaginations. Now that it is nice outside they want to be outside riding bikes, running with the dog and coloring the sidewalks with sidewalk chalk. I will never be one to say TV is all bad. Emma was singing her ABCs at her first birthday party for which I must give all credit to Barney. My kids have also learned their fare shair of lessons from Elmo and even Hannah Montana. But these days, TV just really stinks. Even if you are watching a “family” show, the commercials can sometimes even be enough to make me cringe. Not to mention the previews for other shows in later time slots.

One show the girls and I always watch together is American Idol. We get in a little early, get our baths and snuggle up on the couch and pick our favorites like the rest of America. The finale is a big deal and when David Archuleta lost to David Cook last week, my seven year old was visibly upset and empathetic. On the same evening, when American Idol went off I started flipping through the channels while the girls slowly made their way from the couch to head up to bed. I flipped past Dancing with the Stars and all Cori saw was some sparkly twirling and lively music and she was entranced. “OOOOh can we please watch this mama? Pleeeeeeaaaaaassssseeeee.” (She absolutely loves to sing and dance). “Um, I guess so, yeah.” I said relunctanctly. Not really being a fan of DWTS, I had NO idea that the girls dance naked. Cheryl Burke came out for her dance and I felt I should cover their eyes. I couldn’t believe it. Why is it Kristi Yamaguchi can dance and WIN with respectable costumes but everyone else has to have all their goodies hangin out? I bribed them with the Alvin and the Chipmunks DVD in my room so we could just turn off the TV and put that whole ordeal behind us.

Last night it was raining and Olivia wasn’t feeling good so after dinner we all crammed our way onto the couch before bed to find something to watch together. Channel 12, CSI Miami: Nope. Channel 9, According to Jim. I L-O-V-E Jim Belushi. Mostly because he reminds me so much of my dad. He is quick witted and hilarious like Jim and if you knew my dad you would swear they could be brothers. Built the same, walk the same and have the same receding hairline into thick dark hair. I thought we would give it a try. I have only seen the show a few times and couldn’t really remember it being offensive. Bout 10 minutes in they started talking about sex. Ugghhhh. So we tried Channel 5; Most Outrageous Videos. OK, this could be good, I thought. Like America’s Funniest Home Videos. Uh yeah. Not so much. The second or third video they showed was a clip from Jerry Springer of two little people fighting and kicking each other on the stage. By this time we were running out of channels.

So last night my three girls and I snuggled up on the couch before bed and winded down to the Antiques Roadshow on Channel 48, PBS. No cursing, no halfshirts, no sex talk. Just a bunch of old people and the junk they found in their garage. Riveting, I tell ya.

I’m seriously thinking when we move in a few months, the TVs may miraculously get lost.

Well, except for maybe one. I am not ready to give up Alvin, Simon and Theodore just yet.

If you have visited here even once, odds are you stumbled upon a post that chronicles my life and struggles as a single mom. The last few weeks have been especially trying after an auto accident and the subseguent missed days of work from not having a car. On Monday I took my last vacation day and it is just as well. On Sunday night, my eight year old comes downstairs and says, “Hey mom, you going to work tomorrow?”

“Nope. Took my last vacation day. Why? What’s up?”

“Well remember that project I had to do with the healthy menu and Coach (the boyfriend and also a professional chef) helped me?”

“Yeah, I remember. It was a contest right?”

“Yeah, well I won. Tomorrow is my presentation and since you don’t have work I thought you could come.”

:: Insert alot of proud mommy screams and squeals and bugged-out eyes and high-fives and bear hugs ::

“You won?? For the WHOLE second grade? That is so stinkin awesome Olivia!! I am so proud of you!! Aren’t you excited??”

“Oh yeah I am, but I am nervous too mom. I have to get in front of the whole school and cook somethin and it has to be healthy and use all the food groups and stuff. Will you please come?”

“Of course I will come. I will walk to the school if I have to.”

Fast forward to Monday.

That ‘I will walk to school’ comment came back to haunt me after I called the school to find out what time the competition was; Noon-1. Me and the noodle headed out about 11 to make the walk. It was nice out and it was nice to walk through our quaint little town and take the time to notice the cute little houses and smell the roses. When we reached the school we made out way to the gym for Liv’s presentation. The gym started to quickly fill up with loud and rambunctious kids. I remembered how exciting the last week of school was just then. How the days were filled with assemblies and field days and movies and popcorn and how you thought you may just bust if you had to attempt even one last academic request.

When the gym was full Olivia and the third grade winner, Anthony walked in and to the front of the gym.Meredith, the *Fitness Rocks instructor, and coordinator of the event, walked quickly over to me with her eyes about to bug out of her head. “Oh am I ever glad to see you,” she said. I looked at her strangely and waited for the catch. “Our celebrity chef had to leave unexpectedly. Would you like to help Liv? Mr. Smith is going to help Anthony.”

“Sure. I’d love to,” I told her.

The relief on Olivia’s face when I walked up front to help her was the sweetest thing ever. She needed me and wanted me there and after all, that is what keeps us mamas going. We looked over all the things they had there for us to use and made a decision on what we would make. Our instructions were to use all food groups and be creative; think presentation. Because, you know, 500 elementary kids on the last Monday of school can be a tough audience. So we came up with our lunch idea (the third grade winner had breakfast) and we got started. With just ten minutes to prepare, I must say I was quite impressed with what me and the girl came up with: Small side salad with sliced carrots, sliced cherry tomatoes, sunflower kernels, mozzarella cheese and a little low fat ranch dressing, a steak/chicken and red/green/yellow pepper kabob (they had a George Foreman for us to grill it on) and a small bowl of cottage cheese that we made a little flower on top of with orange slices and blueberries. Yes, I know it would have been easier to just take a picture but that was right around the time my camera batteries decided to die a long slow death.

After we were done preparing our healthy lunch, Liv had to explain our dish and point out all the food groups and where our ingredients fell into those categories. My baby did amazingly well. Her voice was nervous and quivery, but she kept her cool and made my heart swell until I thought it would leap from my chest.

Afterwords, on her way to run outside for recess, her friends surrounded her high-fiving her and telling how good she did. She giggled and turned red and made me melt all over the gym floor. Then she ran over to me and said “Mama, I am really glad you came to help me and watch me today. I love you.” And then I melted again all over the gym floor.

Me and Emma joined hands and started to make the walk home and I thought how that day was just what I needed. Love is a very powerful thing. My blues had subsided. Pushed aside by pride for my girl and boy it felt good.

I really like MSN health and fitness and they have some pretty good articles. I was intrigued by this one on this otherwise very crappy day. I read on nodding in agreement along the way until I realized the article was over and I felt like they told me a bunch of stuff I already know. Now could someone please tell me what exactly to do when your child can’t sleep? Getting her addicted to Benadryl is not really my parenting style. What to do when you put them to bed at 8 and at midnight they are still singing the Dora themesong or doing acrobats from the top bunk to the bottom bunk. Yeah, some advice along those lines would be lovely.

Anyone?

P.S. I got a comment on my last post from Bossy. She’s like a blogelebrity if ya didn’t know. MM hmm. It’s the coolest thing to happen to me all day week.

Sometimes I feel like all I do is gripe and complain here and I promise that I otherwise have a very sunny disposition, but blogging had become cheap therapy for me and so I intend to pour out all my pain on this here blog today. Then I will have a lovely post about an award I won from my dear friend Joan-Marie and you can just skip the rest of this post if you want and move right on to the other one.

This week has been a trying one. I have gotten use to the fact that life is just going to be hard for a while. Raising kids alone is no picnic, hence the reason you should be married when you have kids, not that he still wouldn’t have been a rat and left us, but nonetheless. I am an advocate for single mothers everywhere and believe in the power of women immensely, but parenting should be done between two people.

Rewind to Monday. I was on my way to work, feeling good. I had a great night sleep and was ready to tackle the week. I left early enough for work to stop and treat myself to a cup of coffee and my very favorite song was playing on the radio when I slowed to make the exit for work. The guy in front of me slowed and then, I thought, moved on. I looked behind me to make sure no oncoming traffic was coming and I then proceeded to let off my brake and glide into the other lane. That is when I looked back to see that the truck that was suppose to be making it’s way up Pfeifer was still sitting there. I tried to slam on my brakes and I hit the gas pedal instead. Then I slammed my new beautiful red car that has only had two payments paid on it into the back of a huge black truck that had decided to stop in the merging lane. My head slammed against the windshield, my glasses flew from my face. I felt instant pain in my head and neck and it felt like someone had just twisted my arm out of it’s socket and beat me upside the head with it.

I kept my cool while the police were there. I was too worried about being even later for work to request a EMT. After we exchanged information, I made my way to work. That is when I heard it. It sounded like a 500 pound grizzly bear crawled up under my hood and got stuck. And now he was pissed. And growling. I made it the few short blocks to work and then I sat in the parking lot and cried like a child. I heaved and sobbed and maybe even yelled a little bit. And then I thanked my dear God that my girls were not in that car with me. I called my mom and I called my boyfriend and I made my way into work.

The entire day I sat at my desk with my door closed and tried my best to work through tears. Every time someone even said hello to me, I started bawling. Makes for a great impression on people. Try it, they will proceed to walk around looking at you like you may blow at any second.

When the day was finally over, I drove home loudly in my now, very banged up vehicle. I got the girls home safely and fed and in the bathtub and then to bed. Then I sat in the middle of my bed and proceeded to have a nervous breakdown. I called my boss and told her I would not be in on Tuesday as I had to get my car in the shop and at least get proof for my own stubbornness that the repairs would be far more than I could afford. Then I could proceed with the breakdown that I truly deserved.

The next day I woke up feeling like someone had screwed my head off and put it on backwards. I was barely able to move my neck, my head was pounding and my right arm was completely numb from the shoulder down.  I got in the shower for one more quick breakdown and to talk to God for a few minutes. I asked for the bravery and courage and empathy to contain my own emotions and be strong for my girls. I took Olivia to an 8 o’clock dentist appointment and then dropped her off to play hooky with my mom on her day off work.

On my way back home, I dropped my car at the body shop at the corner of town and began the 30+ block walk home. My boyfriend called and said to sit still and he would be by to scoop me up and take me home. We made it to my door step without a single tear and up the steps to my door when the boyfriend made the mistake of twisting me around and taking me in his arms and trying to hug the life out of me. The tears came and they came and they came and before long I felt too weak to stand and he laid me on the couch and he put my head in his lap and he stroked my hair and I felt the safest I have ever felt in my entire adult life.

I know some of you may think I am being entirely overdramatic over a vehicle, but I must give you some insight in the true life of a single mom for you to fully understand.

Not having a driveable vehicle means not getting back and forth to work. Which means no paycheck. Which means no paycheck, at all, in the household. Because I am it. I am the only source of money and wellbeing for myself and three children. Not getting back and forth to work means possibly getting fired. From my very good job. Which means possibly missing a house payment or two. Which would make us homeless. I, and thousands of others in this day and age are living paycheck to paycheck, quite literally. Even missing one paycheck would put me behind on bills and once that happens it is next to impossible to catch up. Not to mention the fact that there is no savings account to dip into when car repairs are needed. I cannot afford more than liability insurance and so the repairs must come from my pocket. My pockets that are so empty, they echo. I do not convey this for sympathy but for clarity. This is huge. This could put my entire life into a tailspin. And my kids. My poor kids. My sweet and innocent kids that already sacrifice so much for this mother they were given and this life they were dealt. All I could hear was my eight year old asking me if this year maybe we could get her new school clothes at the Walmart and not the thrift store. And how that would be next to impossible right now.

An hour or so later the boyfriend dropped me off at the car place so he could make his way to work and he waited outside patiently while I went in for the estimate. The guy behind the counter just shook his head when I walked in. He had that look on his face perfected by countless evening-drama doctors that have to tell families they did all they could, but their loved one could not be saved. “It’s bad” he said, “Real bad. Your frame is bent. Nothing I can do here. You will have to take it to a frame shop. You are looking at a couple thousand dollars probably.”

I walked back to my car in a stupor. A fog. I felt numb and shock. I had no earthly clue what I was going to do. I looked at that car I just got two months ago and thought about how beautiful it was to me. It was used, but the nicest car I had ever owned. I felt proud to drive it and my kids were proud to ride around in it. Now it was damaged. Just like my heart. Just like my spirit. I made it home and sat on my couch and just stared at the wall. I felt true despair and just fell to my knees and I cried and cried and begged God for mercy for me and these girls and I told him I believed that he would help us. I believed it and I knew it. And then God lifted me right out of the floor of my living room and he helped me create a productive day. I got laundry done, scrubbed floors, cooked a big dinner and for the first time in two days, I felt a sense of purpose. My boyfriend called at least 15 times throughout the day, each time talking softly as if the simple sound of his voice too loudly would cause me to crack and break.

I am just too tired to tell the rest of the story right now. I am going back to work today with a ride there from my mom and a ride home from the boyfriend. In the meantime calling on others to assist me with a ride to and from school and the sitter for the girls. My car is going in the shop on Sunday at a friend of a friend of a friend who is going to “knock it out enough to be safe enough to drive”.

My neck is better and the constant headache I am sure is from stress. I am waiting any day now for the shingles that I have had twice before to rear their stress-induced ugly heads.

I feel better just “talking” about it and all I can do now is pray. Pray and hope that someway, somehow this is all going to get better and I come out a stronger and better person.

Last night it was rainy and dreary while I made my way home. I thought of what I would make for dinner and what the girls and I could do on an evening of being forced inside because of the rain. I picked Emma up first, as I always do, and the first words out of her mouth were, as they always are, “Mama, can I ride my bike when I get home?”

“Well, it is raining right now, but if it stops raining then you can.”

She seemed content with that and we chatted for the rest of the ride to get her sisters. This time of day is usually our only time together, just the two of us, and I am convinced she tries to fit in as many questions as she possibly can in this expanse of time.

As we pulled in front of the house the raindrops turned to drizzle and before we were checking the mail, it ceased altogether. Before even stepping foot in the house, Emma took her cue from Mother Nature and made her way by skipping to the backyard to retrieve her bike. Before long, her sisters followed suit and began riding with her. I told the girls I was going to get supper going and I would be out very shortly to check on them. I reminded them again the boundaries of their bike riding;

“Don’t forget ladies, not farther than the rock wall at Andrews place or the stop sign up here, ok”

“Yes mam” they chimed in unison.

Not ten minutes later, after putting ground beef on the stove to brown for spaghetti with meat sauce, I stepped foot on the porch to check on the natives. Riding their bikes without a care in the world, I lingered for a moment to enjoy their giggles. I soon called them in for dinner and they convinced me it was a night for eating on the porch. After we enjoyed spaghetti, salad and fresh bread on the porch, I excused myself to do the dishes while the girls again flew for their bikes.

The dishes didn’t take long so I grabbed the basket of towels that I had just taken from the dryer and walked out on the porch to fold while watching the girls. I was disappointed to find that Olivia had ridden past the stop sign and was on her way back when I came outside. I made her put her bike up and go in the house to get ready for pajamas and to work on her project due this Friday. I told Cori and Emma they had about 20 minutes left; that we needed to head inside about 7:15 to get prepared for today. Not 45 seconds later Cori cruised right past the rock wall at Andrews place. I too sent her inside to get ready for pajamas.

Then shaking my head in disbelief at just what my children do and do not retain in their little minds, I looked up to see Emma riding her bike down the sidewalk, being sure to turn around carefully before meeting the stopsign. For the next few minutes I just watched her ride her bike and answer the questions that started flying when she realized we were alone. After explaining to her why it rained, how they built bridges and why cars have 4 wheels and not six, I reminded her that she had only about 5 minutes left before it was time to put the bike away and head inside.

I sat there and enjoyed the pre-summer coolness of a evening after rain and just watched her ride up and down, up and down the sidewalk. I looked down at my watch to see it was 7:14, so I let her know. As we tried to stave off the last minute of our time together, I looked at my little lone survivor of obedience and marveled at her for a moment. I told her it was time to go inside and without missing a beat she walked her bike to the backyard. I waited for her at the side of the house and we walked up the sidewalk hand in hand into the house. As I watched her run up the steps to get pajamas ready and I could not help but think what a brave little girl she is and how she has done such a 180.

This little girl that was diagnosed not even a year ago of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Oppositional Defiance Disorder and Anxiety. I remembered how she would worry about the simplest of things like an adult until it literally made her sick to her stomach. I thought about all the times she was punished at daycare for not sitting still, when she simply could not. I thought about how school administrators told me she needed to be on medication; about the doctors that agreed. I thought about the first time I heard the words ‘chemical imbalance’.  I thought about the time that I caved in and agreed to the smallest therapeutic dose and how my little baby took that little pill and then proceeded to stare into space sitting on the floor in front of her dollhouse instead of playing with it and how that made my heart shatter into a trillion pieces and fall to the floor in the form of hot tears. I then remembered the beautiful young therapist that took my hand in hers in her small office one cold winter day and looked me in my eyes and said to me “We can help your child without medication, but you must be committed and you must be willing to lose all sense of your own emotions. When you get frustrated and want to yell, you must not. I will teach you and we will teach Emma.” I believed her. I committed. And I learned. And tonight when my little girl stopped at the door and looked up at me with those beautiful almond shaped eyes and said “I was the good girl huh, mama?”, I looked right back down at her and said, “You were the best girl, noodle, the best girl.”

I believe ADHD is real. I have to. I have seen my daughter struggle too much to believe that it doesn’t have a name. I believe she gets anxious. I believe that maybe even my baby does have a chemical imbalance.

I don’t know if there is a way to love the ADHD and anxiety right outta her, but I do know I don’t wanna stop trying til I’ve figured it out.

I came across an article this morning that made me think about what a special roll ice cream has played in my life. Hear me out on this one. I think there are things that all families do, little traditions they start that become a link through the generations. Maybe you have cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning because that is what your mom always did and her mom before her. Maybe you always have family night on Wednesdays and eat popcorn because that is what you did growing up.

For my family, ice cream has always been in the background of our family traditions. Every year when I was a little girl, my aunt and uncle would have a fourth of July party. One of two things you could always expect at their parties, ok three, (one was fireworks and two was my cousin Krissy having some sort of injury or breakdown to force everyone to look at her and give her all the attention) was the homemade ice cream my uncle would make. He would break out the ice cream churn and the ice and the salt and then we would all take turns guessing what the special flavor would be. Would it be pineapple this year? Peach? Whatever it was it was always wonderful.

When I got a little older and started playing softball and then crying after softball because I was the catcher and the ache I would feel in my legs from getting up and down 4,982 times per night was almost too much for a spoiled 14 year old to handle, my dad would take me to get ice cream. We would sit on the bench outside of the ice cream place and I would eat my ice cream slowly to soak up all the free time I could get with my dad.

When I turned sixteen I had an ice cream cake from the Dairy Queen for my birthday. My birthday is in June and we sat on the back porch of the house I grew up in and ate cake before it could melt and laughed about anything and everything. Every kid dreams of their sixteenth birthday and all the freedom it will bring and I will never forget that cake.

When I got even a little older and the girls’ father left and I started raising three little girls alone, my grandma became my ally. She never judged me, she never said hateful things, she would just listen to me whine and complain and she would tell me how somehow I would live through all of this. We would have these talks outside of the J&K market, where we would go on warm summer nights to get the girls an ice cream cone.

The house I moved to three years ago is situated about 2 blocks from a small Dairy Queen. My dad joked when I moved in that that is why I chose this house. Walking to Dairy Queen or stopping by there after a bike ride has become a tradition for the girls and I. At least once in the summer, my parents come over and help me rid the backyard of the jungle that grows there the rest of the year. There is always lots of work and lots of sweating and my kids get beyond filthy dirty helping dig in the flowerbeds and carry branches to the curb. The reward at the end of the day is always an ice cream from the Dairy Queen.

To this day my father sits at the kitchen table or on the back porch, if weather allows, and eats a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream every.single.night. My mother buys them two or three at a time. Being out of Rocky Road ice cream at my mothers is equivalent to being out of toilet paper or toothpaste. It is a staple. It is essential. Now, when my daughters take turns having their alone time with Nana and lil Pap (each one gets a night a week to spend at their house alone) my dad makes two bowls of Rocky Road ice cream, one a little smaller than the other. I like to think that my girls eat their ice cream slowly too. Just to soak up all that free time with their Pap.

I had this whole blog post planned about the way I took my daughter’s raggedy, too-small bike for her to the bike shop to try to get it revived and maybe the duct tape removed from the wheels and the bike shop owner called me to tell me the raggedy bike wasn’t worth saving and my eight year old started crying big crocodile tears because the bike she worked in my dad’s yard for a whole weekend last summer to earn was stolen and now she won’t have a bike and her sisters do, and then how I went past a yard sale to find an adorable, barely ridden bike that was pink and purple and it was only five bucks (Woo Hoo!) and I had it in the trunk when I picked her up from school yesterday and she was all like “you rock mom, you are so cool mom, I love you to pieces mom”. Whew - that was the longest run-on sentence ever. And see Ms. Eighth-grade-English-teacher-whose-name-I-can’t-remember, you said I would never amount to anything. Hmph.

BUT…….

Instead, as I was reading through my must-read blogs today, I came across something completely heavenly at one of my favorites, Chocolatechic. She has recipes to rival this chick, and she has the sweetest.teenage. kids.ever. Seriously, they do things like read the bible off the courthouse steps on the National Day of Prayer and play cards with their mom and her son once made homemade PopTarts. That’s all I think I have to say about that. I mean homemade PopTarts, people, come on.

She has a recipe for Peanut Butter Pie today. Peanut Butter Pie. The greatest invention since sliced bread. Okay, it is better than sliced bread, who am I kidding? When I was a teenager, I worked in the small little restaurant in town, which doubled as the only little restaurant in town. ( I grew up in the boonies, okay) We had a lady that came in and made all our pies for the week on Sunday. Mary, the owner, would let us all have a piece of pie on Sunday night after close. I was 16 years old and worked 10 hour days on Sunday. That is like 48 straight hours in teenage time. Every single Sunday I thought I would die right outside the doors of the Butler Restaurant from exhaustion, or from the smell of Fried Chicken that seeped from my pores. But what made it all better was that Peanut Butter Pie.

I made a comment on her blog as I usually so and that is when I heard mention of PBLoco. And then my life changed forever. PBLoco sells gourmet Peanut Butter. Like White Chocolate Raspberry Peanut Butter, Peanut Butter with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. No you are not seeing things :: that is really what I typed. Gourmet Peanut Butter.

Somewhere, Elvis is sitting in his darkened room in his governmentally protected house ordering from PBLoco in someone else’s name.

And if that sentence doesn’t make sense to you, you have no right to call yourself an Elvis Presley fan.

When my kids started going to school, I use to sit in the drop off lane and think about which one of my girls would be the “trouble maker” like I was. Which one would end up in the principal’s office first? Which one would need note after note signed? Which one would have after school suspension?

If you knew my children you would know what everyone else knows:: Emma. It will be Emma. She is skinny and scrappy but doesn’t take any crap from anyone. She will stick her chest out to the biggest of kids and when she slams her converse one stars on your big toe, boy can she run like the wind.

I got a call from the principal’s office last week. When I saw the number come up on my caller ID at work I knew one of my kids was in the office. Olivia is the exact moralistic replica of my sister (the worst thing she ever did when we were growing up was come home 12 minutes late from her junior prom) so I knew it wasn’t her. Emma isn’t old enough for the public school yet, so that leaves Corina. Corina is the one clumsiest child on the planet and so I was well prepared for a paniced principal to tell me she was on the way to the ER with a broken arm from a horrible monkey bar accident. Instead I heard this::

“Uh, hello. Ms. *****. I have Corina here in the office with me and she has been sent here for fighting.”

“Fighting? Not falling down the steps on the way to the cafeteria, tripping over her shoestrings in gym class, trying to fly from the swing while it is ten feet in the air?

“No, mam, fighting.”

“Corina? Fighting? Sure my five year old didn’t sneak in there today?”

“No, mam, It’s Corina and she was fighting in the bathroom with another girl.”

“I just cannot believe she was fighting. Are you sure it was Corina fighting?”

“Yes mam, I am sure it was Corina and I am sure she was fighting. Evidently her and this little girl have been going at it all year and Corina had enough and wopped her one.”

“Corina *****? (last name) Are you sure?”

“Mam, I am sure it was Corina. I have her right here. Now I am only obligated to notify you. Are there any other questions you would like to ask?”

“Well, yeah. Did she win?”