It's That Time of Year Once Again

It’s that time of year once again; the time of year when I make my annual pledge to lose weight, eat healthier, and get in shape. Traditionally this means 2-4 weeks of eating things like quinoa, salmon, and blueberries while drinking enough water to ensure 49 trips to the bathroom in any given 24-hour period. During this period, I will exercise until my muscles hurt so much I cannot get off the couch without the help of my children (and a whole lot crying and pathetic moaning noises.) This 2-4 week period is followed by a slow weaning of the recently adopted healthy habits in favor for chocolate and binge watching Netflix while lying like a sloth on the couch. What can I say? It’s tradition.

I weigh about as much as I did while pregnant, which wouldn’t be horrible except for the fact that I’m not actually pregnant. I look in the mirror and am absolutely disgusted with myself. And I have no one to blame, but myself. I think of the Serenity Prayer often.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 

The courage to change the things I can, 

And the wisdom to know the difference. 

Weight is one of those things I can change. There is no excuse for not accepting responsibility for that. Or well, actually there are a million excuses (believe me, I’ve invented quite a few myself – I can’t go for a walk or I might be hit by a fish falling from the sky and I can’t do Bikram yoga because Satan teaches that class.) But those excuses are just that – excuses. In the end, something as transient as weight is fully in my control. It’s up to me to make the decision to change and then to put a plan in place and stick to it long-term. 

So here I am once again, resolving to make permanent changes. Once again. To that end, I started exercising once again. I started off slowly, or well, I thought I was starting out slowly. The last time I regularly exercised, I could jog 5 miles. I thought walking 3 miles wouldn’t be a big deal. I thought wrong. 

I met my friend, Cheri to walk. Cheri is the Monica to my Fat Amy. When I'm like:


via GIPHY

She's all:  "No, c'mon, we can't stop, c'mon, we've got three more pounds to go. I am the energy train and you are on board. Woo-woo, woo-woo, woo-woo!"




When I woke up Sunday morning and saw that it was raining, I got down on my knees and thanked God for the dreary weather that would enable me to get out of walking for the day! Of course, then I couldn't get up off my knees so I just crawled to the bathroom on all fours like that was my plan all along. Cheri, however, being the Monica-type, declared that a little rain would not put a crimp in her plans to torture me make sure we exercised. I ignored her text, thinking that eventually she'd give up and find something else to do. After the 28th text, I realized I have crazy persistent stubborn determined friends, and if I didn't show up to walk, she'd hunt me down.

So I pulled on my shorts and a t-shirt, and we walked around her neighborhood. In the rain. And the unseasonably cold, 50-degree weather. Cheri is like a foot taller than me. Now imagine a sloth trying to keep up with a giraffe. Got that visual? Yeah. So Cheri walks backwards. She works her muscles out differently by doing that and I have a sporting chance of keeping up with her. I never really thought about how we looked until a neighbor (wearing a winter coat and hat) called out to us. "I saw you two walking yesterday too. Why do you walk backwards?"

Without missing a beat, Cheri answered, "So I can watch for danger this way and she can watch for danger in that direction." You know, just in case ninjas attack from all sides while we're walking in broad daylight. In her gated community. The guy stared at us for a minute while questioning the sanity of people walking backwards in the rain.

Then again, maybe he was staring because of the way I was dressed. I had opted for beige shorts and a light pink top. Within a block, my clothes were soaked. The stripes of my bra showed through the t-shirt that was plastered to me. And my black underwear showed through my light shorts. Actually, my underwear probably didn't show through too much because it had all but disappeared in a wedgie of epic proportions. That's what happens when you're fat, your undies are too small, you're walking fast, and there are people around to see through your wet clothes. Yep, that's me - keeping it classy.

A mile into our walk, I insisted I was having a heart attack.

She countered with a peppy, "You're not dying! You're getting in shape!"

We walked another mile before we neared her house. As soon as I saw it, a tear of happiness slipped down my cheek. "I can see the end! We're almost there! Just a few more steps . . ." I panted.

Cheri turned the corner and headed in the opposite direction. "C'mon! You can't stop now! We have to do 3 miles!" she called. I think I responded with this:

via GIPHY

We finally made it around another winding loop of streets and came to her house once more. "I made it," I gasped, tears of joy mixing with the sweat and rain. I started to turn up her driveway.

"You can't stop now! We haven't done 3 miles yet," she said, looking at the app on her phone. "We're at 2.9 miles. Come on! Down to the corner and back!"

"You go ahead and walk down to the corner and back, you sadistic wackjob! I'm going to pass out."

"You can pass out after you've done 3 miles. Come on! You can do it!"

I trudged behind her, chanting, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," (which, roughly translated, means, "I love you. Thank you for kicking my butt.")

The whole ordeal wouldn't have been so bad expect that I shockingly did not lose 20 pounds from that walk and really, I don't think that was an unreasonable expectation. And of course, the fact that my underwear needed to be surgically removed by the time I got home.

Faith Restored

I attended the same church from the time I was 2 until I moved away at the age of 41. I was baptized and confirmed in this church. I taught Sunday school. I participated in Bible study classes. I was on the drama committee. And under all of that, I believed. There existed in me, a plain and simple, unwavering belief.

The past five years have been rough. My kids and I have enjoyed some good times, some laughter, some happiness, but woven throughout has been an undercurrent of sadness, apprehension, worry and despair. Still, I've held to my faith. I've believed that things happen for a reason. I've tried to be patient, certain that my knowledge of the situation is minute and I can't possibly comprehend, at this moment in time, the bigger picture and why things have happened as they have. I know I need to maintain a positive attitude and be thankful for all the many blessings I have: six awesome kids, our health, friends who look out for us, a job I like . . . But it has gotten hard to remember the good things, the positive points of light interspersed with the bad.

My house is in foreclosure now. It was in foreclosure a couple years ago, but I was able to attain a modification in the nick of time to save it. Unfortunately, that isn't the case this time around. Funny, that the amount I owe on the house is the amount my ex owes me in child support. Unlike my ex, I can't give my mortgage company an 'I'm sorry. I don't have it now. I'll pay you when I can' excuse. It's a gut wrenching feeling - not knowing where you're going to live in a couple months, knowing that the rentals around you are about a third the size of your current house and more money that what you're paying now. Not wanting to be homeless, not wanting to live in a hotel, not wanting to stay in a homeless shelter. It all sucks.

And it has all made me lose faith. I've found myself thinking, over the past few months, that there is no God, and if there is, He sure as heck doesn't care about me. Understanding my foundation, it's hard to fathom how I got to such a low place in my faith. In the past, throughout every struggle, I've always received some little bit of inspiration at just the right time. As I was about to give up writing, I'd get an email thanking me for something I'd written. When I didn't know how I'd pay a bill, just the right amount of money would find its way to me. When I started fooling myself into believing that no one cared, I'd get a phone call from a friend. But none of those things had been happening recently. And I sank lower and lower instead of keeping a positive attitude and simply believing that things would work out.

And then something happened. I've been struggling to find the words to express my gratitude about it for the past couple weeks.

I received a letter in the mail from a reader. It was a hand-written, 2-page letter thanking me for being an inspiration to her. She thanked me, encouraged me, and prayed for me. It was exactly what I needed, when I needed it most. It brought me to tears. And it made me think that maybe, just maybe God is still here; does still care.

Then I got a phone call from the UPS store where I've had a mailbox for the past couple years. The owner explained that an envelope with no return address had arrived for me, but my mailbox had expired a few months earlier. I didn't realize I no longer had a mailbox there! He said he'd hang onto the envelope if I wanted to stop by and pick it up. I did. My youngest three kids and I stopped to pick up the envelope on our way to the mall. It was $100 cash from an anonymous person. Just the day before I had gone to the store to buy presents for my kids - toothbrushes, underwear, and socks, and my card had been declined. I had forgotten about my insurance payment that was taken out of my account, so my balance was too low to get them anything. And then this amazing act of kindness happened. I cried again.

After getting the envelope with the money, my youngest three kids and I continued to the outdoor mall to pick out a present for someone. As we were walking around, we saw a woman offering small, homemade wreaths "so she could buy Christmas presents for her kids." I didn't have any cash on me, so we walked on by, but I felt bad and guilty as we made our way in and out of stores, looking for our gift. Remembering the envelope of cash I had left in my car, the kids and I walked back to the parking lot, grabbed one of the 20s from the envelope, and found the woman. "I was recently blessed with some money and I want to pass that blessing on to you," I told her. I gave her a big hug, wished her a merry Christmas, and the kids complained on the way back to our car, not that I had given away some much needed, much appreciated money, but that "I wanted to give it to her. No, I wanted to! I asked first!" I hope the anonymous person who sent this is happy that I paid it forward a little, and not upset that I didn't use all the money for its intended purpose, but I couldn't not help this woman when someone had so generously helped me.

A ton of food was donated to my school for our homeless and struggling families. I was able to take some home and it has helped tremendously.

Then another gift from a reader arrived. Attached was a thank you to me for bringing joy to others, and a generous gift card for Target. With this, I was able to buy my kids some clothes so they each had something to open on Christmas day.

Finally, the day before Christmas, a nice man and his beautiful daughter rang our doorbell and handed us boxes of wrapped presents. These are the same people who have delivered us presents every year that we've lived here. Five years! For five years, some anonymous person (and it KILLS me that they're anonymous because I want to thank them!) has adopted us and gone out of their way to buy gifts for each of us.

I had a nice Christmas. Yes, it was nice because of the tangible. nice and generous things that friends and strangers and anonymous people did for us. But those acts did so, so, so much more than that. It restored my faith. It made me feel ashamed to doubt God's love. It made me pick up a Bible and stop dwelling on all the crap, and instead embrace all the wonderful blessings. Now, even faced with homelessness (although I'm admittedly not looking forward to the prospect), I can breathe a little easier knowing that we'll be okay no matter what happens. Maybe, for whatever unfathomable reason, I need to know what it feels like to be without a home. Maybe this somehow fits into a much bigger picture. Who knows? All I know is that we'll be okay.I'm reminded of the movie, The Pursuit of Happyness. Will Smith's character went through a lot of crap before he came out on the other end. And yeah, it sucked for a long time. But stepping back and seeing the big picture - it all worked out well in the end. Although if God is taking requests, after this homelessness stint, I'd really like him to show me what it's like to be happily married and have enough money to not only pay my bills, but help out other people. Just sayin' . . .

THE BEST THINGS ABOUT HAVING A BIG FAMILY (ACCORDING TO MY 6 KIDS)

I have six kids. (What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.) And although my days are hectic, there’s a never-ending pile of laundry, and I don’t always remember my kids’ names, there are also many benefits to having a large family. I asked my kids (aged 9 – 20) to share the best things about being part of a big family. Here’s what they had to say:

CONTINUE READING HERE!

21 Signs That Parenting Has Made You Lose Your Damn Mind

My friends and I used to be cool. We used to do fun things. Now, we spend our days wondering what happened to us and how we went from intelligent adults to crazy people who spend their time bribing their kids to go potty, eat something more than ketchup and Goldfish crackers for days on end, and pleading with them to stop taking selfies of their belly buttons on our phones.

Every parent I know would agree that having children has given their lives meaning, a sense of fulfillment, and a kind of joy previously unimagined. We love our children. We love caring for them. We love watching them grow. Yet, at the same time, we realize that parenting has made us crazy.

CONTINUE READING HERE!

How About a Small Tiara?

I have an irrational perfectly appropriate fear of the dentist. To that end, I try to avoid the him at all costs. I mean, I don't dislike my dentist as a person. If I saw him at oh say, the grocery store, for example, I wouldn't duck around the aisle and try to dodge him or anything. Then again, he probably doesn't walk around the grocery store with a drill or a 3-foot syringe. But in his office . . . well, I kind of hate him there. I picture Steve Martin dancing around in The Little Shop of Horrors every time I see him.





And just thinking about going to the dentist makes me react like this . . .





Or this . . .


.

Or even this . . .




But when a filling fell out, I couldn't put it off any longer. Actually, I did put it off for 4 weeks a little while. But when my tooth started hurting, I decided I needed to pay my dentist a little visit. By the time I got to the office, my palms were sweating, I was hyperventilating, and trying to think up plausible reasons why I couldn't keep my appointment today. By the time the dentist called me back, the only excuse I'd come up with was, "I'm sorry, but I can't keep my appointment because see . . . the problem here is that, . . . my little brother, this morning, got his arm caught in the microwave, and uh . . . my grandmother dropped acid and she freaked out, and hijacked a school bus full of . . . penguins, so it's kind of a family crisis . . . so I'll come back later, okay?"

I didn't think it would work. 

Back in the chair, the dentist took some xrays. I don't know why, but I can't handle that stupid little cardboard thing in my mouth. I gag. A lot. The xrays come out blurry. They need to be taken again. I gag again. The process repeats. The dentist throws up his hands and decides that xrays are overrated. He looks in my mouth and tells me I need a crown. After he told me the price of a crown, I suggested a small tiara instead. Apparently that's not an option. Thankfully, a payment plan that alleviates my immediate pain and earns me a crown upon my final payment is an option.

He gives me a shot of novocaine and walks away while I attempt to relax. I think to myself that I should probably find a dentist who will knock me out. Or maybe I should drink heavily before future appointments. Maybe I should just let all my teeth rot out of my head. How bad could it be subsisting on a liquid diet for the rest of my life? I need to lose weight anyway; I think it could work.

My dentist returns and asks me if I'm numb. As usual, I'm not. This concerns me a lot because A. If I'm not numb, I'll feel it when he drills, and B. I'LL FEEL IT WHEN HE DRILLS!

He gives me a second shot and leaves again. When he returns several minutes later, he confidently says, "Your tongue should be pretty numb by now, huh?"

"No, it isn't numb at all!" I counter, worried that he'll start working while I can still feel everything.

"How about your lip. Half of your lips are numb, right?"

"No! My cheek is slightly tingly, but I'm not numb! Do I look numb? I'm not numb! Look! I'm smiling. Does my face look weird? Does it look droopy like I just had a stroke?" I asked, only slightly maniacal. "If I was numb, I'd look weird. I'm not numb!"

He poked around in my mouth a little and seemed surprised that I could still feel everything, so . . . he gave me a third shot of novocaine.

Finally, I get numb and he starts drilling. I try to practice deep, slow breathing. I make a conscious effort to relax my muscles, but it only lasts a few seconds until my shoulders are up by ears, my fingernails are digging into my palms, and my butt cheeks are clenched so tightly that I'm literally raised about 6 inches out of the chair. This went on for a while until my brain told me, "Ummm, there are a few too many things in your mouth here. Something needs to be removed or I'm going to send a signal to your stomach to puke."

I gagged. The dentist and his assistant jumped back immediately. "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned about getting my vomit on his new shoes.

"I'm okay, but my brain has informed me that 2 pairs of hands, a drill, a mirror, a sucky thing, a plastic jack to hold my mouth open, and those tampon-looking cotton things are at least one too many items to be in my mouth at once. I'm sorry, but something has to go."

Not wanting to be on the receiving end of the product of my gagging, the dentist removed the little jack and the sucky thing, then continued. Until lightning exploded in my tooth and traveled through my nerves to every corner of my body. I reacted like this . . .

That reaction earned me my fourth shot of novocaine. I'll spare you the agonizing details of the next hour or so. There was a lot of drilling and butt clenching (seriously, Jillian Michaels couldn't conceive of a better butt workout) interspersed with copious amounts of gagging. When the dentist finally stopped drilling, his assistant put dozens of different foul tasting concoctions in my mouth. Why does everything taste like a cross between an ashtray, butt sweat, and raw sewage? How hard could it be to flavor those compounds with peppermint or cinnamon or really anything that's a step above butt sweat? And for those of you wondering (there are always those who wonder) no, I've never tasted butt sweat. I just know it probably tastes like the nasty junk they put on my tooth.

Finally, the most diabolical thing happened. The dental assistant took her ice pick and started shoving a string soaked in gasoline down between my tooth and gum. It was agonizingly painful. I guess I was still supposed to be numb. Enter novocaine shot #5 which adequately numbed me so that she could finish her evil mission of shoving that stupid string down in my gums. 

After biting down on some combination of gum, Play-Doh, and Silly Putty to take an impression of what was left of my tooth, and getting a temporary crown glued on, they let me leave. 2 1/2 hours after they started. 

When I got out to my car, I looked in the mirror to get a glance of my new "tooth." Instead, I discovered that mascara had run down my cheeks while I was crying, all traces of makeup had been drooled off my chin, and I had some sizable chunks of cement stuck to my lips and cheek. Pretty.

And that is why I hate going to the dentist. Time for me to go take 20 more Advil now.

My Guilty Pleasure on Netflix

Know who loves The Office? This guy! Or gal. Me! I love The Office! In my humble (but always correct) opinion, it is the funniest sitcom to ever grace the airwaves.

Here are just a few reasons why you should binge watch every episode of all 9 seasons on Netflix, and when you finish, repeat at least 5 times. Because who hasn't worked with these guys at one time or another? (Yes, I know they work at a paper company, but I adapted this to where I work - a middle school.)

 
 When you thought it was Friday, but just found out it's only Thursday.

 
 When your coworker actually manages to do their job for once.


Every other day when your coworker just takes up space.


What you fantasize about doing to your coworker every time she opens her mouth.


When your students all turn in their homework. On time.


When you remember that Friday is a no-work holiday!

  
 When your students come in after a lunch of sugar-coated sugar.


While explaining the latest management directive video.


When your students walk in to your class directly after PE and either smell like sweat or Axe (I'm not sure which is worse.)

 
 When a parent calls for you. "I'm not here! I'm not here!"


When you find out the state says you need to collect even more data.


Please tell me all about how your child is a precious flower who shouldn't have to follow the rules that everyone else adheres to.



When you're watching a district-made video that talks down to you like you're a 4-year-old instead of an educated person entrusted to teaching our nation's youth.


When you run into a student at the store.


When a student finally gets what you've been teaching for the past 3 weeks.


That one teacher who runs all her classes like this.


When you hear your student's excuse for not turning in their homework.


Those Friday afternoons when you're like - Did this week actually just happen?

And those are just a few of the reasons why you need to watch The Office on Netflix. If you do, you'll understand me when I say, "Bears, beats, Battlestar Galactica!"

#StreamTeam

My Cooper Tire Ride and Drive Experience

Check it out! I have a personalized video from my time at the Cooper Tire Ride and Drive event this summer! So cool! It's like I'm starring in a commercial! (Yeah, it doesn't take much to impress me!) See it here -

And here's an even better one featuring all the parenting bloggers who attended! 

If Full House Were On Air Today

My family hasn’t had cable TV in years. It was just not something I was willing or able to pay for, especially when we’re rarely even around to watch it. And honestly, I’d rather stab myself in the eye than to watch reality TV. I have enough reality in my own life; I don’t need to watch anyone else’s drama.

I know I sound old, but I don’t understand the kind of stuff that’s on TV these days. Back in the good ole days, there were shows that were family-friendly and taught a lesson. Like The Brady Bunch, Growing Pains, Little House on the Prairie, The Wonder Years, and Full House to name a few.

CONTINUE READING HERE!

Dessert Hack: Piña Colada "Cake" Pops

Confession: I really love cake pops. I mean, what’s not to love, right? They’re bite sized, chocolate-covered pieces of cake! Delicious.

Although I love eating cake pops, I have to admit, I’m less fond of making them, mainly because they’re time-consuming, and it’s difficult to make them look pretty and smooth. Mine, more often than not, end up looking like Pinterest fails! So I thought: how can I make cake pops in less time, with less work? (I’m an expert at thinking of ways to get out of work!)

I decided to swap out cake for rice cereal treats! And these Piña Colada Pops eliminate the need for perfectly smooth chocolate, since the goal is to make them look like coconuts. So easy your kids can do it … so easy I can do it!

These tropical, summery treats are perfect for picnics, BBQs, birthday parties, and just because. Here’s how to make them:

CONTINUE READING HERE!

My Kids Are Just . . Sigh . . . My Kids

Jackson and Lexi are visiting family and friends back home this week. They saved enough money to pay for airfare (and I got an amazing deal on it too!) so I took them to the airport this morning. Unfortunately they wouldn't allow me to accompany them to the gate this year because the cut-off age is 15 and Jackson is almost 17. I said goodbye at security and stuck around to make sure they found the gate. We'd gone over how to find the gate, and how to make their connection in Charlotte, and I was confident that the kids would be fine. Still, I was a little sad not being able to stay with them until they boarded. Instead, I texted them until they got on the plane.

Yep. Those are my kids. Good luck to all my family and friends in Chicago who are taking them in.

Calling all Dragon Trainers!

We're Netflix addicts in my house, and now that it's summer vacation, I may possibly be guilty of letting my kids sit around and watch Netflix for HOURS some days. It's summer. It happens. (Here in Florida, it's too hot to play outside during the day unless we're at the pool, and it rains every afternoon.)

Recently my kids found Dreamworks Dragons: Race to the Edge on Netflix. They just can't get enough of Hiccup and Toothless. When Netflix sent us a package of Dragon goodies, my 11-year-old was crazy-excited, hoping it was the "Dragon Eye" in the box. (In the series, the "Dragon Eye" is powered by a dragon's fiery breath and it shows a map.) Alas, it was not the "Dragon Eye." It was a package of dragon themed goodies!

(If you have little dragon trainers in your home, you can give them a dragon-themed snacks of "dragon scales" Doritos, and "dragon claws" Bugles. Cute!)

My favorite item in this box of goodies was the sidewalk chalk because my kids voluntarily turned off the TV and ran outside to draw their own dragons and maps on the cement, and they played make-believe dragon trainer games all afternoon! Well, they played until the rain came, anyway.

Check out this new series on Netflix with your little dragon trainers!
#Streamteam

Why I Support My Kids' Questionable Decisions

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” I asked my 20-year-old son who attends Le Cordon Bleu.

He looked up from his video game and responded, “Uhhh, no. I don’t have school.”

I didn’t question it. In between class sessions, he usually has a couple days off.

A few days later, I got home from work and found my son and his girlfriend hanging out at my house. “Why aren’t you at school?” I asked, puzzled.

His girlfriend gave him a look and said, “You haven’t told your mom?”

CONTINUE READING HERE!