And Then There Was Mary...

This is how my day started not too long ago. My youngest and I were in the car and she said, “I had the weirdest dream last night.” She is 6, the youngest of four sisters, and is known to have a bit of a dark side. So I thought I was prepared when I said, “Oh really? What was it about?” She responded with something like this…and I will not be exaggerating or taking creative license, however you will think that I am, “I was married to Brandon…you remember Brandon my love from kindergarten, but I was cheating on him with Austin. That was fine, but one day I went to dinner with Austin…and here’s where it gets awkward…Brandon my husband was there. When Austin went to the bathroom my husband came over to ask what was going on, and I told him…oh him? He’s my boss.” I will stop the dream retell there, although in all honesty I am nowhere near done and what you just heard was practically verbatim. I am not often speechless, but here it was the one moment in time when I found I had NOTHING to say in response.
A few hours later we were with Naomi (who currently lives with me, but that is a story or stories for another day) and I asked my little darling about the dream. She repeated it again with the same details. To her credit Naomi didn’t bat an eye and told her that it sounded like a very interesting dream, she then turned to me and said, “We need to do something with that one…there is talent there. Do you think she is a clairvoyant?”

This isn’t my first trip to the rodeo with this gal. She has a personality all unto her own, and I worry because she is number four and let’s be honest…how much energy will we have left to raise this one with any kind of high standard? Mary was in first grade this year. She is bright, but I am not going to lie, I didn’t actually know this because, again, she is number four and I let some things slip through the cracks. I have never done homework with her. Naomi did it in Kindergarten and in first grade she went to the after school program where lovely supportive after school teachers helped her. At report card time we always have a 4 in homework (that’s an A if you don’t live in liberal California where we don’t want anyone to KNOW they are failing…how’s that working out for us?). So it was strange, or just Mary’s bad luck, that one day in February out of the blue I said to her, “Mary let me check your homework?” When she handed it to me that Friday morning (homework is due on Friday) I realized that there was a page not finished. I said something to her, and she said, “Oh, I forgot.” I said, “Uh, no…you didn’t forget, it is February and we have been in school 7 months and you know what is expected of you, you didn’t FORGET you chose not to do it.” The end result was that she did it very quickly, turned it in on time and I told her this was NOT to happen again. And with my first three children the lesson would have been learned and this would NOT have happened again. And I thought that was exactly what would happen in this circumstance. Hah!

The next week on Friday morning I said to her again, “Hey Mary let me check your homework?” The reply was, “Oh, that.” It turns out this time NONE of it was done. I asked her what her plan was when she got to class and she said, once again, “Well, I forgot.” And I patiently laid out for her, for the second time, that she did NOT forget. This was February, we had been doing homework for seven months, and every day at after school program they announce “WHO HAS HOMEWORK?” You didn’t forget, you chose not to do it. She just stood there. Finally I said, “Do you want me to write a note?” Relief swept over her body and she said, “Yes, that would be great!”

So I wrote:

Dear Mrs. Weybret,
Mary chose not to do her homework this week. Please make sure she has whatever consequence is needed.
Thank You,
Kim Daniel

Mary read it over my shoulder and then screamed, “WAIT! This is a BAD note.” Certainly THIS was the end of our homework issues.
Because hadn’t I made myself crystal clear?

The next week I am in the cafeteria after school. This is where the after school program children gather. Miss Maria, a lovely woman who has helped all my children with their homework and gets that there is a certain level of capability within them and they are teacher’s kids, approaches me and asks, “Is Mary smart in the first grade at math and things?” I was stumped. Oh Jesus, I don’t actually know Mary’s math capabilities. My mind starts racing…no one has said anything to me. Is she behind? When was the last time I saw her DO her math? She used to write her numbers backwards. Damn it! Why hadn’t I been paying better attention? What I say uncertainly is, “I don’t know, I think she can keep up.” Miss Maria says, “What about the reading? She can’t read?” Wait a second, slow down, we can read…she just read the note with the word consequence in it last week…no she can read. I say, “Why?” Miss Maria says, “Well, today I read all of her homework to her because she said she couldn’t read. Then I went to find her teacher. She was gone, but the other first grade teacher laughed and said…Mary can read just fine.” Hmmm? So it turns out our homework issue is not resolved. Shocking!

At this point Mary enters and I motion her over. When questioned she replies, “I meant I was tired, very tired it is Valentines Day there was a lot going on and I didn’t FEEL like reading all the homework.” A less then pleasant response follows from me, (picture steam coming out of my ears) followed by daily visits to the cafeteria where I stand next to the person who shouts out, “Homework time…Who has homework?” and glare at Mary. She would then grab her homework and stomp over to the homework table, one time muttering, “Really? We have to do this every week? It is so boring.” I am certain this will not be the semi-quiet end to this story.

First grade has ended and summer has begun. Swim team has started. Because I have some experience under my belt, and because people can change…instead of being my typical intense, crazy, psycho bitch, I have heart and say to Mary, who may not be the most skilled swimmer, “Let’s just do the practices. You don’t have to do the meets until you feel more comfortable.” (If you have read my third daughter’s swim story, you know this is huge progress for me in terms of relaxing and going with your child’s strengths) She agrees and on the first day we head to practice. It is unfortunate that sunny California is under a blanket of rain and clouds during our first week of swim team, but I push on (yeah, yeah, so much for my relaxed go with the flow garbage I just fed you). I get her in the pool…she throws her goggles at me and yells, “NO!.” It isn’t like we are alone. The same thing is happening with the kid next to us. Herein lies the difference…the kid next us has a mother who says something like this for the rest of the week, “Come on baby…just one lap and then we will put on your jeans and we can cuddle with the blanket I brought. I will meet you at the end of the pool.” I say, “We are here all summer and you will be in the pool all summer. You can swim or sit there and cry, but I am working out during this time.”

I’m not going to make any judgments or tell you who has the better mothering skills…but guess whose kid is in the pool swimming and guess who still has to cuddle after each lap?

THe Year It All Went To Hell...(or My Crazy Obsession With Pink)

This year we are going away for Thanksgiving. I have cooked the traditional bird and had my family over for eighteen years. This year I decided to take a break. We are heading up to Tahoe and replacing the traditional Thanksgiving activities of turkey, family, and parade watching with arcade, dinner out (think Sammy Hagar’s Cabo Wabo), gambling and parade watching (look, some small tradition needed to stay in tact).

This decision has turned out to be both freeing and a downward, spiraling out of control madness that is quickly changing the traditions of Christmas as well.

Since we are not going to be here for Thanksgiving I packed up all of the Halloween and fall decorations the day after Halloween. With an empty house on December 1st I did not feel sad or regretful, not even for one tiny minute…I was both joyous and elated. Then my husband and girls went away for a Sunday in mid December and left me with a day and night entirely to myself. Since the house was empty I decided to get the Christmas decorations down early and get it set up so it would all be done upon our return from Tahoe.

To do this my husband had to get down all the boxes from the attic. A process that takes him all day and one that is done with such an extreme amount of deep sighing, exasperation and grumbling that you would think he was preparing to head off to war. But we are 16 years in, he knows the drill, and it goes fairly smoothly. I also suggested he go ahead and put up the lights since we would be gone on the day after Thanksgiving which is when we traditionally fight about, I mean work on, hanging our lights.

So he put up the lights, got down all the boxes and then left for the day. Here it was…my day alone to gleefully put up my decorations, “Christmasfy” the house, and really do it up in style.

Only when I walked into the dining room and saw the 25 boxes instead of my usual glee and delight…I thought I might throw up. This was the first sign that maybe I was in a different place in life.

It all really seemed to be too much. But, I started in, pulling things out and separating, laying things out and starting to get a vision. Only my vision kept returning to the idea of…getting rid of most of it.

The second sign that things were going a little differently is that instead of listening to my traditional Christmas CD’s with Bing and friends filling the house with ideas of chestnuts, snow and happiness, I had Pink’s Greatest Hits CD blasting out. Nothing says Christmas like lyrics that scream of dysfunction and angst. For those that are concerned, I do listen to this CD a lot…it is small obsession right now, I do listen to it with my children, they do know all the words, even the bad ones…but we have had a long talk about how Pink is an artist and sometimes in the name of “art” and “your craft” a bad word is needed to make your point (please note the title of this writing…I am an artist, mush like Pink, thus my need to suffer for my “art” and “craft”).

After about an hour I called Corey and told him I was getting rid of a lot of Christmas stuff this year. There was too much and it was time to downsize. Honestly, his reaction was greater than if I had called and told him we won the lottery. I had not heard him this giddy and elated since the niners were in a winning season, and I think we all know how LONG that has been.

So I set about setting up some things and boxing up the rest for Craigslist. I listed the items and included the beautiful red and green plastic storage containers I keep it in too.

Naomi, who is not a traditionalist in any way and has been after me for years to get a fake tree and call it day, sensed my weakness and began calling every ten minutes throughout the day. Each call with the suggestion of really keeping it simple and getting a very small tree (think potted plant that you give as housewarming gifts size) and just sticking the ornaments back up in the attic for another year. In years past I would have been irritated with her, frustrated that she didn’t get me or understand my desire to have the real tree with all my sentimental ornaments. This time (with my pal Pink reminding me that I was rock star and still had my rock moves in the background), I remembered that last year the two older girls weren’t home to do the tree (and didn’t really care they missed it), the year before I had left it for them to do with a babysitter (and didn’t really care that I missed it), and most other years everyone would bail out after the first few minutes of “Oh remember this ornament?,” and I would be left alone to finish and get all the ornaments off the ground and onto the tree.

In the end there is stuff up, I am going to get a tree (a small one, although not potted plant small), and I did find the Bing CD’s as it turns out after a quick search on google that Pink does not have a F*%#ing Christmas album out yet (note to Pink…that would be a great title).

Listen, my girls are all in the Nutcracker, the school Christmas play (yes, we still call it a Christmas play NOT a winter performance), the church Christmas play (where I do not listen to Pink), and several holiday choir performances…hmmm? Maybe this is why I don’t have the energy for decorating. I still love Christmas, just maybe in a different way.

So, Christmas is changing, I’m changing, and that’s OK. I can change. Change is good. No worries, I haven’t changed completely…I didn’t throw out all of the girls’ Christmas art I have saved (although I thought about it, but with the announcement of Pink’s pregnancy I was feeling a little sentimental…key word root “mental”).

Upon returning from their day away not one child commented on the Christmas decorations that had been set up. Onward we go.

Girlfriends

I have this friend, Jodi, we will call her Jodi because that is actually her name. When I write I try to take out the names and “depersonalize” things a bit, for several reasons. One being, I don’t want to offend anyone. But, it turns out Jodi was only offended that I did NOT use her name.

Jodi is a relatively new friend, our children dance together and we work together. She is also not called Jodi in our house. She is referred to as Jodeen…which is said in a long drawn out, lazy way as though we are from the south and headed over to her house for a glass of iced tea with a side of okra and grits. She is called this because it is her birth name, and once she had to write me a check for something, and when my husband went to deposit it, he happened to catch her name, her birth name, and it stuck.

In life, I have had some good friends. My grandmother used to quote Truman Capote as saying, (and this will be paraphrased per my memory) “I am lucky in life. I have had three really good friends,” in answer to a question from a reporter that implied he must have many, many friends. I always thought my grandmother was trying to tell me that really true friends are few and far between. That being said, I guess I don’t know how many friends I have, but I do have a lot of great people in my life. I have figured out that without great people in your life it is a little harder to cope. Many of these great people are my girlfriends. The girls, well ladies...well women now...that have come into my life and made a difference.

Several months ago I headed off to a reunion with my sorority sisters from college. Most of these girls I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Based on the emails flying back and forth before the event, it promised to be a great time, and it was. I shared a room with the same girls I shared a room with twenty years ago. It was exactly the same. We laughed at the same things, we got ready the same way, and if that damn mirror in the bathroom hadn’t been there to tell me otherwise, I would have assumed I was twenty again. My favorite pictures from the trip are not all the ones we posed for throughout the “dressed up” events we had, but instead the ones people snapped in the morning while we were having coffee and late at night when everyone was chatting and talking in bed.

My best friend from high school is still with me. Over the years the friendship has changed, grown, laid at rest only to wake back up again when we need each other. She is one of my Truman Capote friends. She was on my doorstep on 9/11, she was my first phone call when I had cancer, and she is my “go to” girl when I need a drink. Blessed am I to have had this girl in my life at fifteen and woman now, at forty two. My favorite picture of her is when I had my first child. She came in those first few days and she is laying down holding my oldest on her tummy. There is also a series of pictures of us from one year in the 90’s when, after an episode of Oprah on “How to Take Your Best Picture!” was aired we have our chins lifted so high we look like giraffes. This was before the instant digital checking we can do now, so it wasn’t discovered until a year’s worth of pictures were finally developed. She “gets me” in a way no other does and we have thirty years of shared history.

As my children grow and make friends I find a few keepers in their parents. Yesterday I had coffee with the mother of my oldest child’s best friend as we discussed plans for an upcoming prom (this will be a writing all by itself!). She is delightful, fun and always on the same page as me when it comes to parenting a teenager. The mother of my second child’s best friend is my summer and swim team companion…our hours together at the pool are something I look forward to each year as spring wraps up and summer looms ahead. We have several children the same age so there are shared experiences and some shared family traditions that have set in that I enjoy and look forward to.

My family is my first priority, it is my strength, it is my main focus in life, but these girlfriends are my support. My moments of calm and funny when all else around me is crazy and demanding. I cherish them and all that they bring to the table.

Wedding Weekend

Corey and I haven’t been to a wedding in years. Well, maybe one or two, here and there, but for the most part people our age are married and haven’t started divorcing yet, and our kids and their friends haven’t started getting married yet. Weddings are few and far between. This weekend we had two.

At first I couldn’t believe they fell on the same weekend. I was disappointed. I felt it would mean that I wouldn’t get to fully enjoy both as I would be worried about time, pacing and the overwhelming feeling of attending two important events in the same time period. But, I have been praying about just this thing lately. The idea is that I need to stop looking at all of my commitments as burdens, but instead begin embracing them and my busy life as a blessing. It is a good change in thought and it is turning in my mind slowly, making a positive difference.

They were two very different weddings, both of huge importance in my life and both far exceeded my expectations.

Friday night my brother got married. He is my younger brother. I was an only child for ten years before he came along, and I was desperate for a sibling and desperately in love with him from the minute he came. He is my best friend, we have always been close. As we got older life was crazy for me when I was having my kids and trying to work. A bartender, he would always take my midnight phone calls when one of my children was sick. He would then agree to come over and sleep on the couch and watch the Disney Channel with them all day so that I could go to work.

When the chaotic nature of my life subsided as my children grew older, his began. He met a girl, fell in love and in the blink of an eye he went from longtime single guy to committed father of one stepdaughter and two small children. It was a good change. It fit him and we loved her. As life happened, their marriage and wedding kept getting postponed, and we waited for it to all come together. And then this weekend it did.

I won’t give a blow by blow description of the day and all of the events. But, I will point out the highlights, the things I don’t need pictures for as they are forever embedded in my mind.

As children of divorce, when I got married it was still uncomfortable, my parents have always done fine, but there was a horrible awkwardness and underlying tension that would work its way into all family events that brought us together. I was reminded at Andrew’s wedding that time heals all wounds, and that things can come around in ways you would have never expected. At Andrew’s wedding there were photos that included parents and stepparents, a speech from my father that embraced his past life that made this all possible, and a fun moment watching Naomi (a women who cannot operate even the simplest of cameras) try to take pictures for my stepmother (a women who has professional cameras), and yes it was being done with the sunglasses on at the 8pm reception.

I will remember my brother standing alone watching his stepdaughter sing for them at the reception and then giving a speech that both honored his stepmother and stepdaughter in such a beautiful way that I cried. I will mostly remember being proud of my brother at every moment, and grateful that he found this amazing woman who loves him, and knowing that their future is very bright from this moment on.

It was one of those magical nights when everything is perfect. It was all things sentimental and perfect and it was a Newton wedding, so it was open bar…a great party on top of it all!

The next morning, after a Tylenol and large glass of water before I went to bed, I awoke to wedding number two.

I taught Samantha in the second year of my career. It was third grade. When I made a grade level change two years later, I would have her again for her fifth grade year. The next year I would have her sister Meagan as a fourth grader. They were an amazing family. Irish and fun, mom always brought Irish soda bread on St. Patrick’s Day, there were two older brothers. She was also a part of a special class. My first year of teaching had been a little rocky, with some very difficult students. That second year, Samantha’s year, brought me some amazing children, who were smart, dedicated, loved school and to be honest, they loved me.

As time goes on your memory fades, you forget things. As a teacher you don’t always hear how things turn out for those little faces that you loved and pushed for greatness. In my case, I had left the small town I taught in for the first eight years of my career, so having been gone for awhile, I really didn’t get follow up.

She found me on facebook. It was fun to see the grownup Samantha and her new baby. I asked her if she still kept up with her best friend from third and fifth grade, Liz. She said yes, and they were still best friends.

On Saturday I watched Samantha, Meagan, and best friend Liz all grown up walk down the isle at Samantha’s very beautiful and intimate family wedding. Liz’s mother remembered me and told me great things I said and written about Liz. Samantha’s mother told me this was a small family wedding, “and Mrs. Daniel just had to be a part of it.” She also told my husband the he had gotten even more handsome, so Corey was super happy he came as well. The girls remembered me in this really great way, remembered me as teacher who had made a difference in their lives. It was a rock star moment for sure. Today I am framing my picture with the girls, it will sit on my desk for the rest of my career.

So, I had this weekend where I was reminded in some really amazing ways that I was on the right path, both personally and professionally. It’s easy to forget where we are headed and that there is purpose. Wedding weekend was a lovely little reminder.

You Can Go To Rehab When Cancer is Over...

Naomi is a recovering alcoholic. I think now she has actually been sober longer than she ever drank. It has been so long I actually forget about it most of the time. The reason I don’t completely forget about it is because she is very worried she will pass the disease onto me. She has spent years telling me about the evils of alcohol and its place in our family. At strange times she will look at me over her sunglasses and let me know that alcoholism is hereditary, or she will interject with some random statistic on addiction.

This all goes out the window when she wants me to do something with her. Then she will hold liquor in front of me like a dog with a bone. “Let’s run to Macy’s.” She will say at six at night when I am winding down my day and exhausted. “I’ll tell you what, you have a “suds” (this what she calls beer) and then I will pick you up and drive us there.” Or sometimes when she knows I am at the end of my patience with her (and it is really her fault), she will announce, “Why don’t you sit down with a suds and I will wash your dishes."

She doesn’t need to worry. I have no plans on becoming an alcoholic, as I have no plans to give up something I really enjoy, and I really enjoy drinking. Naomi also doesn’t need to worry, because while I do enjoy a cocktail, it turns out you can’t drink those and then drive children around. So, with four children and a gazillion activities between them, I have no worries of becoming an alcoholic because I have very little time to drink. Thank God I had four children and married a man who doesn’t really drink, or quite honestly, the memoir would be more about recovery than “fun mom stories”.

The only time I got close to worrying was when I had cancer. When I was first diagnosed there were a lot of doctor’s appointments. At every new appointment there were the requisite hours of forms to fill out on me and ultimately my family history as well. They all asked the same questions…”Do you have a history of breast cancer in your family?” I didn’t. “How many pregnancies have you had?” Too many. “How many alcoholic drinks do you have during a week on average?” And here is where it got tricky. At the beginning I could answer truthfully…one to two drinks a week. However, as the stress and number of doctor’s appointments increased (as well as the fact that I didn’t have to go to work in the morning) and Naomi practically throwing “suds” down my throat to reduce my stress…I realized I was lying when I checked that box because one to two drinks a week was rapidly turning into one to two drinks a day.

I needn’t have worried for long, because after all the appointments and surgeries came chemo, and chemo was a quick cure for impending alcoholism. Cancer was depressing for a few reasons, one reason being that when chemo started NOTHING tasted good, including a glass of wine or a cold beer. Besides hair loss I am going to have to admit the saddest nights during chemo were when cocktail hour would roll around and a drink didn’t even sound good. In fact, I spent a lot of time trying to find something that tasted good (causing me to be one of those rare people that gains weight during chemo) and what I came up with was sour patch kids. So, chemo left me a huge mess when it was over…no hair, weight gain, bad skin, and because of the sour patch kids…a gum and teeth situation that my dentist and I are just now getting over three years later.

This being said, that while I do enjoy a drink here and there, I am not into medicine or pills of any kind. I have a high tolerance for pain, and I do not enjoy even baby aspirin. I am a “gut it out” kind of gal. This all changed with cancer, because it turns out when you have cancer there is a lot of medicine to take, and at certain points in the cancer process, a lot of that medicine is…pain medication.

I did not want to take any of it, but Naomi (who quite possibly does still enjoy a little high now and then) would ask at every appointment. The doctor would be talking and she would lean in, very serious, and say, “I just have one question…can we she have a prescription for Vicodin?” It turns out that when you have cancer, doctors don’t want to tell you no or have conflict in any way really, so they were grabbing the prescription pad faster then my mother could finish the sentence.

So, I had a lot of spare Vicodin floating around the house (well, at least whatever managed to stay after Naomi had grabbed a couple of pills whispering, “Just to help me get a good night’s sleep while my daughter has cancer.”). It turns out there were moments I needed it too. There were a couple of unexpected pain situations and sometimes just the need to fall asleep instead of being awake all night and thinking about what will happen to your kids if you die.

I was grateful for Naomi and her crazy, obsessive need to get me pain medication. One night I was thinking about taking the Vicodin when I couldn’t sleep, but I was feeling guilty about it and worried that all that Naomi had told me previously COULD be true, and I could become an addict because it DID run in my family…when Naomi called and said, “Take the damn Vicodin Kim. We all need to get through this. You can go to rehab when cancer is over.”

And there it was words to live by. Luckily, cancer is over, I did not have to go to rehab and I have returned to checking the box for social drinking. However, when it doubt, it is good to know you can go to rehab when cancer is over!

It's Good To Have Hair...

I have hair now. For a brief time (and by this I mean for one, super, long year) two years ago, I did not have hair. Breast cancer’s chemo had left me without hair. Shortly after receiving the news that you have cancer you will hear this next word…oncologist. Oncologist, in my mind, means chemotherapy. And certainly, with my group of honest and fast moving doctors there was never a moment that I did not know I was going to have chemotherapy.

However, in my mind, even though I knew it was crazy, I expected the oncologist to say, “Yes, you will have chemo. But, I have incredibly good news… you are the rare person who is going to have a new, fabulous chemo in which you will not loose your hair.” (After watching the documentary, I do feel possibly, that is what they said to Farrah Fawcett). It is not shocking to learn that the oncologist did not end up saying that. What he did do was recite a long list of possible side effects, none of which bothered me, until he got to the last one, where he said, “and then there is, of course, hair loss.” And then I cried.

After the news that I would loose my hair, I knew that I had about six weeks before it would actually fall out. This was a predicament because I have my hair colored, and I was due for a touch up. Now, while I feel that women need to keep themselves up, and I do not ever think that can be done at home doing your own color, I also didn’t feel like spending a $150 dollars on a fabulous coloring that was going to fall out. Certainly, I thought a small perk here is that I can run down to Walgreen’s and do the deed for a mere $5.99.

For the record, Naomi was not in agreement and had an absolute fit. And, for the record, Naomi was right it turned out horrid, but it also turned out all over my bathroom floor, so who cares. I avoided cameras and there is no record of the store bought hair color.

The reality is by the time the first round of chemo made its way through the listed side effects, I could care less about the hair loss and it was the LEAST of my worries. One night I pushed my fingers through my hair and when I looked down, the hair was in my fingers. I gave it another go and, yep, more hair.

In a moment of, “What the Hell inspiration,” I called my girls and we spent a fun hour hacking and shaving my hair until it was gone. When all was said and done, my three year old looked at me and said, “Mommy, you are beautiful.”

Really? Beautiful? Well this isn’t going to be so bad. The next morning I sat proudly in bed, still confident from last night’s announcement of my beauty. When my three year old came in, she made a horrific face and disappeared into my closet. She returned with a knit hat that someone had given me, “Here, I think you should wear this,” she announced before heading out the door, thus ending the “You look beautiful as a bald woman,” phase of chemo.

The truth was, I did not look beautiful bald. I get that there are some women that really rock that look and embrace it when they go through the whole process, and I had planned on being one of them, but it just wasn’t going to happen. So I wore a knit cap at home and a baseball cap for doctor’s visits, but as we all know, life goes on, and so it did, even though for me it felt stopped.

A wig was purchased for those “life goes on” moments and I did the best I could. The wig never felt right to me. It was awkward and hot. Simply put, I hated it…a lot. But, my cousin was getting married and there were family pictures, and I would need to return to teach a group of fourth graders for the last month of the school year so, on we went with the wig.

Eventually, I was done with the wig. I put on a baseball hat the last week of school and it stayed on until there was enough hair to look as though the cut was a decision I had made. When I finally wore the baseball cap that last week of school, I was worried about the kids in my class. I need not have. During the last week, at a very hot outdoor moment, I took off the cap to rub my head and let it breathe. At this moment Brittany (a fabulous little girl, who was a favorite, even though I am not supposed to have them) said, “I am glad you are wearing the hat. It is good to have the real you here.”

After the year had ended and summer began, I found myself at Disneyland with Naomi. It was a great trip. One of those, “Thank God I am on the other side of this!” moments. One day found us at the new “Princess Extravaganza.” Basically Disney had moved all the princesses into one area and they put on shows, arts and crafts, and signed autographs. On this day they all entered the “Extravaganza Area” by walking down the aisles and then floating onto the stage. As I sat there with Naomi, it hit me. I punched her and said, “Oh my God! That’s what I had…with my wig…really BAD Disney Princess hair!” Naomi started to deny it, you could see it as her lips moved together, but in the end she looked at them and said, “Yes, that really is the look you had going.” And we laughed, until tears ran down our faces and we could laugh no more.

I am not certain what the statute of limitations is on my hair situation. I know this…I should never complain about my hair. I know this, but sometimes I want to. I don’t like the cut, I’m not happy with the color, I wish it would look differently when I straighten it, and the list goes on. But, since I have been hairless, I feel I have no right to complain. And because of this I often say when people compliment me on my hair, “Well, yes, it is good to have hair!” And it is.

My Marriage is Fine...

My husband is upset by the way he is portrayed in my writing. Apparently he hasn’t been with me long enough (18 years) to understand that when I referred to our marriage as “fine,” I meant…fabulous, amazing, wonderful, and superb. I feel it was implied.

Before you go and feel sorry for him, please understand that the same lack of sentimentality gets him off the hook for both birthdays and Valentine’s Day. I will get myself what I want for my birthday, I don’t expect him to be guessing and surprising me. Valentine’s Day is perhaps the biggest waste of time I have ever seen. And, to be clear, Valentine’s Day isn’t one of those things where I say I don’t care or want anything, but I secretly expect something great…I really could care less about the day.

The thing about my husband is this…he is most definitely the right person for me. I don’t usually tell him that, because quite honestly, to tell him would be contradictory to all the work that I put into making him believe that he can’t live without me (which he can’t). But, in reality, he is the only person I should have ended up with.

I’ll just say it, I’m crazy. No, really, I am crazy in many ways. We have four kids, we are ridiculously overcommitted, I think the house should be really clean, I work full time, and then I sign up for an insane amount of extra things at work, church, and with the kids. I know that I am a little (and by this I mean a lot) hard to handle. And this is where I know that he is the right person for me…because he just accepts it and handles it. To be honest, he not only handles it, he will generally take the bullet/dive on his sword when things aren’t going well. He will admit it is ALL his fault when we have a problem, and I will let him admit it is ALL his fault when we have a problem, but in reality many times… it is my fault.

When we got married I was that rare woman that didn’t really care about the wedding. My father offered up cash if we eloped, and I wanted to take that deal. But, my husband wanted the wedding and we had one. He was right. It was a great day full of truly fabulous memories. The hard part was in the planning. Not for me, but for anyone who had to make or produce things for the wedding. Florists, cake lady, and the list goes on were all met by the same phrase when they asked me what I would like, “Oh, I don’t know, you’ve done this many times, what do you think?” You would think they would love this freedom, but in actuality everyone seemed a little unnerved by my carefree approach to wedding planning.

The dress cost $150.00 (I am proud of this, not ashamed, so it you were someone who had a really fabulous, expensive wedding dress don’t feel sorry for me), it was the first one I tried on at a discount bridal shop, and the alterations and my rehearsal dinner dress both cost more than my actual wedding dress. It was my opinion, then and now, that the dress was a two minute gig. People were going to decide when I hit the church door if they liked it or not, and at that moment it doesn’t matter how much money you spent on the dress. At some point the bridesmaids even revolted when I announced I didn’t care what kind of shoes they purchased. They banned together to decide on matching shoes as they thought that would be more appropriate. And for the record I know of at least two bridesmaids that wore their dresses again.

I wanted to put my money where it would really count…the bar and food. We have a great picture of my dad at the end of the night that proves I invested wisely.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care about our wedding, it was that I was more focused on the marriage. Good advice from my pastor, “Most people are worried about the wedding, I encourage you to think about the marriage.” I was ready to be married, felt certain I was way behind schedule (I was 24, so obviously I had no real sense of what “way behind” was), and seriously in love for the first time in my life. I feel certain we have no business lasting as long as we have based on the ridiculous lack of questioning and planning we did before the marriage, but here we are.

I’m not sure what constitutes a good marriage. Certainly, as time goes by fewer and fewer people commit to the institution for a great length of time, and even some who give it years, beg off in the end. I do know there are ebbs and flows to the whole thing. There are moments I am caught up in the idea that I have married this perfect person, and that I have made the very best decision any girl could ever make and then again, moments where I am contemplating my exit strategy.

Maybe it lasts because I have the sense to know that there are going to be those highs and lows. Maybe it lasts because we both work at it. Maybe it lasts because when we think of starting over with someone else (and telling said person we have four kids) it seems like way to much work. When Tipper and Al Gore separated after 40 years of marriage a friend of mine said, “What’s the point? Why would you want to start over with someone else after all that work.” Agreed.

I am a firm believer in this, “You can’t change other people, you can only change yourself and the way you react to other people.” And in the end, I think that is what we have done. We haven’t changed each other, but we changed some things for each other. I’m not as sarcastic (yes, I know hard to believe if you know me, this is me way toned down) because it was a little too much for him. He’s more involved in our house and things that need to get done for our lives to run efficiently. There are not as many screaming matches when we try to agree on household projects.

I know this…he still thinks I’m funny and cute, and I still think he is ambitious and handsome, and we still laugh. So there it is…my marriage is going fine, just fine thank you!