Category Archives: Writing

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It’s Opening Day

Today is opening day at Fenway Park. And as a fan of Boston teams, I can honestly say that I don’t care. Baseball is, in my opinion, one of the most boring sports to spectate. I don’t mind playing, in fact I rather enjoy playing the sport. But it is incredibly boring to sit and watch, it really is. Two of my brothers are attending the game, and I hope that they actually win because one of them has never been to a winning Sox game. In fact, I tried to convince him not to go, because opening day would be a terrible day to curse the team. I’m not a fan of the sport, but it doesn’t mean I don’t root for them when I do watch or want to see them lose.

This also means the start of little league season. I find little league much more tolerable, probably because I’m a biased proud mother of an awesome short stop. (No jokes here, he really does play short stop.) I think it’s more than that. Little leaguers are silly, unfocused, and you really have to laugh watching the games sometimes. However, they play with a lot more heart and grit than you see the pros and that makes it a fantastic thing to see. I can’t wait until practices start, so I can pretend to fit in with the other “baseball moms” and watch our little team hopefully kick the crap out of that snot-nosed team. You know that team, that one in all the television shows that bully the others. Yes, I will cross my fingers and hope they overpower them again, and every other time they face them. Because I like underdogs, and I hate arrogance.

So go on and cheer for your teams. I only hope for a dismal season like last year so maybe my boys can see a game this year for a cheap price with decent seats. Otherwise, I hope they make it into the playoffs and World Series because my son loves them and deserves not to wait 20 years for it. Or 80 like everyone else. And don’t be a pink hatter. If there’s anything I hate more than arrogance, general a-holery, and manipulative people, I hate ones that only stick around for the good. Liking a team doesn’t make you cool, sticking by your losing team does. And for the others like me that loathe this sport: that’s why they serve alcohol at the games. That, and to forget your team sucks.

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It’s Easier to Ask for Forgiveness Than It Is To Get Permission

Every time I see friends of mine with their partners, I always give one bit of advice: It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission. I don’t do it to be serious, but because I find it hilarious. It’s not real advice they should listen to, it’s the rationale you give yourself when you do something you wanted that your partner disapproved of. What kind of relationship is that, when people do whatever they want without any regard to their partner? I sat around considering this idea of relationships when a few of my friends “put a ring on it”, and are embarking on a fantastic part of their life I’m glad I can watch and say I’ve been through successfully.

The real key to success is not letting the other forget the person they really are and allow them to forget who they are. I used to think that my husband changed me, that he calmed me down but allowed me to still be the quirky and neurotic me who still regains a bit of free spirit. I thought about that, and I realized he didn’t change anything about me. The “calm” that I have now has nothing to do with my husband at all; it’s a result of the natural maturity that occurs as we age. Maturity doesn’t mean you because some boring older version of yourself, it just means that you outgrew everything that differentiates an adult and an adolescent. I wonder if that means that getting drunk on wine and not vodka is a part of this maturity.

In this growth, I wonder if that’s what the difference between a “relationship” and a relationship. A “relationship” is where two people come together under the façade of an actual relationship, but really is an ownership or superficial version that most of us go through in high school. A relationship is where two people grow together, where compromise and common ground is the key and you push each other to follow dreams and allow each other to be the person you fell in love with. It’s easy to be with another person, it’s not easy to be a part of another person’s life. As  I near 30, I’m glad I found this person that follows my idea of what a relationship should be. I hate dating, and I’m definitely glad not to have to be a part of the crowd every again. But what better way to go into the “age of actual adulthood”, than with a partner and not an owner or alone.

People will probably disagree with me, that’s perfectly fine. I’m probably narrow-minded to believe that a relationship equals a partnership. I firmly believe that though, and if you’re constantly bending or miserable then that’s really your problem and I don’t feel guilty that I’m not. I should, but I don’t. It’s not easy to walk away; it’s easier to allow yourself to get lost. Some people like the easy way out. I don’t. I don’t like to settle, I don’t like to bend and I certainly don’t like the idea of not being myself. I wish everyone else the happiness I’ve found and I urge everyone to find a partner too. Notice I said partner.

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Once Upon a Time

I do at least try to write a post every “blog” day. Most of the time they get deleted, I refuse to post based on quality of content, or I really just dislike what was written. If I complete a post I hated, it sits rotting away in the draft folder on this site. Not anymore, or so I’ve just decided. Now you can see the rejects and mock them or myself for posting them whenever I really just can’t sit and dedicate the time for a decently lengthed post. Today, a rejected post about reality television. Enjoy!

Once upon a time, I put up a novella length short story on the Kindle e-book store for $0.99. It’s worth a look and less expensive than most good candies these days. There is a link on the side of my page that says “Buy my works” that’ll lead you to my author page and to my first publication. Now that I’m done with my shameless self-promotion, to my post.

Once upon a time, reality shows only consisted of extreme competitions for an amount of money that didn’t seem worth it. (Survivor, anyone?) We’d watch it, the sadists that we are to see people suffer in extremely dire and staged situations that we knew were fake but still bit our nails anyways. I never watched them, but I recall at my former workplace a co-worker called me to remind me that Big Brother was on. This was a show she told me was fantastic, I tried to watch it I really did. I couldn’t make it without going crazy because they seemed to have picked the most annoying, cocky, and idiotic people who could and shoved them into a house for our enjoyment. We really just watched to see them fight and plot against each other. If I wanted to see that, I’d relive high school. You get the same emotions without the promise of a $10,000 prize. Soon followed shows like Bachelor/ette, and a downward spiral to evil began.

Then in this fairy tale of reality shows, something happens. The television rulers decided “hey, let’s come up with the weirdest things ever, and make a show of them”. They started small by giving people with multiple kids due to fertility treatments or religious beliefs a show. Then they gave little people shows. Then… then they decided to get weirder. Shows like My Strange Addiction, where a guy is in love with his car, or a show like Virgin Diaries were shown. They tossed in a polygamist and some Amish people which seemed a bit more normal than the previous set.

Eventually, things turned bad. Very bad. My eyes looked at the television in awe that there was an 80-year-old doing seductive yoga to try to seduce a man in his mid-20’s. Part of me wants to applaud her, the other part makes me wonder why they made a show over this. Then I see a commercial for an Amish mafia show. Ok television gods, I can handle the whiny and privileged housewives because they gave me NeNe Leakes and I enjoy The New Normal and her character on Glee. I even didn’t mind that you give a television show to a guy with a bad weave or one to extreme cheapskates/couponers. I draw the line at half-naked old women laying the moves on people my age and an Amish man “keying” a buggie.

I thought I had seen it all when a guy was making out and sexually caressing his car. I thought they couldn’t get worse than someone who loves pink so much that she dyed her adorable little Maltese pink. You should’ve stopped there, you really should’ve. I know you’re getting desperate for ideas, but I think there was a line you crossed long ago. They shouldn’t be called “reality tv” anymore. I recommend calling it the “preplanned bizarre hour”. I appreciate coming up with new ideas, I really do. But please, oh please, I can’t handle this anymore. On a side note, I will probably watch an episode of the Amish Mafia. If I can survive an episode of Honey BooBoo, I’m sure that’d be a more entertaining cake walk.

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The Easter Bunny Never Forgets

In all my parenting emails and reading parenting magazines, I saw several articles about making the holiday fun and exciting for your kids. I saw a few stress-free party ideas. I never once saw an article about “Survival Guide to In-Laws and Other Awkward Situations”. Luckily, all my In-Laws are nice people. It’s really not their fault I’m an anti-social shut in that doesn’t know how to associate with other people. It’s actually a miracle my husband puts up with me, because sometimes I lack any sense of what’s appropriate and not. So far, I don’t think I’ve offended them so let’s hope I keep up the streak.

For instance, I was more excited that I dared to try on a “pre-pregnancy” shirt to see if it fit so I didn’t have to wear my husband’s shirts like I do around the house. A miracle, it fit! I tried on another, with similar luck. I tried on the jeans, and that wasn’t even close. I say it all the time, but “little victories”. Sad to say, I was actually more excited about this than the holiday. I should be ashamed that I said that, but I’m honestly not. I feel very awesome at this time.

The truth is, your mother and mother in law will never let you forget that you gained weight. They don’t do it purposely, and I doubt it’s really malicious. I think it’s just nature to note things of that nature, and they decide that you deserve to know whether you want the reminder or not. So when one mentions that you’ve lost a lot of weight, you get giddy like a schoolgirl and get excited. In my head, I squealed with delight. I’m not entirely sure whether it was just in my head. I really don’t care though, I just want to fit in my clothes again and feel like a human. Or I’ll settle for “just like a me”.

No matter how long you’ve known your in-laws or have been married into the family, I still feel like there’s a need to make sure they don’t hate you. They don’t need to like you just because you’re part of the family. They can sense insincerity and will definitely prey an any weakness that might make them consider you as unworthy of their child’s affections. So the big tip is to be yourself, but a more tamed and better version of yourself. Bite your tongue more often than you normally would and smile and nod when you need to. If you keep those in mind, you’ll be fine and you’ll have a happy life with your spouse. Mostly because every holiday won’t be a fight because you’ll actually enjoy spending time with them.

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Holidays As The Children Age

When my oldest son was born, I thought it would be a sad day when I didn’t have to do the whole Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy thing. It gave some sort of purpose on the holidays, something that made them extra excited for the holiday. That all went away two years ago when my son, at his 8th birthday party mind you, asked “is there such thing as Santa?” He gave me those eyes that said “Mom, you promised never to lie to me” but worried because he knew the answer and it made him sad. “No, Dylan. We bought you those Santa presents.” He didn’t seem upset. “Does that mean  you left me the Easter Baskets and money for my teeth?” “Yes, that was us too.” Finally he looked deeply concerned. “What’s wrong  sweet pea?” I asked him. “What did you do with all my teeth then?” He was horrified when he asked. It seemed he thought I had some sort of creepy tooth collection. “They went in the trash Dylan.” And that was that, to him Santa and all the other childhood heroes died. And he was completely okay when he was assured he would still receive presents.

Since then, I didn’t have to stay up until midnight praying that soon I can get sleep since at 6a.m I’ll have him jumping on my bed saying “presents and bacon!”. Now I can go to sleep at a reasonable hour, don’t have to run around last-minute because I forgot Easter was coming and no place has a basket. I just buy him a bunch of candy and call it a day, and he’s 100% happy. I don’t have to run around hiding Easter eggs and praying I remembered where I put them all, because you always forget one when you map them out and regret it later. I don’t even have to worry if I have money to toss under a pillow of a child I hope is actually asleep when I do it. It’s a lot less sneaking around and a lot more of enjoying the time with family.

If I were a more sentimental person, I’d be a little sad by how grown up my oldest child is now and mourn a childhood I took away when I crushed his little fairy tale bubble. I’m not going to lie, I cringe thinking of starting this routine all over again with my baby when he’s old enough. It has to be done, and I’m sure I’ll forget all the stress of it when I see the same glow in his eyes that I’ve seen in Dylan’s before. You just have to remember that the holidays are no longer yours when you have kids. It’s all about making it more enjoyable for them and balancing it because you always want to do better, and if you go too extreme once, you have to double the efforts next time.

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When Facebook Campaigns

It seemed like most people I knew changed their profile picture on Facebook to the red and pink equal sign. This made Facebook gaming difficult since some games only give you a profile picture, not a name, to send scores and such too. A minor inconvenience for the greater good of a cause, I’m sure. I don’t follow into these sort of things. When I think “man there’s a cause I need to support”, my first thought isn’t to change my profile picture on Facebook like everyone else to stand for a cause. I’m more of a doer, not a sit back and change my picture for a cause to show I’m involved. I don’t like to be a follower. I also don’t like Facebook trends like that. People think it matters and seem to pressure you into doing it by either bully (“do this or you have no soul.”) or by the simple psychological warfare that is “peer pressure”. No, I don’t support bullying or think cancer is awesome. But I don’t need to repost something every day to prove it.

I promise, that long-winded rant isn’t the point of this blog. I just really needed to say that. The real point was that these people were banding together in support of equal rights. I’ve posted many times on this blog about gay marriage, and I really don’t hide my support for this. This current trend of support has its reasons though: this week gay marriage is on the docket at the Supreme Court. Will they ban Proposition 8? Is the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional? Everyone is wondering which way they’re going to go with the decisions, and I flip-flopped on my opinion of what the court was going to decide. At first, I felt that the courts would just leave the issue up to the states and washing their hands of this controversial topic. After hearing some soundbites, I decided I was wrong. I believe the courts will legalize gay marriage. They will decide that what happens in the bedroom isn’t anyone’s business.

I changed my theory when I realized that at some point, interracial marriage wasn’t allowed. As someone who is happily married in an interracial marriage, I realize that my life would be completely different if it was still illegal. Thankfully, people fought for me to have the right to marry anyone I want of any race I want in and in 1967 they said that preventing this was unconstitutional. On that same idea, gay rights today is what the civil rights movement was back in the 60’s. With that precedent, it makes sense that the courts would come back saying banning gay marriage is unconstitutional. Let’s hope common sense pulls through.

I’m a firm believer that we all deserve the pursuit of happiness. The constitution promises this. There’s really no religious reason not to allow it, when you consider that religion tells you to love your fellow people. I hate to think that religion tries to teach us love, but preaches so much hate. You say the government should stay out of our lives, that the government is too intrusive in personal liberties by not allowing people to not have health insurance or guns, but telling people who they can marry is apparently perfectly fine? Then you should take a hard look at your reasoning. I hope they make a fair decision and stay out of the business of telling people who they can love and marry.

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When Television Hits Home

I definitely enjoy television. Maybe too much. My evenings are dedicated to sitting around with my loved ones and watching shows together. I’m not discriminatory about the shows I watch; I appreciated anything moderately well written, entertaining, and moderately well acted. I enjoy some crime procedurals, mostly comedies, and a few assorted others. I enjoy getting lost in a good show as much as I enjoy getting lost in a movie or book. Sometimes the more mindless and questionable the humor, the more I enjoy it.

Sometimes though, you see a show and you relate to it. Most of the time something happens on a sitcom and you say to yourself “well crap, that happened to me this morning” and laugh along with the main character because you know exactly how that it. I suppose that’s why sitcoms are so relatable: the deep down core of the story is something we’ve all experienced in some form. Most of the time the characters themselves are just more attractive versions of us laughing their way through crazy families and when the daily routine goes wrong. We laugh, hoping it doesn’t happen to us or we laugh because it has.

Sometimes though, those pesky dramas we watch tug at our hearts. I’ve become a big fan of that new show “Monday Mornings”. It’s by David E. Kelley, who’s known for his colorful and eccentric characters tossed into dramatic shows. I’ve been a fan of his since I first saw Ally McBeal. I can’t stay up for the show so I usually entrust it to my beloved DVR, and watch it later with my husband. This past weekend was that later. (I’ll try not to spoil it.) There, they  had an infant about 2 months old going into surgery. They showed the little thing getting wheeled into the OR attached to tubes, and I looked at my little baby. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

It’s becoming more real that I have to see my son like that. I don’t think about it normally, it makes me a little sad when I do. Next month I see his surgeon for the last consult before the big day in June. I know I need to keep my calm, I know I’m known for that. I’ll probably make inappropriate jokes to mask my nervousness, though the procedure is routine enough. In the back of my head, I’ll constantly be thinking of “people die all the time during routine procedures”. A doctor has a difficult job because if they have a bad day, it can cost a person their life. I try not to think about it, and I know it seems silly since I should have nothing to worry about. The image of him being wheeled into the ER will probably stick with me until it happens, and will probably haunt me after. People say that God doesn’t give you more than you can deal with, but I wonder if that’s some lie we like to tell ourselves to gain strength. I don’t care though, something tells me I’ll need every little bit wherever I can get it.

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Nurture, Nature, and… Harvard?

Today I start with bragging rights of “I had Harvard on my brackets”. This probably isn’t noteworthy, but I’ll brag anyways because this is my first time engaging in the March Madness Hoopla. I’m only doing it for the prizes and money, I haven’t watched a game yet and I don’t intend to start. Basketball bores the heck out of me, but winning stuff doesn’t.

Also I would like to take a minute to note the passing of Chinua Achebe. I read Things Fall Apart in college in a class about Colonialism and Literature. The class was as interesting as I’d hope, and this was one of the many fantastic novels we had to read as a part of it. I also acknowledge that if it weren’t for that class, I never would have bothered to read this and I hope if you haven’t read it, you will.

Now to business.

I sometimes wonder if children become experiments after you have your first one. You do some tweak of something you may have done the first time to see what happens with the next one. I formula fed one, fed pumped milk to the other. I did everything right during one pregnancy and pretty much everything wrong the other. One I worked several hours and the other I stayed at home. I learned something valuable from this experiment: there’s no difference in either child. Except for size, but my husband is a foot taller than my ex, so that’s more genetics than anything.

This makes me wonder if it isn’t the differences that matter, but the key elements that were the same. I raised them in as calm and loving as an environment as I was capable. I made sure that no matter what, I tucked them even if they were sleeping already. I set boundaries, I punished when those boundaries were crossed. I’m not afraid to say no, and I don’t feel guilty for it. I expect them to do their best at everything they do, and give them the opportunities and time to try to excel. How do you do this with a baby? I let him roam the floor while I stay close enough to make sure he stays safe, but allow the freedom to go where he wants safely. (Obviously, stairs are gated off and cabinets locked.) I do let him fall if it’s safe enough, catching him with pillows or my arms. I never yell, and make sure no one else does as well. I always praise my children, and tell them how to improve to do better.

This is comforting. It shows to me that it doesn’t matter if you nurse, pump, or give formula. Aside from the baby who had breastmilk was sick less often and less severe than the other, there is really no difference between the two. They are both well-mannered, happy and healthy. That’s all that matters. This means no one should feel pressures to do anything but their best, because nothing else matters.

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How We Celebrated St. Patrick’s Day

My Monday’s post didn’t get lost in a hangover fueled by the excuse everyone uses to be Irish and get drunk at a parade. We didn’t attend a parade, nor can I even drink to try. Instead, half of our family spend it eating that disgusting slop known as “boiled dinner”, while my husband feasted on NyQuil, my oldest son sneezing all over the baby, and the baby being funneled full of Tylenol and juice. I had pizza and Chinese food, that’s how I celebrated. Hooray for colds, not that we would’ve taken the baby to a parade in a part of a city I don’t want to be in anyways in the middle of a freezing day. Everyone’s illness by Monday was no better, so the post really got lost in a baby who was too busy coughing, sneezing, running a fever, and not wanting to leave Mommy.

I did get to celebrate Monday with the second true Irish art: our tempers. Easily flared, easily passed. At least, I thought they normally pass quick. This apparently doesn’t apply when your child is nearly harmed. In picking up my older son at his CCD classes, he was nearly hit by a car parked inside the area where the CCD kids are dismissed. He didn’t pay attention, and sped off in his fancy car picking up his children from the school’s after school program, nearly running down my son. If it weren’t for me screaming “Dyl, stop!!”, this post would be an entirely different and much angrier post. The guy didn’t stop when he saw me running and screaming, he floored it and left. The gate on that side is normally shut to prevent these measures, but not today.

This wouldn’t have been a big issue if the guy would’ve driven a little slower, if he had paid a little attention, or even if he cared enough to be a decent human being after the incident to stop and apologize for being (pardon my french) a giant asshole. After the fact I realized I should have taken a picture of the car and license plate, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so shaky with rage and terror the picture probably wouldn’t have come out well. Then I comfort myself by saying, “what would I do with a picture? Being a douche isn’t a crime”. Two bad words, my apologies. See, apologizing isn’t hard fancy rich man who thinks he’s better than me.

I did the responsible and mature thing and emailed the head of the CCD program the next day, when I was calm enough to be an adult and not revert to my “give ’em hell” temper. As of yet, nothing. I don’t know if I really care if she apologizes or not, though one would be fantastic. I am sure that I want to make sure that this incident doesn’t happen to another child at this school. I’m also sure if she pins any blame on me or my son, I’ll make noise. Because my child’s safety is her concern until I get him into the car to go home with me.

When it comes to our children, we turn into completely different people. We because vicious and protective, daring anyone to “try me”. They say “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”. I don’t believe that’s the case. There is no rage like one a parent can easily fly into when their child is in danger. We’re tirelessly protective and eager to keep them safe at any cost. When I heard someone tried to bully my older son (tried, my son smart talked his way out of it and it never happened again), I won’t lie and say I didn’t want to hunt the kid down myself and show him what a real bully is. If someone tried to kidnap him or harm him seriously in any way, I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t try to severely injure that person. There’s something primal that eats away at our civility when it comes to protecting our children. That’s the way we should feel though, it’s normal to want to protect your child from everything you can and give them the best you can.

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If Only I Were Taller

My husband is a sleeper. I don’t mean sleeper terrorist, I mean someone who enjoys sleep more than most other things in his life. He can sleep through almost anything, including crying babies to a small degree. I worried when he decided that we should expand our family that him giving up sleep wouldn’t happen. The first week home from the hospital I realized how wrong I was. He got up and was willing to help at any hour of the night. Then he went back to work, but would get up when he thought I needed help to jump right in. That man was born to be a father.

In our baby’s first six months, we’re lucky he only had one or two colds. Both only lasted a day or two without any incidence. He basically is his father’s baby and just slept right through the whole thing. The only fever he’s ever had was after he received his vaccines, and even then he just slept right through it. He’s a baby that tolerates most things well, even teething he had a few bad days, but it could have been a lot worse.

That all changed last night when I woke up to a cry I’ve never heard before. As soon as I picked up my little crying boy, I realized he was on fire, figuratively speaking of course. My husband was sleeping, and I went to get the Tylenol, only I couldn’t reach it in the cabinet, I couldn’t even see it. I didn’t want to have to wake up my husband, not just because he gets grumpy when he’s tired but because he’s a worrier. I love that about him; he’s the type of guy that when you get a nasty sunburn because you’re as pale as a ghost and thought that 35 SPF was enough, would buy out the entire section of burn care to fix you. I woke him up asking for him to get the Tylenol, and he wanted to hold the baby because he thought maybe I was wrong. As soon as our boy was in his arms, he handed him off and jumped out of bed and ran to get the medicine.

I was right about the worrying, every noise that came from the crib after that moment, he would immediate sit up and see if the baby was okay. He worried that we should have quarantined patient 0, our oldest son, to have prevented this. Either way, the baby was going to get sick because I was starting to get sick myself. It’s no fun when there are sick kids at home, and it really tests you. I’m lucky I have a partner in this that will make you take a nap while making us supper and making sure the boys are fed. I’m grateful he’s a great father and husband and I know not everyone is as fortunate to have someone to help you through even the simple things. I also learned a valuable lesson: I should move the medicines our kids use on shelves I can reach without climbing on countertops. Climbing isn’t easy with an infant in your arms.