tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36098530561719111432024-02-20T08:50:05.423-05:00Suburban Rebel MomSRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.comBlogger338125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-90975500974773587482014-02-23T16:02:00.001-05:002014-02-23T16:04:17.362-05:00Our Kingdom At LastMy lack of blogging lately correlates to the subject of today. I'd apologize for the lack of posting but let's face it, we all know as parents how quickly time can slip away. And these past few months have been chaos cubed. Why? Because as of Christmas time, J and I decided that we were finally ready to make the biggest purchase of our life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
We're buying a home.</div>
<br />
<br />
Ever since we moved down here to NC over six years ago, I've been missing that feeling of owning our own little kingdom, with a fenced backyard, rooms for each boys, and an office J could work in. But it took us six years to become debt free (yay!) and have enough to put down for a down payment. Still, six years isn't too bad in the grand scheme of things to go from where we were to now. But I regret the fact that it took so long not to give the boys something so many take for granted with their own rooms to really decorate as they please, and place I can kick them outside free of worry until dinner time as I was told when I was growing up.<br />
<br />
We sat down months ago to figure out exactly what we needed and what we wanted. Our main goal was to stay in the same town we live in now as everyone feels like it is home. We had to have a minimum of four bedrooms so that each boy had their own space instead of sharing as they have since we came down to NC. We needed an office space for J. And most importantly, we needed a backyard, preferably fenced. And we needed it all within our budget.<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, we found the perfect house that fit every single criteria on the first day of house hunting. With our feisty agent, Y, in our corner, we waded the waters of offering, paperwork, mortgage, inspectors, and everything else that comes along with house purchasing. All of the stress (not much because Y is amazing and I'm so glad she had our back) and time was worth it. This Friday we shall have the keys to our kingdom placed into our hands and finally own our own home in NC.<br />
<br />
The boys have been promised that they can choose whatever they want to decorate their very own rooms. Each boy has been promised one wall mural, something I have been wanting to do for them for ages. Soren has chosen Plants vs. Zombies (of course). Ashe is leaning towards Zelda (of course) and Xavier is still considering his options. Ashe wants a black room, Soren, red, and Xavier is still considering his options. All three want Christmas lights strewn about their room. <br />
<br />
There are two sheds in the backyard, one of which I am going to convert into a clubhouse for the boys. I've already loaded up my amazon cart with a rope ladder, rock wall pieces, a ship wheel with a periscope. I'm purchasing chalkboard paint to paint one wall for them to color as they please, and have priced out the materials to build a sandbox with shade covering. I'm looking into hammock chairs to hang from the ceiling. Oh and I can't forget the zip cord, the most important thing I promised years ago.<br />
<br />
There are gardens in the backyard and each boy is getting one plot as their own. Soren wants to plant flowers. Xavier wants to plant tomatoes. Ashe wants an Apple tree. Now I have to find an apple tree.<br />
<br />
So this is why I've been absent, amongst other life stuff. I'm looking around my townhouse now, to see boxes and crates stacked haphazardly like wobbly Legos, and all I can think of is that I have to figure out how to make this next week fly. Because quite frankly, every single one of us is desperate for Friday to arrive. Every single one of us is dying to finally have that one thing we have all been wanting for a very long time. A perfect little place that we can honestly say is our home. really, truly ours.<br />
<br />
Wish us luck!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-15957634451108000052013-12-16T09:00:00.000-05:002013-12-16T09:00:07.067-05:00Scrapbook 2013<br />
Happy holidays everyone! It is that time of year when I pull out every photo of the boys I have taken over the past year, pick my favorites, and create my virtual scrapbook. It's always one of my favorite projects to work on. <br />
<br />
This year was a crazy rollercoaster ride for us at the SRM household. We've had new additions added to our family (which reminds me to post the blog about our newest family member... must get on that soon). We've had family move closer, family friends move from the north east to join us in NC, Xavier started middle school, and so much more. My apologies for the lack of reading material. I am finding that free time where I am actually awake and coherent is nonexistent lately. Maybe for Christmas this year I will ask Santa for more time in the day. I wonder if I've been good enough?<br />
<br />
Anyways I hope that all of you are doing well, enjoying the end of the year, and I raise my glass of spiked eggnog to you in celebration. Enjoy the humorous antics of my boys, my gift to you!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/48wazZJMXXI" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-17481526159243456112013-12-12T09:30:00.000-05:002013-12-12T09:30:00.500-05:00It's Been Seven Years, Ashe<br />
It's always amazing to me when another year has gone by and I look at my boy standing there, so proud, so excited that he is a new age, and yet, I can remember in vivid detail the day he was born. For each parent and child I am sure that this is common. But Ashe... Ashe is special. He was born on December 12 at 12:11 pm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>12/12 12:11</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<br />
Do you know how many times, my lovely Ashe, that I have been asked why I didn't hold you in for one more minute so that you were born 12/12 12:12pm? Do you know how many times I have had to hold back from smacking those idiots? Of course, they do not realize that by that time I had been holding you back for ten minutes while the doctor ran as fast as she could to make it from the opposite side of the hospital, after already trying to keep you at bay from being born in the car during a five minute car ride to the hospital. Or that she barely skidded into the room when I yelled "Catch!" and you were born. And of course, they don't realize that, let's be honest here, there really is no such thing as holding you back. <br />
<br />
The fact that you were born on 12/12 at 12:11 and not 12:12 is just another reminder that you are the writer, performer, and conductor to your own epic soundtrack of your life. You are the hero of your story, unstoppable, undefeated! No one can take that away from you, nor should anyone try.<br />
<br />
Seven years, my love. Seven years you have graced us with your vibrant soul. It seems that not nearly enough time has passed for you to be seven while also trying to remember what life was like before you entered the world like a comet in a blaze of glory, hell bent to make your entrance to this glorious world known far and wide. I can barely remember life without you. I don't want to know life without you. <br />
<br />
You make life so much more! More of everything! More fun! More loud! More inspiring! More chaotic! More frustrating! More fulfilling! More worthwhile!!!<br />
<br />
You, my child, will go far in life in whatever you do. You own this stage called life, and you know it. And while sometimes this knowledge you keep creates many situations where I want to pull out my hair in frustration as you make some sarcastic comment with that little smirk on your face, totally confident in yourself, that confidence you exude as a child will be a huge strength as you grow and reach maturity. It will lift you up when you stumble and push you to move forward when many people would just stop and stay down after their fall.<br />
<br />
My advice to you child, as you grow... don't stay down when you stumble. Don't ever stay down. You were made, not to fall, but to <strong><em><u>fly</u></em></strong>. And you will fly high. <br />
<br />
<br />
I watch you now, at seven years old. So confident. So funny. So amazingly smart. So stubborn. So full of life. Everyone you touch is forever changed for the better. You make everyone laugh. You make them smile. You make them think. You make them wonder in delight. Seven years old and you can do all that and more. <br />
<br />
Ashe, you are amazing. Never change your ways for anyone. And please, never forget that you are SO loved, that I can't even begin to describe to you in a blog, or through our chats just how much you are loved and cherished by me, your father, your brothers, your grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends.....<br />
<br />
You are SO loved. And my love, may I wish for you today the most happiest of birthdays, and an awe filled year ahead of you.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><u><em><span style="font-size: large;">Happy birthday Ashe!</span></em></u></strong></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://imageshack.com/a/img706/7389/cs74.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://imageshack.com/a/img706/7389/cs74.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-21877090177227505612013-12-05T11:33:00.000-05:002013-12-05T11:33:33.196-05:00Santa Reincarnated<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This past summer J and I made an executive decision after a
long time discussing all probable outcomes as well as the ethics involved
revealing to Xavier a long held secret many parental units hold tightly to
until they feel the time is right. Many parents are saved making this delicate
decision by their own kids professing beforehand that they already know the
secret. Some of you end up like us, having to walk a hairline wire to ensure
you don’t forever damage your child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m talking about revealing the truth about Santa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every parental unit has their own reasons that fuel this
decision if they have to make it. Ours were because Xavier was now eleven,
would be close to twelve by the time this Christmas would arrive, and because
he had started the dreaded middle school era of his life. Xavier is so
exuberant in his convictions of anything, that our greatest fear would be the
topic of Santa discussed at the lunch table, and after Xavier professing his
unwavering belief that a big guy in a red suit living at the North Pole flew
around the world in one night to give presents t good boys and girls would
cause his new friends to look at him with less respect and tease him. Or they
would be the ones to tell him the truth and he would come home, trust broken in
us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We also wanted to be the ones to explain because while the
mythical figure Santa may not exists as a corporal being, he does exist as the
spirit of Christmas. We wanted to explain to Xavier that Santa is the symbol of
love, family, charity, thoughtfulness, generosity, all wrapped up in a stocking
hat and big black boots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we approached him cautiously one day as a team. We asked
him what his thoughts were about Santa. And we asked him if he knew that there
was a super-secret club he could join, that only adults and mature kids could
join? And would he like to join it, with the understanding that once he did, he
couldn’t undo it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was resistant. Defensive. Wary. Were we trying to tell
him that Santa wasn’t real??? (No, not really.) Of COURSE Santa was real!!!!
How dare we imply otherwise! Have we been lying to him this whole time? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we left it then with him understanding that that was not
what we were doing, and that if he became interested in talking more, to come
to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past several months, Xavier would approach us and
ask us if Santa was real. We’d ask him what he believed. He said Santa was
real. Ok then, that’s awesome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then came Thanksgiving Day. We were hanging out at my
mom’s house when Xavier approached me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“I think I’m ready to join the super-secret club.”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“Are you sure?”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“Ok then. Sit down and let me tell you some history about
Christmas and Santa.”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“You mean mythology of Santa?”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“No, I mean his history.”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so he sat, and my friend G guarded the back door so no
other kids could show up unexpectedly, and I told Xavier the history of Santa.
About a guy long ago named Nicholas, and how he helped out a poor family with
three daughters who had no money for a dowry. How he slipped into their house
and left dowry’s for them so they could have a chance at a good life that would
have otherwise been impossible. And how that one good deed resonated so far
that he was made a saint, St. Nicholas. And how that story spread far and wide
across the world, and people latched onto it and started to echo that idea,
about charity, love, generosity, etc.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I explained that while Santa is not what he always
thought he was, he is real in the idea of Christmas. And that we adults
continue to echo his deeds, varied over the years, to keep that meaning alive.
And when a child becomes old enough, the parents ask them to join in and
continue the message for his siblings, and later on, his own children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Xavier, despite my fears, ate it up. It was like a light
went on, and his understanding of Christmas grew larger, deeper, and more
meaningful. And after I explained this all to him I asked him if he would like
to be Santa with us this year. And he smiled and nodded…..but added a few
caveats to it ;)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He didn’t want to help choose the gifts, because he still
wanted to be surprised. He didn’t want to help wrap those gifts up, but did
want to be the one to put them under the tree. He did want to help stuff his
brothers stockings, but not his own. And he didn’t want to be around when J and
I placed the rest of the family gifts under the tree. All easily done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since then, he has come up to me to ask me for more
information. He’s asked about the Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy. He wants to
know how we can hide eggs so well, and insists that I am part ninja for getting
his teeth out from under his pillow while slipping money and a note as a
replacement. He wanted to know why the Leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day stopped
coming, and was he really scared of the traps set out to capture him by Xavier
or was Dad (in charge of leaving chocolate coins out) just forgetful? (Yes)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve watched Xavier over the past week as we set up our
tree, do our advent calendars, and listen to holiday music. I’ve watched him
cock his head once in a while, lost in thought. And then I’ve watched a little
smile creep up on the side of his face as if he knows something others don’t.
As he realizes just how important this secret club really is, and he is both in
awe of how we parental units do it every year, and how he is now responsible
for such a big secret.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
And he is so proud to be a part of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am too. I couldn’t have asked for it to have gone any
better. May my two other children find the reincarnation of Santa just as awe
inspiring when they too join our club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-18113791176055555562013-10-22T15:46:00.000-04:002013-10-22T16:21:58.211-04:00Let The Games Begin<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkjNIpdPVVmjygjCV7H4thxKtbLXXIRqEPaWnHUXDeCJvvqnAl34dQjRSGszwOE7WSwV69Cr4WtXXHY6rLoCJfwV_P0n1oSC5OP7F86Mu-pdpA0M8a9Gn2dPDn6jPkcxzr3n_MHvlNR3x/s1600/tumblr_m7ffi0Dwlq1rpga6zo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkjNIpdPVVmjygjCV7H4thxKtbLXXIRqEPaWnHUXDeCJvvqnAl34dQjRSGszwOE7WSwV69Cr4WtXXHY6rLoCJfwV_P0n1oSC5OP7F86Mu-pdpA0M8a9Gn2dPDn6jPkcxzr3n_MHvlNR3x/s400/tumblr_m7ffi0Dwlq1rpga6zo1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A long time ago, in a state far, far away, I met a guy. Let’s
call him G. We met one summer day in the hallway of the high school we were
hoping to attend, after taking a personality test this particular school
demanded to ensure that we were right for their establishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe his first comment to me was a
wonderful mimicry of the test we had just finished, laced with sarcasm, my
favorite type of humor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you like working inside or outside? Do you like working
with people or by yourself? Do you like light or dim environments? Well, do you?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was friendship at first sarcasm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few months later I met a girl. We’ll name her R. We chose
the same vocation to learn during high school, and we became fast friends. Over
the years, R and I have had many adventures together, and I can honestly say
that I am a better person because of her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And over time, my two friends G and R, met,
fell in love, and they tied the knot. All was great! Except for that tiny
fact that six years ago J and I moved far away and our families were separated
by many miles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, we tried to visit
one another, but traveling with kids half way up the east coast gets expensive
and drives you batty when you are forced to listen to 12 hours of <em>“Are we there
yet? How about now? Now?”</em> …. And that’s just coming from the adults. Ok ok not
all of the adults. Just G.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To help combat the sad fact that it was more difficult to wreak fun havoc together with us being so far away, we would joke that it may be a good thing for the rest of the
world to keep a few states separating us. G and I are the male/female versions
of one another. As he well put it the other day on my FB page: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Despite
what you would hear, the reason for this separation is for the benefit for all
of mankind. You see if we get togethe</span></em></span><span data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0]"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><span data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[0]">r,
sarcasm, at EPIC levels, will occur. The likes of which you have never seen!</span><br data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[1]" />
<br data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[2]" />
<span data-reactid=".r[1owes].[1][4][1]{comment10202340258855664_6925780}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[3]">I've
seen brave men weep at just a few seconds of hearing us together. It's so bad
it has been banned by the Geneva Convention…”<o:p></o:p></span></em></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And
while I wish that I could say that he has a tendency to exaggerate, aside from
the Geneva Convention aspect, that’s pretty accurate. I’ve always wondered if
he and I were somehow twins secretly separated at birth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blame him for my first F ever in school. Technically
I can admit that it was the teachers fault. She didn’t know as all the other
teachers did, to not seat us next to each other. She learned within one
semester after she spent more time every single day, trying to get us to shut
up and pay attention to the lesson at hand than she did teaching said lesson.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And don't even get me started on the three of us together in high school drama club. Even I can admit that sometimes there are some stories that should never be told. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve all known each other now for over twenty
years. You would think that we would have mellowed out with age. You would also
be terribly, horribly wrong. What’s even scarier to the unsuspecting public is
that we also have children that are only six days apart. Mini us, who will be
in the same grade, year after year. It’s almost like history is repeating
itself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But now the fun begins. Because last week G and R finally followed in my family’s
footsteps and they have moved down here. Only ten minutes separate our
households. After twenty years, we are now closer to each other than we have
ever been, and I am not sure if this town can survive all of us, and our
offspring, together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
master plans have already begun. It’s not even time for kindergarten
registration and we are already planning on how to get our kids together in the
same school, the same track and sometimes, the same teacher. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if we were hard to handle many years ago,
I can already imagine the phone calls and parent/teacher meetings we parental
units will be dragged into via the mischievous actions of our boys combined. I
plan on gifting Soren’s future teachers with ample supplies of booze, just to
stay on her good side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Holidays
have just become that much more entertaining (and loud). Who am I kidding?
EVERY DAY has become more entertaining (and loud). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been a week since they have arrived and
every morning we all gather together for coffee and breakfast. I’ll admit that
I am surprised that the local police have not yet stopped by to recite the appropriate
domestic volume decibel level. Halloween, our favorite holiday of the year, is
going to be amazing. For us. For the people who hand put pretzels instead of proper
candy?.... Not so much (Yes, I’m looking at *you* mom!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And
for the first time ever, we all have a giant village in which to raise our
children together. While we may not technically share familial blood, sometimes
family is who you choose. And we choose each other. Add my mother into the
equation, who lives ten doors down from G and R, and our kids will have more
adults raising them than they will know what to do with. And it’s going to be
awesome. Our kids will either grow up with the most fantastic rounded
personalities, getting the best each of us has to offer, or we’ll be pooling our
money into accounts to pay for our children’s therapy. Either way, our kids
will have an interesting childhood that they will be able to regale their own
children with. Simultaneously, G and R will, for the first time, have friends
who also understand what it means to be a Parental Unit. With our new village
of family, they will finally be able to go out as a couple, and relax, knowing
that their child is being cared for. That is more precious to Parental Units
than anything else you could offer them. A chance to recharge and remember why
they thought having offspring was a good idea in the first place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So.
Here we are. Fast friends since we were mere kids ourselves, having children of
our own, and now living closer together than ever before. All I can say local
readers is this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brace
yourselves. The fun is about to begin. And just in case it’s ever needed for
legal matters, I blame G.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-79082441174559339002013-09-13T09:00:00.000-04:002013-09-13T09:00:01.328-04:00Pool Reflections<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7zxiTrvxIHXxoV_BDYK0KTSCg4AlJVqDKo4_sxQtGfnGlJRyfWotfxY5qs6ECHrroXOIZcG_o-AdO6mPa0U_vQibnnP0WhPmozTF6lx-wTVz-7RQX1-qr0ITHVctnxixoy0OkTnbwJma/s1600/IMG_20130912_143537_189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBny6BOW3xzdLc3lRXTMmzj-LwoeYPxA5gxciIbSRmp6HlyU3wk9rimsMBKyi2frz75f386wglh7MvwkOFgfnHZ-MJT_KcZYugKyvwLwYw0M4eDuUqi0sJYoYtwlmmZnA_E0HAojaiXIjg/s1600/IMG_20130912_143542_087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBny6BOW3xzdLc3lRXTMmzj-LwoeYPxA5gxciIbSRmp6HlyU3wk9rimsMBKyi2frz75f386wglh7MvwkOFgfnHZ-MJT_KcZYugKyvwLwYw0M4eDuUqi0sJYoYtwlmmZnA_E0HAojaiXIjg/s640/IMG_20130912_143542_087.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys on their final pool day of the season</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This past Thursday most of the fam spent enjoying our last day at the G-Rents pool. It's closing for the season despite the fact that it will stay hot enough for pool dipping for at least anther month. We can't complain though. Most pools around here close on Labor Day weekend while ours stayed open a bit longer.</div>
<br />
Since the day it opened for the season, we have spent as much time as possible at the pool. In the past four months, my kids have grown a crazy amount, in many different ways.<br />
<br />
For example, Xavier finished elementary school. He started at a middle school in July where he knew no one. At this time, he has just finished his first quarter, made honor roll, and most importantly, has created a lot of new friendships. His phone is off the hook, with friends texting him after school. His social life has grown as has his self confidence. <br />
<br />
In the past few months Ashe has finished Kindergarten, started first grade, and finished his quarter with excellent grades. He also gained the confidence in the pool to let those swimming lessons kick in, and now he's swimming like a fish! Ashe has no fear of the deep end, of swimming under water, or even doing somersaults. In the beginning of pool season, he was hesitant to go further than three feet. Now I can't get him out of the water =)<br />
<br />
And look at Soren in the photo above. In the beginning of the season where he is standing, he had to stand on his toes in order to keep his head above water. Now he stands shoulders above. Soren learned the most in the water this year. At first he refused to leave the stair area. Over time, we were able to get him to carefully tip toe out to G-pa in the middle of the shallow end. Later, we worked on him feeling confident lying on his back while we held him. And on the last day of the season, he kicked his way out to the deep end on his floating Yoshi (with us adults nearby). But even more impressive was when he decided that he wanted to be like Ashe and put his face all the way under water. And he did, over and over again. He was SO proud of himself, as were we!<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm loathe to relinquish pool season. The boys and I, along with the G-Rents, really have a fantastic time playing together, learning new things, and celebrating the joys of life in the water. It's a place where fun rules, imaginations run wild, and new tricks are learned and shared. We'll find other ways, but the pool will most certainly be missed.<br />
<br />
The boys have accomplished so much in such a short time, and I know that next year, when the pool opens again, they will not be the same boys they are here. They will have grown more, learned more, have had more stories to tell. We'll also have more friends and family to join us, as my close friends and their son are moving down. Next year's pool season will be amazing.<br />
<br />
But until then, we'll find other ways to have family fun, to learn and grow, and enjoy life together. And so I say to the pool:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>"Thanks for a most memorable summer. I won't say goodbye. Instead, I'll see you soon."</em></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-25825229093956587352013-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:002013-09-12T09:00:02.010-04:00Anniversary<br />
<br />
This last Sunday, J and I celebrated the 14th anniversary of our first wedding. I realize that the previous sentence is a touch confusing. You see, J and I actually had two weddings. The first one was with a JP and our mothers witnessing. We had quick vows, exchanged rings, filled out the paperwork, then headed out for a dinner before driving off to a theme park for our "honeymoon". I was twenty, and couldn't even legally drink the celebratory glass of champagne at my own wedding. I did, but don't tell anyone ;)<br />
<br />
The second one was the one we spent over two years saving up. This was the traditional wedding with flower girls, ushers, and a big frou frou wedding dress. It was a year later, and most of our extended family think that this was the real wedding. But it wasn't. To us, it was more like a big party celebrating our love again with everyone.<br />
<br />
Why we decided to tie the knot twice doesn't really matter. Suffice to say it was not for any major reason. I wasn't knocked up, and it was purely by choice.<br />
<br />
So this weekend marked 14 years of our very first wedding. And of course J was sick, along with Ashe. We stayed home and didn't do much aside from a special dinner the two of us had after the boys went to bed. It was almost a typical day. However, I had a conversation with Ashe that really made me focus on something very special.<br />
<br />
While Ashe was feverish, he and I headed upstairs to cuddle while we waited for the medication to kick in. We talked about his favorite games, and how he wants to build his own games for kids when he grows up. And somehow we got to talking about family. He casually mentioned how Grammy was my mom so that meant Grampa was my dad....only he isn't. So I had to explain the intricacies of remarriage and family bonds can sometimes be tighter with love than blood. And then he asked what happened to my father. <br />
<br />
"Well", I paused, not wanting to get into the gritty details, "sometimes husbands and wives decide to divorce."<br />
"What does divorce mean?"<br />
And it's at that point in time when I realize how lucky my kids are, if they don't even know what that word means at almost seven tears of age.<br />
<br />
Growing up, divorce was a big part of my life. My parents separated when I was three, and divorced when I was four. It was NOT a good divorce either. It was messy, and scary, and long lasting. As I aged, most of my friends parents had also divorced. It was rare to find a peer whose parents were still together and happy.<br />
<br />
So to see my child completely ignorant in the word and meaning.... it really hit home to me. <br /><br />Some people may say that J and I married too young. And I will acknowledge that many of the marriages of very young adults do tend to end up in divorce. Many people are not mature enough at that age to make such a life changing decision.<br />
<br />
And yet I would say that looking back, even at age twenty, I knew exactly what I wanted in my life partner, and J fit the bill and then some. Both of us came from homes that were rough. Both of us felt that FAMILY was of the utmost importance. And both of us desperately wanted to give our future children a home filled with love and laughter, done as a team.<br />
<br />
That's exactly what we did. The road hasn't always been easy. It was filled with potholes, detours, and sometimes dead ends where we had to backtrack. But we worked together as a team to build our dreams, and we continue to do so.<br />
<br />
When my child asks me what Divorce means on our anniversary, I know that despite our young age when we made our vows, we did know what we were doing that day so long ago. And here in the present, we are still as much in love if not more so, stronger as a partnership, and building a beautiful foundation to our children's lives.<br />
<br />
That night, as J and I sat down to a quiet dinner alone, I thanked him for choosing me. And he looked into my eyes and said "no, thank you!" And we smiled and basked in the understanding that we do complete one another, and make the best team.<br />
<br />Happy anniversary Babes. I can't wait to see what the next 14 years bring.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-MWxmp1KeySmClasvuiH0sLE8N6E8qSD-TKTInRLBEmI-n9D6EfqmQmaizUCjwr2ebb0OyI0OaNVJQcF9bDTXmX-O5ooFgUltQHNWTxiNBRxUQo0uFhrFE1Zvt9iC84DHxEFSkCyiYFE/s1600/wedding+day+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-MWxmp1KeySmClasvuiH0sLE8N6E8qSD-TKTInRLBEmI-n9D6EfqmQmaizUCjwr2ebb0OyI0OaNVJQcF9bDTXmX-O5ooFgUltQHNWTxiNBRxUQo0uFhrFE1Zvt9iC84DHxEFSkCyiYFE/s400/wedding+day+2.jpg" width="321" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-78954262765562647192013-09-09T14:29:00.000-04:002013-09-09T14:29:00.696-04:00Tracking Out<br />
The past two weeks I have watched my newsfeed on FB spammed with photos of kids going back to school. Some parents are very excited, doing the happy dance that the long summer is in it's death throes, and their little children are off to a regularly scheduled calendar. Other parental units are sad, wishing that the time did not go by so quickly, and how they are counting down the days to the first big vacation time, months away.<br />
<br />
And here I am, watching these photos scroll by as I contemplate that my kids are about to track out this week, and I have got to get off my ass and figure out how to keep them from killing each other for the next three weeks.<br />
<br />
Year round school rocks. I can't advocate it enough. Nine weeks of school, then three weeks off, all year round, non stop. It's perfect. The kids are just about brain fried by the time the ninth week rolls around and everyone is ready for a break of homework. The third week of track out, the kids are itching to get back into a schedule and see their friends on a regular basis again. <br />
<br />
It's this third week that makes me seek comfort in mojitos though. By that third week of carefree days, the kids are strangling one another an hour after waking up, deciding Gladiator style who wins the right to whatever electronic they are fighting to the death for.<br />
<br />
I try my best to keep them all occupied during vacation. We live in an area that is filled to the brim with family friendly places and activities. The problem lies in the expense. While I have lots of great ideas of trips to the zoo, beach, aquarium, etc, many things can get pricey. And with three kids to haul around, it gets pricey FAST.<br />
<br />
So I try to pick one or two costly things per track out that we can do, and the rest of the time I look for free things. We'll hit a lot of parks, do some hiking, lounge in the G-Rents pool. We'll have movie nights at home, head to the library to pick out bedtime books, and wander around a few of the free museums.<br />
<br />
And this track out we're hitting the beach (rare treat) for two days and a night, our most expensive outing for five. It's the parental units way of showing pour gratitude for doing a kick ass job in school. <br />
<br />
But even with all of these great ideas, there is still plenty of downtime at home. And that's where the fighting comes in. Each child, through genetic coding, is a lover of all things techy. Xavier likes the computer. Ashe loves the WII U. Soren adores the Xbox. Two of these are on one TV and the third is off in a corner, with a chair that has melded it's contours to the shape of my oldest rump.<br />
<br />
After watching the kids this weekend and seeing how they glue themselves to an electronic device until we pry their wee hands off controllers (sometimes by force) I am going to reinstitute the track out rule of having a set time per day the kids can play. I am sure I will allow it to lapse on those days when I just need quiet for an hour or two. I'm not perfect, and can admit guilt in sometimes taking the easy way out when it's either that or run out the door screaming like a loony bin, pulling my hair out. But I'll do my best.<br />
<br />
And maybe, instead of having them initiate the Gladiator death fights each morning, I can try to make taking turns fun. Maybe I can do some contests. Or see who can help me clean up the most. Or who can whine the least per day. I'll get creative.<br />
<br />
Parents who sent their children to school recently, I acknowledge your happiness or sadness as you send your child off to school. I get it. And while I think of you in whatever feeling you are embracing, think of me as well, while I feel both sides simultaneously as MY kids start vacation.<br />
<br />
<br />
Slainte!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-36788078417959096152013-09-04T14:04:00.001-04:002013-09-04T14:04:44.448-04:00Placing Blame on Female Teens: My Not So Random Opinion<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today I had a moment (gasp) to check
my social media without a constant 30 second interruption from the boys, when I
came across a blog* that really caught my attention. It did so because on the
surface of things, the message the author offers is pretty good: Girls, respect
yourself for who you are and don't feel that you have to act sexy to get a boys
attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Great right? I thought so too, until
I read the whole article, and then I felt sad. After sorrow I felt anger, and
finally indignation. Why? Because the author states that any female friend of
her three boys who poses "sexy" selfies is automatically banned from
their FB account, with no second chance. Ironically, her blog consisted of multiple photos of her boys in swimsuits, posing near the water.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em> <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>(* I will not post the url of said blog on this site. That is unfair to the blogger. We all have our personal opinions and this is my plae to opine. But I don't need to do so by offering her blog url up as a public media sacrifice.)</em></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Umm, what? I mean look, I get that
parental units don't want their teens posing in sexy ways, nor for it to get on
social media sites where everyone and their dog can see. I wouldn't either. But
at the same time, as a parent, I also understand that this time in their lives
is a crazy rollercoaster ride where they are trying to learn what being an
adult means, and guess what? They make mistakes. Just like a human should. And
if it's not safe to learn as a teenager, then when is it?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here are a few excerpts from the
blog that really bothered me, and my comments:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"And now – big bummer – we
have to block your posts. Because, the reason we have these (sometimes awkward)
family conversations around the table is that we care about our sons, just as
we know</span></i></b><b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> your</span></i></b><b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> parents care about
you."</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here’s
the thing. People make mistakes, and kids more so than any other category.
Teens? They are a mixed bag of crazy chemical hormones thrust into a world
hyped on sexuality from many different angles. Look sexy. Don’t look sexy. A
simple smile at the opposite sex can be construed as flirting when in fact,
it’s simple a smile!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
adults do our young ones a disservice by creating ultimatums in a time of their
life when they are more confused than ever. Instead of saying that you will
forever block them from your site, reach out and teach them WHY this type of
behavior might not be the best decision.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Teenagers
are in the process of trying to figure out who THEY are, and this becomes a
process of “trying on” different “costumes” of life, so to speak. It’s the only
time in life we have the ability to try something new, sometimes stupid,
without massive life consequences. This comes at the price of doing stupid
things sometimes, like posing sexy selfies in our PJs. But really, if that’s
the worst a kid is going to do, that’s awesome! Better a stupid photo to look
at and cringe years later, than to OD on drugs, or raise a baby at 14.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> "</span><b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You don’t want the Hall
boys to only think of you in this sexual way, do you?</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Neither
do we….</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Some young men are fighting the daily
uphill battle to keep their minds pure, and their thoughts praiseworthy."</span></span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
thought on this is then to stop blaming the girls for a boys behavior. I have
three boys. Yes, two of them are young and not ready to understand the
implications of sexuality. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t raise them NOW to
understand respect. Respect yourself. Respect your body. Respect others. Girls
are NOT just a play toy to drool over. Behind every stupid PJ selfie on FB is a
thoughtful, kind person who is looking for who she is as much as you are. How
hard is that? </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Responsibility starts with yourself. <u><strong>No one else</strong></u> is to blame for your thoughts and actions but you. To imply that it is a girls fault for boys thinking of them in a sexual manner is not only doing your boys a disservice, but it’s entirely <strong>WRONG!</strong> It sets up the never ending cycle that blame is laid upon the female for being sexual, when the reality is, that everyone should be responsible for their own actions.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Aside from that, there is nothing wrong with sexuality! Nothing!!!! To feel sensual is a wonderful thing. Yes, there is a time and place for that, and being a kid is not one of them. But it has only been in the last century or two where we were not marrying and having children at the ripe old age of 14. Biologically speaking, we evolved to embrace sexuality at the age teens do. Socially speaking we have advanced enough to allow our offspring to stay young longer. That's a great thing!!!!! But is it really fair to punish our children for something that is really, socially new? Do we punish our kids for something that biologically comes natural? Or maybe here's a thought: instead of alienating them, to sit down and talk with them. Explain how at this point in our culture, it is not appropriate to test out these emotions in a public setting? What about talking to them instead of handing out ultimatums? <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"And so, in our house,
there are no second chances, ladies. If you want to stay friendly with the Hall
men, you’ll have to keep your clothes on, and your posts decent. If you
try to post a sexy selfie, or an inappropriate YouTube video – even once – you’ll
be booted off our on-line island."</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
for me, is the saddest part. It shows a judgmental mind process that offers no
abilities for the girls to learn. If they “mess up” they are cut off with no
chances of explaining their perspective, or for learning about forgiveness.
What does this teach? It teaches that mistakes can not be forgiven. It teaches
that some adults cannot be approached for help. It teaches that kids must sink
or swim without the helping hand of a wiser adult.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That’s
horrible.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do I
want my kids posting sexy photos on social media websites? Hell no! Do I want
to see my kids friends posing that way? Of course not! But will I turn my back
to them and refuse to open up a dialogue about why that is not the best course
of action? No. I hope that I can remember when I was their age, and how I too
made stupid mistakes, and how I learned from them. And I hope to be able to
pass that wisdom on, along with a hug and the understanding that I am always available to listen.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not judging the author for what she is trying to do. In her own way her heart is in the right place. I understand her concerns, as all of us parental units are concerned about the trials our children face as they begin to explore their sexuality. But I don't think that this approach was the best way. Instead of reaching out and trying to instill knowledge to those girls, she is pointing a finger at them and cutting them off. Simultaneously, she is unconsciously teaching her boys that they are not responsible for how they feel and react to women.... that in fact it is the females fault for their possible lustful thoughts or actions. <br />
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> So here is my own message to all of the kids, teens, and young adults out there that will be a part of my sons lives:</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You're human. You're going to mess up. We adults did it, our parents did it, and all the way back as far as you can imagine. Your generation is unique, because you are the first to have the ability to post everything and anything up for the entire world to see. This is an amazing process, but it also comes with responsibility. Don't post stuff just because you can. Keep some things private, including that lil sexay pose you're practicing in the mirror. Wait until you are an adult to take that pose out of the dark, and strut your stuff when you have more knowledge about yourself and others and have the confidence to pull it off successfully in the appropriate place ;)</span><br />
<br />
And if you make a mistake, that's ok. I won't ban you from my sons site. I may call your mom and give her a heads up, because I would want a mom to let me know if my kids were being idiots online. But it's not because I want you in trouble. I want the opposite. I want for you to learn, and this is the BEST TIME to learn! And if you ever want to ask questions and you don't have another grown up you feel comfortable with, I'm here. I'll listen. And I will do the best I can for you, as I do my own children.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" title=""ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting" "><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600"
o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f"
stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75"
alt="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png"
href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" title=""ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting""
style='width:300pt;height:150pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'
o:button="t">
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\BRITT_~1\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.png"
o:title="srmsig"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-77886048862035811852013-08-15T14:11:00.003-04:002013-08-15T14:11:39.236-04:00Learning to Love Math<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o0JZfGnr0sYzidc0rH5CY4-OU5wp3iGlYPhOGLr-fI5kCNXAVRF0UBbagUfdRY_8sIWUDGnVk7iyvZPaLBkQmiyCWzOf3mBJT714mWIdXBg3EDdA33a5H79-wV63IEToqFbgOh2colCU/s1600/math.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o0JZfGnr0sYzidc0rH5CY4-OU5wp3iGlYPhOGLr-fI5kCNXAVRF0UBbagUfdRY_8sIWUDGnVk7iyvZPaLBkQmiyCWzOf3mBJT714mWIdXBg3EDdA33a5H79-wV63IEToqFbgOh2colCU/s320/math.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Middle school is a whole new experience when it comes to
homework. It takes a lot of organization and concentration to get through the
piles of work after school. And homework counts for a lot of the total grade.
Now add on top of that an ADHD kid with an ADHD mom, and it’s crazy town from
2:30 on, Monday through Friday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In order to make sure that the lesson of organization is
pounded into Xavier’s skull on a daily basis, each day when he gets home, we go
through his binder, folders, and backpack, cleaning, sorting, and prepping. I
also use the nifty school website each afternoon to list out the homework he
has, in case he forgot to write it down. It’s only happened once or twice, but
it’s a great way to double check. It also helps me because I can’t read Xavier’s
scribbles even if my life depended on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every weekday, Xavier will decide which lessons to tackle
first, and we discuss them as he works on them. I’m finding myself fascinated
with the lesson plans he comes home with, and while I don’t help him by giving
him answers, I do enjoy learning as he looks stuff up. For example, the other
day his social studies homework was to write his name in ancient Sumerian.
While he did his own name, I sat down and wrote out the names of the rest of
our family. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Language Arts he had to
write a sci-fi Cinderella story. I loved showing him how to make a note
timeline for his book, and the next thing I know he has four pages fully
written, and so proud of himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is one lesson though, that I sit down and do with him
every day, and this is math. Now let me clarify: I don’t “do” the math for him.
But we’ve established a routine where we each grab a notebook, do the same
problem separately, and then check against each other (and the calculator) to
see who got it right. And you know what? It’s fun!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is coming from someone who loathes math with the utmost
passion! I hated math, still do, and yet… I am actually enjoying (re)learning
the mathematical concepts of pre-algebra. A big part of it is because I love
watching Xavier grasp the concept we are working on at the time, or figuring it
out myself and having the ability to teach it in a way that he understands.
That “AHA!” moment he gets is priceless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I am also enjoying it for myself. I am finding that all
of a sudden, the concepts are so much clearer to grasp than they were when I
was in middle school myself. Maybe it’s because it is taught differently than
when I learned. Whereas when I was in school the formulas were taught by rote,
now they are taught with theory. Instead of “this is how you do problem x” it’s
“Here is how to figure out problem x and <strong><u>why!”</u></strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Xavier can briefly describe the theory to me and it makes
complete sense! And when the numbers all add up correctly, I feel so excited. Math
has eluded me my entire life, and there has always been that teeny tiny voice
in the back of my head that whispers “you’re not intelligent enough to grasp
math. It’s too far above you.” But it’s not, so nyah!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So this becomes a win/win situation. Xavier explains the
theory even if it hasn’t clicked. I’ll try a problem and it clicks. Then I can
go to him and explain it in different ways, or show him tricks until it clicks
for him. And then we sit together with our notebooks, and try to see who can
get the correct answer first. We compare our answers, double check with the
calculator, and if one of us is wrong, we try to see where we went wrong. It’s
become a fascinating way to instill the current concept we're working on and double checking to Xavier,
while also making it more enjoyable for him. At the same time, I am also
learning, and appreciating the lesson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I don’t, for any reason, wish to be back in middle
school, I am having more fun than I could have thought in helping Xavier stay
focused and soak up as much information as he can. It makes me really
appreciate how teaching has evolved over the years, and I am very pleased with
the school he goes to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-44297018765041172492013-08-09T10:45:00.000-04:002013-08-09T10:45:20.347-04:00Bonding Over SoundBytes<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other day I was searching the web for information on an
upcoming game that I am beyond stoked for, when I came across a gem of a sound
wave from the first MMOPG I ever played,<a href="https://www.everquest.com/"> Ever Quest.</a> If you have played this
game before in your life, you recognize how this particular game was the
platform upon which all other MMORPGs created themselves around. And if you
have played this game before, you can also conjure up in your mind how much
this game affected you in a thousand different ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you don’t play games or have no clue what I am talking
about, this may sound strange, and that we gamers overhype how much this
particular game has changed our lives. And that’s ok. Only those who have
played Ever Quest can really understand the importance of its existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ok so back to the sound byte. I was perusing a forum about
this new game, when I stumbled upon a post where the writer said this sound
*HAS* to be in the new game. Curious, I opened the link provided, and nearly
jumped out of my seat in surprise, a visceral reaction long ingrained into my
brain from years spent playing Ever Quest and Ever quest 2 (you have to copy/paste the link, it won't open up automatically):</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <a class="externalLink" href="http://www.rozziland.com/eq/skelatt1.wav" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">http://www.rozziland.com/eq/skelatt1.wav</span></a></span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you played EQ or EQ2 and don’t know what that sound is
from you can now hand in your gamer card. You don’t deserve it. Hand it over.
If you want to earn it back, go play on the FTP progression server for a few
days and then come talk to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the rest of you non gamers out there in bloggy land, let
me take a moment to explain. My friend S, who hates when I geek up and talk
games, you can go ahead now, throw your head back and start snoring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That sound is from a skeleton, which would rise up out of
the ground at any time and try to kill you to become its corpse bride. It would
laugh the entire time it tried to decapitate you, which gave the fight a very
sick feel, each and every time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIQtCkMlLiu0QcsCbPevGjpfntPq4ueCo9sVaOEw32G1li2s8HUfQiiY3uvkdykbnVmPb7MUsiUaWZViZYC7g3CcHzYHSdmWB8PgCMxSz5FFq87fOw3uk8MXIHcAsfT99b166T-s-k696/s1600/imagesCACYW7PT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIQtCkMlLiu0QcsCbPevGjpfntPq4ueCo9sVaOEw32G1li2s8HUfQiiY3uvkdykbnVmPb7MUsiUaWZViZYC7g3CcHzYHSdmWB8PgCMxSz5FFq87fOw3uk8MXIHcAsfT99b166T-s-k696/s400/imagesCACYW7PT.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So of course I had to find a way to use it in my daily life!
After fiddling around, I was able to make it into my text alert. Now, whenever
my friends or family text me, I instinctively jump and glance behind me. No
really, I do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Xavier came home to find me fiddling with the sound, and he
asked what the heck was it? So I sat down and gave him a history lesson in
games. Being a gamer himself he was fascinated. And despite the fact that he
never played EQ (unless you count him hanging out in our arms as a newborn babe
while J and I played) he thought that the sound and the idea behind it was
awesome. So he wanted it too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After dinner, the two of us sat down and worked on our
phones to have the skeleton laugh as our text alerts. Of course, we had to test
it out. A lot. Just to make sure it was working. On both phones. Late at night.
For at least an hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank goodness we have unlimited texting!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Point of this story is, our gamer family bonds over the
weirdest shit. I can’t wait until Xavier gets out of school and starts texting
me that he’s on his way home =)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-12340468410532537822013-07-29T08:30:00.000-04:002013-07-29T08:30:03.960-04:00Weight & WorkoutsStruggling with my weight over the past few years, I have been trying a lot of different types of workouts that may help both tone me up and slim me down. While I am not one of those moms who heads to the gym on a daily basis, looking sexy in that cute tank top and slim fitting yoga pants, I do try to incorporate a work out routine in the comfort of my own home. <br />
<br />
Over the past year, I have been working with an endocrinologist to figure out why it is that I simply can not lose weight. The current theory is that I am glucose intolerant. In laymen's terms, this means that, while normal peoples bodies break down carbs and use it for energy, my body does not recognize the glucose (broken down carbs) and it stays in the body, creating fat. I'm now on a special diet that vastly reduces carb intake. While I miss eating bread whenever, or cookies, or cake, I've grown used to it. I also got myself back on ADHD medication for myself, which helps reduce hunger.<br />
<br />
With that on the table, even with my meds, a special diet, and working out, I am still not losing weight. But I am also not GAINING, which is an improvement. Still, it royally sucks to know that with everything combined, if I were a normal person, I'd have that hot little ass, tight abs, and thighs that could crunch a soda can with ease. <br />
<br />
<br />
So J and I decided to switch things up a bit in the workout routine. He found a set that interested him called the Spartacus workout. Supposedly this is what actors use for six weeks before they appear on screen buff. It is a crazy little weight lifting routine that anyone can do in their home with ease. When I say with ease, I mean that it's easy to get what you need to do it. Ease in actually doing it is another story. I'm pretty tough and active, and this kicked my ass! <br />
<br />
However, I will say that after three weeks of crying through it, both of us have noticed drastic changes in our bodies. I still have not lost weight, but I'm firming up. I even have indents where my calf muscles are!!!! If you want to check it out you can<a href="http://www.menshealth.com/mhlists/high-intensity-circuit-routine/index.php"> find the work out here</a>. We do this work out three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.<br />
<br />
The other work out we started up was Yoga. When we first moved here, I tried out a Yoga class and loved it. However, it was a pain in the ass to get to a class when you had kids in tow. So I stopped. I've always thought about asking J to try it with me but with his lack of balance I always assumed it would be the one type of workout that he would not take to. However, since I joined him in Spartacus, he was kind enough to try out Yoga with me.<br />
<br />
I hate doing the same thing every time, so we went through youtube to find some beginners videos. I also purchased an app that had whole sessions on it. After one practice, I was hooked! Two days after we started, I found myself popping on a twenty minute video here and there, not realizing that at the end of the day I had done over two hours of Yoga. The after effects hit me the following morning where it took me a long time to get the hell out of bed, moving stiffly as though I were made of wood. Of course, a little bit of Yoga helped stretch me out!<br />
<br />
So now we have something to do every day, and we're really enjoying working out together instead of finding ourselves doing our own thing. In three weeks I have lost a couple pounds, but more importantly, a few inches here and there throughout my body, and my muscles are really beginning to define. I was so excited I even went out and bought myself a yoga mat and gloves. With a phone app I can toss on the morning for a five minute sun salutation, and either the Spartacus work out or Yoga in the evening, I'm feeling better about myself despite the frustration of my obstinate physical body.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe one of these years I can actually try a bikini for the first time...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-62223300593524923972013-07-26T08:00:00.000-04:002013-07-26T08:00:10.103-04:00The No Good, Very Bad Day<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqQIL6VyTYp6BpxPjRbciAlhisKC9shr1VkwOd5LB7xi_7WehT1EGrRmjz7ctRkecBhjMzel1y1X8cUgxDIRNMqKF_RtpvHxMRHd8ObTB4J6Z7bvXz0JUp503nZyo7j3iqqJyyY41Pe3F/s1600/bad+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqQIL6VyTYp6BpxPjRbciAlhisKC9shr1VkwOd5LB7xi_7WehT1EGrRmjz7ctRkecBhjMzel1y1X8cUgxDIRNMqKF_RtpvHxMRHd8ObTB4J6Z7bvXz0JUp503nZyo7j3iqqJyyY41Pe3F/s320/bad+day.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Each of us has had those days where, no matter how you try to change it, it still ends up awful. Kids are no different. Sometimes even they can have really bad days. Soren had one of those this week.<br />
<br />
Ever since Soren hit his fourth birthday, we seem to be dealing with a regression on behavior and tantrums. Why? No fucking clue. Nothing has changed except how many fingers he holds up when someone asks how old he is. But something clicked in his miniature human brain that tells him to throw out of control screaming and crying fits over the smallest thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's driving me batty.<br />
<br />
We parental units have been consistent in calming him down and reminding him to use his words, not his volume. Once calmed down he nods his little head in understanding and says that he will. And he does....for ten minutes.... on a good day.<br />
<br />
But today the shit just hit the fan, and while it is only 12pm as I write this, I am seriously debating on whether or not to just put him to bed until tomorrow. It may save both of our sanity.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This morning I had a play date set up with two of my mom friends and their kids. Soren has grown up with these kids since he was born, and they are all great friends. We see each other usually once a week if not more. All the kids get along fantastically, and there are rarely any issues. Oh sure, there will be a scuffle here and there over the ownership of some random toy, or tattles if someone isn't taking turns. But usually they work it out with a little bit of help from one of us moms.<br />
<br />
I don't know what was any different today, if anything really was. We had a decent morning with no issues. There was no foreshadowing of the epic disaster that followed. Soren was excited that his friends were coming over. And when his friends arrived and trooped up the stairs, Soren was there with a big smile on his face to greet them. All of the kids headed to the toys while we moms hung around the kitchen table in full view, drinking coffee and catching up.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later there was this ear piercing scream and wailing coming form Soren. I ran over to him, thinking that he was dying. I grabbed him, held him close and asked what was wrong. He hit his ear on the "Stupid recliner". I checked his ear (it was fine), gave him hugs, kisses, and cuddles, and let him know that there were no cuts, bruises, or blood, and that he would survive. <br />
<br />
Well he was having NONE of that!!! Oh no! He was DYING! And he needed his BLANKET! And I had to go get it. And I said, no hon, you can get it. And he flipped out.<br />
<br />
Stood there in the middle of the room and screamed bloody murder. I just looked at him until he ran out of breath, and before he could ramp up again I nudged him to the stairs. He went, begrudgingly.<br />
<br />
Once all was calm and the kids were happy again, the moms turned back to their coffee. We had about two minutes before the screaming began again...from Soren, of course.<br />
<br />
This time it was because he decided that today was "Soren's Day", and that meant that he had first choice of all toys, including the ones his friends brought over. Naturally, his friends took issue with this. I would have too. So I told him that he could share and take turns, but that his friends brought those toys. He also had to share his toys. Soren declared "NO! IT IS SOREN'S DAY!!!! I GET TO CHOOSE!"<br />
<br />
And screaming commenced when I pulled the mom is boss card.<br />
<br />
Next he started a full out fit because his friends were playing with his toys. The ones he was not playing with.<br />
<br />
Then, while all of the kids were playing nerf swords, he threw his sword ( he says accidentally) it smacked one of his friends in the face, causing his friend to cry. Which caused Soren to start screaming and crying. And wouldn't stop screaming and crying even after apologizing and his friend forgave him. And so, after roughly 90 minutes of non stop meltdowns, I just sent him to his room for a break to calm down. He stomped up the stairs screeching and gnashing his teeth, and continued this tirade long after his banishment.<br />
<br />
I joke often about drinking during the day, but today was one of those days that I was seriously eyeing the vodka bottle on my kitchen counter and wondering how good it would go with my coffee.<br />
<br />
My friends kids wanted to know what was wrong with Soren. So I sat down and asked them if they ever had one of those days, where nothing seems to go right, and it feels like a very bad day. They nodded their little heads sagely, and told me of some of their bad days. I nodded and said that like them, Soren was just having one of those no good, very bad days. And that everyone has them, even people in Australia. They understood, and as they left, they hoped that Sorens day would get better. <br />
<br />
<br />
Me too, kids. Me too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-63351955182818025112013-07-24T08:30:00.000-04:002013-07-24T08:30:03.112-04:00Battle of the BedtimeIt is after nine at night as I begin to write this. I am sitting here on my recliner with ears intently tuned to the upper floor, where my boys are *supposed* to be sleeping. But they seem to have other plans.<br />
<br />
<br />
The townhouse we have lived in for the past three years has four bedrooms. One is on the bottom floor and is used as J's office since he works from home. The other three are on the third floor. Ashe and Soren share a room together. Most nights getting them to bed is simple. Soren goes up an hour earlier, and by the time Ashe heads to bed, his little brother is passed out to the world. But on nights where the bed time gets wonky, we sometimes deal with repercussions of two boys sharing a room.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tonight is one of those nights.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
This evening we had a meet the teacher event at Xavier's school. The whole family went, thinking it would be one of those events where you wait to say hello to the teachers then take off. We got there early with the mindset of getting home in time for bedtimes. Oops. Instead, it was a walk through of my oldest sons class schedule, and we sat down for presentations of each class. Half way through, the younger boys were bored out of their minds, so J took them out for ice cream while he waited for Xavier and I to finish.<br />
<br />
We didn't get home until eight, way past Soren's regular bedtime, and close to Ashe's. I gave them a few minutes to unwind, then we did our bedtime routine. As I kissed them goodnight I admonished them to behave and go to sleep...no playing!<br />
<br />
"Yes, Mommy", they replied.<br />
<br />
I headed downstairs, grabbed my laptop and started catching up on email.<br />
<br />
<em>(giggle giggle *thump thump* giggle)</em><br />
I roll my eyes and raise my voice to be heard on the third floor. "BOYS! GET TO BED!"<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>(*thump thump* giggle giggle)</em><br />
"BOYS!!!"<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
<em>(*thump thump CRASH* little whispers of "SHHHHHH Mommy will hear us!!")</em><br />
<br />
Sadly, I eye my laptop with longing, put it down, and quietly, so as not to give them any warning, I tiptoe up the stairs and into their room. Soren is in Ashe's bed, and the moment he catches sight of my shadow he leaps up and sails across the room into his own. I swear that boy's feet never touched the ground he was moving so fast.<br />
<br />
I glared at both kids, Ashe with his eyes shut so tight I thought he would burst a blood vessel, trying to make me believe that he is already asleep, and Soren, wide eyed, watching me warily the way a cat watches a strange dog.<br />
<br />
"Boys, it is late. You have got to get to sleep. I'm serious. Stay in bed and no more playing. Am I clear?!"<br />
"Yes Mommy" they say.<br />
I look back and forth between the two of them for a moment, making sure that they understand that I am serious, and then I head back downstairs. I pick up my laptop and wait for the inevitable.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>(giggle giggle *thump thump* giggle shhhh)</em></div>
<br />
Rolling my eyes and sending silent scathing curses to the ceiling, I tiptoe up the stairs, this time with my laptop in hand, and enter the room. The moment I round the corner both boys fly out of the closet (which is their play fort), leap into the air, and land on their respective beds faster than an Olympic sprinter could even dream of achieving. Despite my annoyance, I was impressed, and began to wonder if I should begin training them for 2020. <br />
<br />
We look at one another, boys wide eyed, waiting to see what I will do. I, trying to stare both of them down at the same time, which is only a feat a parental unit can accomplish. I win as the boys lower their heads in shame, either from the fact that they disobeyed, or from the fact that I caught them red handed. Most likely the latter.<br />
<br />
"I am not kidding around tonight" I say in a low voice that makes them both lean forward to hear me and lean back into their pillows, knowing that the low voice is a voice to fear. "You two will lie down, and stay in your beds. I do not want to hear another word from you. Now get to sleep!" I glare as the boys scurry under their covers, and close their eyes tight. Sighing, I sit down on the floor by their door, open up my lap top, and prepare to play warden for awhile.<br />
<br />
All was quiet as I surfed the web. Over time, the squeaks and shuffles of the twin beds settled, and I thought after a good twenty minutes, that they had finally fallen into a peaceful slumber. Being tired of a long day myself, I heaved a sigh of thanks to the ceiling again, and slowly, silently, made my way downstairs. I sat back into my recliner, closed my eyes, and reflected on the day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>(*thump thump thump* giggle giggle SHHHHHH *thump*)</em></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!!!</div>
<br />
Racing up the stairs I find Ashe and Soren jumping from one bed to the other, whispering and laughing as quietly as they possibly can. They didn't even hear my footsteps, this time I was not even bothering to be quiet, they were too intent on their fun. <br />
<br />
As soon as they spot me I swear I heard a muttered "oh shit". Oh shit is right you little heathens. You want to play bed time battle?<em><u> It is on!</u></em><br />
<br />
<br />
"SOREN INTO BED NOW! ASHE, INTO MY BED NOW! If you can not get to sleep in the same room then I will separate you!"<br />
"No Mommy, no! We'll behave, we promise!"<br />
"You had your chance! Ashe, into my bed right this instant!"<br />
<br />
Soren begins to sob as he realizes his partner in crime is now off to do time in another cell and he will be all alone. Ashe, taking on his role as martyr, stoically picks up his blankie, and slowly walks into my bedroom, head held high. It is the ultimate punishment for bedtime battles and he has realized that General Mom has won this particular round.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
And yet.....</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
At this point in time I am exhausted, both physically and mentally. All I want to do is to have my kids in bed and asleep so that I can enjoy just a little bit of free time before I have to start it all over again. I make my way down the stairs, look around the living room, and glance lovingly at the recliner I have been rudely interrupted from for the past hour. I sink into its delicious comfort, snuggle into my spot, kick up the ottoman, and sigh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And then I shit you not, the next thing I hear is <em>(thump thump thump thump thump). </em>Back and forth, back and forth, across the upstairs hall.<br />
<br />
<br />
Despite my aggravation I am beyond curious as to who is idiotic enough to still try to escape my hearing, and risk the wrath of mom. And for what?! <u><em><strong>What could possibly be so damn important to risk it all?</strong></em></u><br />
<br />
Slowly, I creep up the stairs, keeping low to the ground. I take no chances of having my shadow show before I do. I tread lightly on the stairs, knowing the squeaky spots of each board, and gliding silently passed. The thumping continues, pitter pattering of little feet, racing to accomplish some goal before the end of the world as they know it. But what?<br />
<br />
I turn the corner, slouched down like the Grinch on Christmas Eve and peer before me. The hallway is clear, and I am about to rise up when Soren dashes out of his room, racing pell mell for my darkened bedroom, arms filled to capacity with stuffed animals galore. He is bringing his banned brother contraband goods to keep him company at night.<br />
<br />
I pop up just as he races by, to where he leaps three feet straight up into the air with a squeak! If his eyes could have gotten any bigger, I swear they would have fallen right out of his head. The moment his feet land back onto the ground he begins to wail, great heaving sobs of despair. Because he knows that he has lost.<br />
<br />
Without breaking his song of sorrow, Soren slowly trudges back to bed on his own, gets under the covers, and turns his face to the wall.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's now ten and I have not heard from them since. I think I won the war, but I doff my hat to Ashe and Soren. It was a hard won battle and they were very worthy opponents. And it took almost all of my parental will power to not laugh out loud at some of their outrageous antics this evening.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-61547437041428031452013-07-23T08:30:00.000-04:002013-07-23T08:30:01.314-04:00Quiet TimeNow that the two older boys have started up school, I have been trying to get Soren and I into some sort of routine for the passing hours. And while I have tried to instill a time for Soren to rest, it has only been this year that I stumbled across the perfect way to get Soren to nap. He stopped napping the moment he turned two, and over the past two years, every time I tried to get him to lie down, it has been met with fierce resistance. This causes him to either get grumpier the later it gets, creating a maelstrom of attitude and tantrums in the later day, or for him to pass out once in a blue moon, comatose until dinner. I hate when this happens because it means that he won't sleep at bed time. <br />
<br />
But I have finally found the combination that works for both of us. And let me tell you, oddly enough, we both look forward to this part of the day.<br />
<br />
With Xavier arriving home much earlier than before, Soren and I have less time in the day to go out and do things. This actually makes things easier for the both of us, as we can fit stuff in without getting bored, or having too much time to waste in front of the tv while I try to get things done. So now, every morning after carpool, Soren and I go out. We go to the library once a week, hit the playground when the weather allows, go kayaking, hiking, head over to G-rents and swim, or just run a few errands with the promise of a treat.<br />
<br />
Once we get home, we pick a crafty thing to do: paint together, color, draw, play dough. We have fun sitting at the table, making our own crazy creations. Then we have lunch together. And after lunch we have Quiet Time.<br />
<br />
For Soren, Quiet Time is the only time during the day that he gets a chance to watch something on tv. He picks a show or movie, grabs his Angry Birds blanket, a few stuffed animals, and cuddles up on the couch. My three rules for Quiet time are: no food, he must lie down, and we try to keep as quiet as possible. I'll sit down on the recliner beside him and use that time to blog, read emails, or surf the web. And so far, most of the time, Soren falls asleep within 30 minutes. If he doesn't we keep it going for 90 minutes, but it's only been once a week that he has stayed awake.<br />
<br />
He's usually still napping when Xavier arrives home, giving me time to help with homework or talk about my oldest son's day without interruption. By the time Soren does wake up, he's refreshed, happy, and didn't sleep so late that it affects bed time. <br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes you find yourself fighting tooth and nail to find a quiet moment in the middle of the day. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, you find a technique that works for a child. Trust me when I say that I have tried this before and it did not work for Xavier or Ashe. But for Soren and I, this scheduled Quiet Time is working to both of us.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJuvqgurG_I_P6yo_GYc9Ciwic_NMmTpbfjS9Uv8TAzXllfDgBp-p3z4QrE89B9jLd6pfYSwi9mXBF6HP9R44Snrl3a4hlNE2Y3ufTs3VGLgxohd68jDpw_-89BfmwuRJE-tXF3Av72rT/s1600/picture021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJuvqgurG_I_P6yo_GYc9Ciwic_NMmTpbfjS9Uv8TAzXllfDgBp-p3z4QrE89B9jLd6pfYSwi9mXBF6HP9R44Snrl3a4hlNE2Y3ufTs3VGLgxohd68jDpw_-89BfmwuRJE-tXF3Av72rT/s400/picture021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soren after 20 minutes into Quiet Time this week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-9964391146925043432013-07-19T10:52:00.000-04:002013-07-19T10:57:56.793-04:00Testing...Testing....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8Li4auHWhWXvCQQlO-9w2e69R751_cfeyYMTe9qZdxAdYwy9LZvUimjTnl7QhHjhzoMJ9-opGL9Yn3NccnF8JlFRmv4V8vV4OXgEahsam2Zx8zSZM9ax5Q5vJIjCoFE7CS-DFPwq3wAE/s1600/a-school-letter-grade-600x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8Li4auHWhWXvCQQlO-9w2e69R751_cfeyYMTe9qZdxAdYwy9LZvUimjTnl7QhHjhzoMJ9-opGL9Yn3NccnF8JlFRmv4V8vV4OXgEahsam2Zx8zSZM9ax5Q5vJIjCoFE7CS-DFPwq3wAE/s320/a-school-letter-grade-600x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Today is Xavier's first big test in middle school, and I am more nervous than he is. It's not that I don't think he is ready for it. It's a science test on all that he has learned in the past two weeks, and we worked very hard to prepare him. Yesterday, I made a score of flash cards and we prepped for hours, until I felt confident that he was confident. Soren even helped, by offering himself as a prop to show the sequence of "The Steps of the Scientific Method". While I lay down on the floor, Soren jumped on my back giggling and the three of us practiced the order:<br />
<br />
"I have a problem (#1 Purpose): Soren is on my back, and I want him off.<br />
For (#2 Research) I have the floor I am lying on.<br />
My (#3 Hypothesis) is that if I roll to the side, he will fall off.<br />
I shall now proceed (#4 Procedure) to roll...(rolls and Soren laughing hysterically, falls off.)<br />
The (#5 Results) are that Soren is now on the floor and not on my back.<br />
My (#6 Conclusion) is that if I roll to the side, Soren will fall off.<br />
However, it is important to (#7 Repeat the Process) to ensure that I have a lot of data."<br />
<br />
We did this over and over again, until both Soren and I felt dizzy, we were all laughing, and it was pounded into Xavier's head.<br />
<br />
My concern is not that Xavier does not know the content that he will be tested on. It's actually more because of how the grading works in his school. When I was in high school, it was very straight forward in grades:<br />
<br />
100 - 90 = A<br />
89 - 80 = B<br />
79 - 70 = C<br />
69 - 60 = D<br />
59 and lower = F<br />
<br />
The all went by ten points. I don't know if the new grading style I am seeing is nation wide, or just our own little area, but the grading is tougher. Instead of the ten point system, it's a six point system:<br />
<br />
A = 94-100<br /> B = 85-93<br /> C = 77-84<br /> D = 70-76<br />F = 70 and lower<br />
<br />
Last week, Xavier had a quiz. Unfortunately he mixed two answers up and his score was an 84. But because of the system, it was graded as a C. As someone who grew up with thinking that an 84 was a solid B, it was disconcerting to see it as a C. If I were a kid, I would have been very happy with an 84. And as a mom, I think an 84 is great! I have always firmly believed, and tell my kids non stop, that I don't care what grade they get in school so long as I know that they studied and tried their hardest. So when I saw the number grade next to the letter grade for his quiz, I told him that I thought an 84 was great and I was proud of him.<br />
<br />
Here is where I get nervous though. Middle school was tough enough to get through when I was under the ten point system. So to be on a six point system in middle school when kids are working on tougher material gives those kids less of a chance to feel that they are doing ok. There are a lot of other parents out there who look at the letter grade and that is all that matters to them. Putting more pressure on a kid who is already in a tough transition academically, socially, and hormonally seems counter productive to creating a person who feels both invested in their school as well as confident enough to continue working hard to attain their goals.<br />
<br />
Xavier is a smart cookie. He is in AG classes. And he knows that I don't care if he bombs a test, or gets a C on his report card. But I worry that HE will start to feel the pressure when comparing to other kids if he does not get an 85 or higher on every test. And I don't want that for him. I want him knowing deep down in his heart of hearts, that really, a letter does not represent his intelligence. <br />
<br />
While I worry silently, I will continue to do my best to instill this in my son, and my other sons when they too, start middle school. It's all that I can do as a mom: to keep them on track, help them study, and be their biggest cheerleader when I know that they have honestly done the best that they can do. And I hope that this will be enough to ensure that they are willing to do the work, and are confident in themselves as they continue their education as well as life in general. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><!--70--><!--59--><!--70--><!--59--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-3811272615628254262013-07-15T09:00:00.000-04:002013-07-15T09:00:06.150-04:00In The GrooveWe have completed the first week of school and I am happy to announce that, despite my initial worries, the family as acclimated seamlessly into our new schedule.<br />
<br />
My biggest concern was how the boys would react to their new staggering school schedules. However, aside from the tiny glitch that my afternoons are now shot for making plans, this has actually become a huge advantage for the boys. Most of the boys, anyways. Soren turns into a monster when he realizes that he no longer has my captivated attention.<br />
<br />
Xavier now gets home around 2:30 in the afternoon, a good 90 minutes before Ashe. We're able to sit at the table and discuss how his day went, and I don't have to split my attention three ways so I can help him prepare for, or answers questions on his homework. Because of this, and the fact that it is quieter with two boys than three, he's been able to get his homework done in a reasonable time, with plenty of time after to relax.<br />
<br />
Soren is the only wrench to this. He morphs into a jealous kid who all of a sudden decides he needs my undivided attention the moment his oldest brother comes home, despite the fact that he will happily ignore me for the majority of the day if I allowed it. He needs a glass of water. He needs me to help him get stickers. He needs me to color with him RIGHT NOW, even if he thought coloring was boring earlier in the day when I pulled out paper and crayons. I'm forever hopeful that this will dissipate in the next few weeks as he comes to recognize our new schedule. And if not, there is always that bottle of whiskey nearby I can discreetly sip from.<br />
<br />
Ashe gets home by 4:15 and as of yet, he has n homework. This will change soon, but for now, we have time to chill at the table while he tells me about his day. I think that all of us appreciate the fact that each child gets complete individual attention from mom at the end of the day. I'm feeling more connected to the boys and feel like they are opening up more knowing that I am able to really listen for a time.<br />
<br />
Both boys have made some new friends at school. Ashe brought home a phone number for his new BFF. Xavier is starting to make friends that he sits with during lunch. I think the only snafus we have encountered was when Xavier's gym locker went missing, and because he is still too shy to undress in front of the other boys (as I hear all of the boys are) he was late to class one day, waiting for his turn in the gym stall to change.<br />
<br />
In regards to transportation, I did have to get Xavier's bus stop changed. His original bus stop was only a half mile from our house, but at his drop off, there is a known sex offender who lives there. he was the only kid at his stop, and I guess his bus drives by our house anyways, so I contacted the transportation service, and the next day he was dropped off on our street. Our transportation may suck sometimes when it comes to divvying up the kids and getting them home at a reasonable time, but I give them props for changing stops quickly when there is a good reason.<br />
<br />
Other than that I really have nothing to report, although I wish I did. My boys have been so well behaved that they are giving me no fodder to blog about. It's kind of scary, actually. I wonder if I should be keeping an ear out for a shoe to drop. At least I know that with three boys in the household, it can't always stay this steady ha!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-28047242628524815722013-07-12T09:00:00.000-04:002013-07-12T09:00:07.264-04:00Too CheapWith a family of five, sometimes we have to compromise what we want for what we need, or can afford. One of those compromises long ago was purchasing a (ugh) minivan that did not have automatic doors.<br />
<br />
I really regret that decision.<br />
<br />
It's not that I am lazy. I am, actually, but that's beside the point. My main gripe is something I never even thought to foresee when we chose our current ride of transportation. I never thought about carpooling.<br />
<br />
Every weekday I drive the kids to school. It allows us extra time in the morning to chill, while not having to worry about waiting outside for 15+ minutes waiting for a bus that is always late. In the area we live, it's almost like this rule that you have to be a parent, and own a minivan. Every day on the road is it's own minivan convention. And when parents drop off their precious snowflakes at school, 90% of said minivans have automatic doors.<br />
<br />
Now, for the most part, I am happy to be one of the remaining 10% that actually has to juggle three kids, bags of groceries, while simultaneously opening the door to the minivan. But what drives me crazy is that EVERY SINGLE MORNING, when I drive up the school doors, the car pool assistants stand there looking at me, while I look at them, in a stalemate, until light finally dawns on their heads that I am one of the 10% with a door they have to open.<br />
<br />
It's not their fault. I don't blame them. Each morning we laugh (they in embarrassment, me hiding my annoyance) and I always joke that I am too cheap to have automatic doors. They always laugh.<br />
<br />
But you know what? I think it's time to stop this occurring situation that starts a bottleneck of stalled cars, waiting for someone to open my damn minivan doors. I have two choices: I can either purchase a new minivan. Or I can make a sticker for my windows that says "I'm too cheap for automatic doors."<br />
<br />
I think it's time to look into café press.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-62478580594404541302013-07-09T10:19:00.000-04:002013-07-09T10:19:26.191-04:00Back to SchoolSomehow I deleted my awesome post about the kids going back to school. So not enough coffee this morning, ugh!<br />
<br />
<br />
Yesterday was the boys first day of school. My kids go to a year round school, so their calendar is very different from the majority of the country. We love it, and I wish that this option was available when I was a kid. But I digress.<br />
<br />
While every first day of school is special in its own way, yesterday was even more so. Xavier was starting the dreaded middle school and Ashe was going to school without a brother to watch his back. Soren has one more year stuck with me.<br />
<br />
<br />
One of the cool things about this years schedule is that the boys start and finish school on different time schedules. This means that the boys each have their own time in the morning to get ready and also have their own time working on their homework without fighting for my attention. Xavier now starts school at 7:15 and gets home a little before three. Ashe still gets home around four. The only drawback now is that my afternoons are shot to hell for play dates for Soren.<br />
<br />
Until now, on school days I had the wonderful opportunity to sleep in until 8am, where I would then roll out of bed, chug coffee, and drive the boys to school. J was sweet enough to offer to drive in Xavier at 7 while I took Ashe later, but I had to get up and take photos of the boys before their first day of school ( a parental units tradition):<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2M_yj4MjsmDHtIJulAb0i9AZbt7pkcEVCFiRzNBJ64zV8o-P-cBGqMRx3EEDrw9MPJ8-prhm9MX0H5CkY53fpuIzfD0haDx8zZKc8WE7KNYgm-7Iyj5SqpF4jLuesOP-b77VUpKyQgFov/s1600/1011859_10201585366463826_133530342_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2M_yj4MjsmDHtIJulAb0i9AZbt7pkcEVCFiRzNBJ64zV8o-P-cBGqMRx3EEDrw9MPJ8-prhm9MX0H5CkY53fpuIzfD0haDx8zZKc8WE7KNYgm-7Iyj5SqpF4jLuesOP-b77VUpKyQgFov/s640/1011859_10201585366463826_133530342_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm biased, but my boys have style!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXKtxi9bvd2SDACA5FPGkbicqcsgHTfJLcfg2gw25XO1K0ULZZCycct8pJmtKqM-YMGEzeFDBPmoLXL4Pb44OS9d646-fJTg5-UGLVQLJpUwviPSvKSpE95k8-qdAiiHCcQnlX8uCnFRB/s1600/943567_10201585764233770_1173132466_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXKtxi9bvd2SDACA5FPGkbicqcsgHTfJLcfg2gw25XO1K0ULZZCycct8pJmtKqM-YMGEzeFDBPmoLXL4Pb44OS9d646-fJTg5-UGLVQLJpUwviPSvKSpE95k8-qdAiiHCcQnlX8uCnFRB/s640/943567_10201585764233770_1173132466_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#1 for first grade!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Having our first free day, Soren and I decided to go bug Grammy and hit a playground. We had lunch, painted together, and then I instituted a quiet time in the hopes of him passing out on the couch. I totally scored when after 20 minutes of him fighting valiantly against his drooping eyes, Soren passed out for an hour.<br />
<br />
Xavier arrived home at three and despite my initial worry, said that he had the best day ever. He loves his teachers, thought it was cool to move from class to class, and even made a few new friends. We sat down together to go through all of the first day paperwork. He worked on two questionnaires while I filled out emergency forms. With having only one kid to focus on, I was fortunately able to reread his homework and catch a few things that I felt he needed to change or else be branded as a psychopath by his teachers. One question he answered was who was a literary character he would love to meet and why. he answered Altair from Assassins Creed because he was an assassin. The other was a science question, which asked him what he was looking forward to doing in science. He answered dissecting animals. (insert eye rolling here....boys)<br />
<br />
Ashe came home soon after, also glowing with happiness about school. He made two new friends, loves his teacher, and couldn't wait to go back.<br />
<br />
So all in all, the first day of school rocked for everyone. Now I am just crossing my fingers that it continues.<br />
<br />
Slainte!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-7673498138181059832013-06-27T12:12:00.000-04:002013-06-27T12:12:18.310-04:00The Talk<br />
<em>This is one of the first blogs that I ever wrote, before I even created SRM. I was asked to write for a local moms community, <a href="http://www.trianglemommies.com/">Trianglemommies</a>, and writing for them helped me realize how much I wanted to start a blog of my own. </em><br />
<em> I thought I had brought this one over a long time ago, but I guess not. And I figure since my blog has been delving into sexual education recently, that it was fitting to have my very first sexual education blog here. This occurred when I was pregnant with Soren, over four years ago. Enjoy.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://historytech.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/chick-and-egg1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://historytech.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/chick-and-egg1.jpg" /></a></div>
The Talk. If you are a parent, no further elaboration is needed when you hear those two words put together. You know <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> what it means. Two simple words, that can bring unease, discomfort, and anxiety to any parent as they wonder not if, but when they will need to deal with this particular part of parenting. How old will their child be when it comes up? How will I deal with it? How much information do I give? What if I'm not ready?<br /><br />Each of us have our own level of comfort when it comes to discussing sex as an adult. But when dealing with those questions from your precious child, it doesn't matter how comfortable we are in our own sense, explaining the birds and the bees to our kids is always nerve wracking. And after you have run the gauntlet of The Talk itself, you constantly look back and wonder how you did. Did I mess my child up? Give him too much information? Too little? Does he understand? Did I damage him in any way while explaining? And no matter when or where it happens, that memory is burned into your brain forever. You will remember every minute detail of the conversation, from the way they furrow their brow as they try to understand, or the eyes as they get big when they finally get it, and of course, the questions they ask.<br /><br />Kids start asking questions at a very young age. They always come at random times, usually when you're in the car, completely unready, listening to music or thinking of all the errands you need to get done before dinner time. And that little voice in the backseat pipes up over the radio and says "Mommy, where do babies come from?" Consider yourself lucky if they start asking questions young. You can practice for the big day, by giving them simple answers comprehensible to little ears. When they're young they really want to know just what they ask. They don't need details unless they ask. Answering this question to a 3 yr old is hard when it's your 3 yr old, but easier than later on when they're 8. They have less questions. And you can look back on your approach, analyze it, and start fine tuning for the harder questions that are sure to come later.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Below is my own personal experience of dealing with discussing sex with my kid. I offer my own so others may get an idea of when and where it could happen, and how I dealt with it. My way is neither right or wrong, it just was. And each one of us has our own ideas on how to approach We each have our own idea of what we would like to do when the time comes, but in reality, these things just spring up on you with no notice. I wrote down everything that was said, down to the details so be ready for a few words we as a society tend to keep quiet on =)</span><br /><br />It was an ongoing joke in our family that because we have boys, my husband would be responsible for dealing with the big questions. I kept warning him over the years to be ready for those questions because one day they will ask you and you don't want to be caught off guard. My husband would smile and nod and go back to whatever it was he was doing. I didn't realize how little sway we parents have on who will be the one to answer those questions. In the end my husband got off scott free. When it finally came to The Talk it was to me my son came, all alone, with no help from husband whatsoever. I remember very clearly and always will, the night it happened.<br /><br />I was preparing dinner for the family and my 6 yr old had just finished his homework in the dining room. He wandered into the kitchen, asked if he could help and I agreed. He grabbed a step stool so he could work on the counter easily. I was making breaded pork chops and I handed him 3 eggs and a bowl and asked him to crack the eggs in the bowl for me. As each egg cracked, he stared at it, fascinated by the gooey texture and bright yellow center. Pointing at the center he asked<br />"Mom is that yellow part what would have been the baby chicken?"<br />Thinking fast, as I did not want him flipping out thinking we were eating baby chickens I said "Under normal circumstances yes, the yellow part would have been the chicken. But these eggs were never fertilized, so even if we didn't eat them they wouldn't turn into baby chickens."<br />"Mom, what does fertilized mean?<br />"Well, in order to make an egg into a chicken a male chicken, creates something called sperm and he has to put it on the egg. When the sperm and egg join together it creates a baby chicken." He thought about this for a moment as we continued getting our pork chops ready. Then he turned to me and said<br />"Well how do humans fertilize eggs to make babies?"<br />I looked at him for a moment, then down at my protruding tummy, which cozily nestled our third child to be. He looked too and then up into my eyes, waiting. Sitting down on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, I got comfortable and without thinking I just went with the flow.<br />"Well you know how boys have a penis and girls have a vagina?"<br />"Yes."<br />"And you know that women are the ones who carry a baby in them until they are ready to be born?"<br />He looks at my bulging tummy. "Yes"<br />Well like chickens, women have eggs inside them..."<br />"Mom, you have chicken eggs in you???"<br />"Haha no. I have eggs in me but they're different from a chicken egg. They're much smaller and they don't have a hard shell."<br />"Oh"<br />"So as I said with chickens and fertilization, male chickens have sperm. Human men have sperm too inside their body. That's why you need a man and a woman to make a baby together, even though the woman carries the baby."<br />"if you need sperm from a man to help make an egg into a baby, how does it get there?"<br />"well, when you have a man and a woman who love each other very much, and are husband and wife, and they want to make a baby they do something called sex."<br />"OK... what's sex?"<br />I sighed. "Sex is when a man puts his penis into a woman's vagina which allows the sperm from the man to travel up to where the woman's eggs are. Once the sperm and egg meet up they form a baby. Which is why you only ever have sex when you are an adult, love someone and want to have a baby."<br /><br />My son looked at me for a moment, then down at my tummy, then at me. Realization dawned on him as he put two and two together. And in a clear loud voice he said<br />"Ewwww! That's disgusting!!!"<br />I laughed. "Of course it sounds disgusting. You are still a boy and sex is not for boys. But there will come a time in your life when you start growing into a man and a lot of changes will happen to your body. And when that time comes, it might not sound so bad. But remember, even when you get to that point in life, sex equals babies. So you only have sex with your wife and you both feel you are ready to have kids."<br />"What about buying babies instead. Can I buy a baby?"<br />"That's adoption. And even babies from adoption are made the same way."<br />"Well I don't ever want sex. I'm glad I'm a kid."<br />"You and me both, sweetie. You and me both."<br /><br />I wonder how I did. I feel like I kept my cool during the conversation itself, but afterwards I went upstairs to my husbands office and started chanting, oh man oh man oh man ohmanohmanohman. And I kept thinking to myself, one boy down, two to go.<br /><br />I'll never look at breaded pork chops or eggs the same again.<br /><br /><a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-60796885165435572292013-06-24T09:30:00.000-04:002013-06-24T09:30:04.158-04:00Pretty Little Pottymouth<br />
I'm curser. When I'm out with my adult friends I could make a hardcore sailor blush within three minutes. I minimize my potty mouth around the kids, but I readily admit that sometimes I fuck up. In order to cover my arse, I have taught my children the golden rule to swearing:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Swears are adult words. One earns the right to swear by reaching the wonderful age of 18. </strong></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For the most part, my kids get it. Xavier does not swear, but does ask from time to time if certain words are adult words or accessible to him: like crap, suck, etc. I tell him it totally depends upon the context. If you want to say this sucks, I'm ok with that. However, yelling "You suck"! at the computer (or the G-rents) is not acceptable.<br />
<br />
Ashe never swears. When he is upset, he opts for the simple use of volume, and screams so loudly that it is a wonder we have not yet used our savings to purchase new windows.<br />
<br />
Soren, on the other hand, is still learning. And once in awhile, I find myself doing three things at once; <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>slamming my head against the wall for being an idiot and swearing once too many times for Soren to parrot back what I say</li>
<li>Informing Soren that, while his use of verbal insults has been used in the proper context, he is still not old enough to use said curse word for another 15 years</li>
<li>laughing so hard at his little boy voice pronouncing "fuck" so perfectly, that I begin to cry</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9G4PSKJuYiaGF-sDdZgiosP9EhIvkQvKwSzXOsKOYpUZwP0QOiR0CVrsZdALmvdD5-gBN7j-3mF1Phi__OTkC0cEpNj0245tOgQ3HthYUWU2YG6J9GSGPPpWDeWTzkx1FxVeWY_rF-zCJ/s1600/1329453954590_5336596.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9G4PSKJuYiaGF-sDdZgiosP9EhIvkQvKwSzXOsKOYpUZwP0QOiR0CVrsZdALmvdD5-gBN7j-3mF1Phi__OTkC0cEpNj0245tOgQ3HthYUWU2YG6J9GSGPPpWDeWTzkx1FxVeWY_rF-zCJ/s400/1329453954590_5336596.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago our kitten Bax went missing, as she sometimes does. She refuses to meow when she is stuck somewhere, instead believing that at some point in time, her awesome family will find her. Either that, or she is just thrilled in her little feline way, of finding a good spot where she can hide from the boys antics for a few hours.<br />
<br />
When the kids realize that Bax really is missing, everything stops and all three boys go a hunting. Up and down three flights of stairs they yell "BAX! OH BAAAX! WHERE ARE YOU??!" until they open up a closet door and find her hiding behind the Christmas tree, purring away.<br />
<br />
This time, I was sitting on the couch with J, reading a book, while the boys were hunting for their feline companion. Up and down the stairs, up and down. I wasn't paying them much mind until I heard this little voice ask in exasperation "Where is that fucking cat?!"<br />
"Soren!" Xavier gasps. "You can't SAY stuff like that!"<br />
"Why not? Mom says it all the time."<br />
<br />
I slowly lifted my head up from the kindle and sheepishly peeked over at J. Who was, of course, giving me the look of death.<br />
<br />
<br />
My fault.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not too long after, while the older boys were in school, I was sitting on the recliner catching up on the news while Soren played with his plushies quietly on the floor beside me. In each hand he held a Mario and a Luigi doll, and was pretending to make them talk to one another. This is fairly typical in our house so I wasn't paying too much mind to the actual conversation until it was too late.<br />
<br />
Mario: Oh Luigi, what shall we do today?<br />
Luigi: I don't know Mario. Hey let's check on Princess Peach<br />
Mario: OK... (silence for a moment)<br />
Luigi: Hey?! Where is Princess Peach?! Was she kidnapped again?<br />
Mario: What the fuck...?<br />
<br />
<br />
"SOREN!"<br />
Looking up with an <em>Oh shit</em> look: "Yeah mom?"<br />
"What did you just say?!"<br />
"Ummmm... nothing. I wasn't talking."<br />
"I just heard you."<br />
"Oh no, mommy, that wasn't me. That was Mario!"<br />
<br />
Ahh yes, that foul mouthed Mario, who just realized that his girlfriend has been kidnapped yet again by that asshole Bowser. Of course it was him and not perfect little Soren.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yup.<br />
<br />
<br />
And then there was the most recent incident.<br />
<br />
Friday afternoon my mom dropped the boys off at home after a week of fun at her house. One of the first things Soren told me was the Ashe had insisted that he said a bad word, but he promised he didn't.<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah" I say?<br />
"Yeah Mommy. Ashe said I said shit, but I didn't."<br />
"Well I'm glad you didn't say that word", I reply, trying very hard to keep a serious face to match his own.<br />
"Nope, I didn't say shit. Ashe is a liar. I was mad that he said I said shit. Cause I can't say shit until I'm 18. Right?"<br />
"Right" I respond, losing the war of the straight face. "And do you remember why you can't say those kid of words until you're 18"?<br />
"Because they are grown up words. And I will be a grown up at 18."<br />
"Correct."<br />
Soren tilts his head to the side, considering his next words carefully. "Mommy?"<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"Can I say shit when I'm 17?"<br />
"No, honey. Not until you're 18."<br />
"Dammit."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I can't wait until these kids have kids of their own. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-30641804915483424062013-06-23T13:35:00.001-04:002013-06-23T13:35:37.032-04:00Sex Ed: Talk About It!This morning I was sipping coffee and surfing through Reddit when I came across a post on the parenting forum. A mom posted that her 8 year old daughter just came and asked her what sex was. She wanted to know if she could "Just shirk her duties and have her daughter ask the bad girls at school"?<br />
<br />
I sat there and stared at my computer screen for a moment, entirely disbelieving what I was seeing. And then I saw red. Rage red, where the adrenaline kicks in, and you start shaking, and it's hard to type on the keyboard because of this shaking, but the only way to let it out is to do something about it. So I did. I told this woman to grow up and parent her child and answer her questions and do not dare to shirk responsibility of something so important.<br />
<br />
<br />
Listen up parental units. I don't normally judge differing parenting styles. I know that we all have our unique ways of teaching our kids about the world around us. I know that we each have our own insecurities, and areas of parenting that freak us out. That is NORMAL! But FFS, I DO judge you if you are a pansy ass who will do your children wrong by refusing to do your duty as a parent. Do not put your children into a position where they feel that they can not come to you with questions, even if it is an uncomfortable subject. Whoever said that parenting was easy? No one! And sexual health is one of those subjects that is awkward, embarrassing, and hard! But you know what? You have to answer those questions!!! <span style="font-size: large;"><u>IT IS YOUR JOB!</u></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span>
I have blogged many times of my own stories of when my <a href="http://suburbanrebelmom.blogspot.com/2012/01/talk-20.html">children asked sex questions</a>. I have felt that uncomfortable <a href="http://suburbanrebelmom.blogspot.com/2010/10/i-was-supposed-to-not-worry-about-that.html">"Oh crap" moment, </a>when one of my little guys looks up at me with puppy eyes and asks what is sex? I have squirmed when I discussed the details about penis meets vagina. And I lived through it. And my kids walked away with knowledge: knowledge of the questions they asked, and knowledge that I would answer their questions, no matter how awkward.<br />
<br />
I recently wrote about <a href="http://suburbanrebelmom.blogspot.com/2013/06/educating-post-sex-ed.html">Xavier coming home from sex ed </a>at school, thinking that wet dreams meant dreaming of things that were wet. If I had "shirked" my duties, he would have continued to believe this inaccurate information. What kind of mother could do that to their child, knowing that one day he would wake up wondering what was wrong with him?!<br />
<br />
My mother did not teach me sex ed. I learned through books, through horrible sex ed in school, and through girls talking in the school bathroom. It was unfair for me to have to try and learn by myself. It made me awkward, believe incorrect things, and I never felt that I could talk to my mom about anything important.<br />
<br />
<br />
I refuse to do that to my children. No parent should do that to their children.<br />
<br />
<br />
So for me to see, in this day and age, a mother who is asking if it's ok for her to pass her responsibilities to others, including "bad girls at school", it makes me rage. So to answer you: NO! YOU CAN NOT! Do your damn job as a parent. You made the choice to become a parent, and that includes all of the bad icky stuff that makes you squirm. Put your big girl panties on, or find your ball sack, and answer the damn questions! Don't you dare make your child feel awkward or dirty for asking something that makes you feel embarrassed. That is your issue, not theirs. Don't make it theirs because you don't want to deal with it. That is absolutely piss poor parenting, and it breaks my heart to know that there are kids out there whose parents would actually consider refusing to talk to them about something so damn important.<br />
<br />
<br />Grow up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-571638737972142872013-06-21T09:19:00.001-04:002013-06-21T09:19:47.842-04:00Four years of Soren<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycM6x7o8rT3sY7SvDqw9XOWDYwMIxc0qnepFHz5ELBVpNgTY5dOE-6rlgE2mSKkahe7IheyTiFS0gFkptfJGTGfV64LQevO3r0h8Ai7cJz951x3YG9pW8uhvvoDxS6KQg87loc_6_2zPD/s1600/soren.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycM6x7o8rT3sY7SvDqw9XOWDYwMIxc0qnepFHz5ELBVpNgTY5dOE-6rlgE2mSKkahe7IheyTiFS0gFkptfJGTGfV64LQevO3r0h8Ai7cJz951x3YG9pW8uhvvoDxS6KQg87loc_6_2zPD/s400/soren.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
To my dearest Soren,<br />
I can not believe that, as of today, it has been four years since you have entered our world. As a mom, time both flies and stands still simultaneously. I see you standing before me, shaking your tiny little butt, doing the butt dance to Gangam style, and at the same time I can instantly pull up the memory of you being placed in my arms for the first time.<br />
<br />
You are such an amazing person! You have this gigantic personality that blows people away, fit into your tiny little body. You make me laugh so hard on a daily basis. Yes, I also do yell at you on an almost daily basis too. But sweetie, you have got to stop calling your brothers stupid when they won't allow you to play with their DS. One day you will have a DS of your own. In the meantime, play with the Ipad, and dance your heart out!<br />
<br />
I have watched you grow from a curious baby to a curious child. May your curiosity on how the world works continue to grow with you as you age. Along side your curiosity, never lose your awesome sense of imaginative play. Trust me, you are the scariest cutest Zombie when you run around the house with a cone on your head yelling "BRAIIINS"! You have perfected your Mario voice, but please, don't think that I am naïve enough to buy your story that it was Mario who said "what the fuck" and not you. I may be old, but I am not yet deaf of hearing.<br />
<br />
You have hit your milestone of ridding yourself of that dreaded car seat, and have moved up into the world of the big boy booster seat. I am so happy to see you jump for joy when I mention an errand I need to run. I know in time you will get bored of the newness, but I understand this is a symbol to you of growing up. Just remember what I taught you: don't ever take your seatbelt off by yourself unless I tell you it's ok. <br />
<br />
You are learning so many things and changing so fast from that tiny little boy to a big boy. I know I still have a couple more years of you running up for cuddles and kisses, but I also know the time is drawing close to where that will not be the norm. I'll miss those days when the time comes, so for now, don't mind if I squeeze you a little tighter, or hold you a little bit longer. I'm just trying to get my fill in before the ticking of the clock chimes the end of days gone by.<br />
<br />
You and I have one more year together before you join your brothers at school. Don't be too upset in a few weeks when they head back and you're stuck with me. I promise that, like Ashe, by midyear you will be wishing you were back home. So instead of looking far into the future, lets you and I make the most of our last year together. We'll sit down and figure out all of the places we like to go to and get them all in. Parks, museums, jump houses... you name it. And maybe I can get you to agree with coming along for a hike or two. Sound fun?<br />
<br />
My sweet sweet Soren. Happiest of birthdays to you. I hope that four is just as much fun as three, and that you live life to the fullest. While you continue to grow and change this coming year, we'll be right behind you cheering you on. Especially if you do more of those shaking butt dances. I just love those.<br />
With all my heart,<br />
Mom<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-41937739295119466642013-06-17T09:30:00.000-04:002013-06-17T09:30:02.377-04:00House Full of AD(H)DOver the last couple of months, J is slowly coming to the realization that he too, may have AD(H)D. Minor, like I have it, but there nonetheless. It has been entertaining to watch him comprehend what a world with AD(H)D is like. I was diagnosed with it as a child, and raising Xavier, I always saw our common ground when it comes to how we correlate with the world surrounding us. However, J, having always been under the impression that it was anxiety issues alone, didn't put two and two together until his new doctor asked him if he might think he has AD(H)D. Since then he has been reading books upon books, trying to determine if AD(H)D was the case all along. And it seems that it might be the case.<br />
<br />
I'm actually thrilled with this new turn of events. This means that I can stop blaming myself in the dark corner of my mind, for being the sole parental unit responsible for screwing up Xavier with my genes. It looks like we are equally at fault, yay!<br />
<br />
What has been the most entertaining has been watching J read these books about how AD(H)D can show itself, and his realizations on how it affects him. He'll tell me over dinner how, after reading the latest chapter, he learned this awesome new coping skill. It's called a schedule. And you write EVERYTHING down that you need to do, but only choose five things a day to focus on. Otherwise you would get overwhelmed.<br />
<br />
Yeah, it's called a calendar. And everyone who knows me knows that if it's not written in my calendar, it doesn't exist. And I call it a busy day if there are three or more things I have to do in one 24 hour period. Even if it's just going to the pharmacy.<br />
<br />
Then he mentioned how he learned that AD(H)D people procrastinate, because time doesn't work the same for them as it does for regular people. For example, if you know you have a deadline a week away, the average person will put that time to good use and parcel out time to work on said project a little bit at a time. But if you had AD(H)D, oh no!!!! That is NOT what we do. We physically can't, because that gives us too much time to focus. Instead, we wait until the last moment, panic, and begin what is called hyper focusing. It will be all that we can think of for that short period of time. It causes anxiety, which actually drives us to focus, and complete said project.<br />
<br />
I did that all the time in high school, when I would have an eight page essay due. I still do it today with my blog. I lack the focus to sit down in a scheduled fashion and write a blog. Hell, I forget half the crap I want to blog about. Instead, when I have inspiration, I sit down and blog three to ten blogs in one sitting, then schedule them out so you are not inundated. <br />
<br />
Another point J read, was that there are only four times we folks with AD(H)D can actually focus: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>When something is new and catches our attention <em>(like my Pintrest/Twitter spree I do once every few months).</em></li>
<li>something is of personal interest <em>(reading for me. J finds that if I am into a good book, he literally has to stand in front of me, waving his arms like those guys at the airport who wave planes in, and shout my name three times.)</em></li>
<li>something is challenging</li>
<li>or you have an important deadline and time is running out</li>
</ul>
<br />
This explains my sporadic blog sprees. My blog is most definitely a personal interest, but like any blogger, sometimes it becomes more like work than fun, trying to find interesting things to post about while smacking my head against the monitor, trying to jump start my sarcasm. So you can thank my AD(H)D for acting like a moron and leaving you all to wait for when inspiration jumps me and smacks me down to the ground.<br />
<br />
The latest nugget of information J dropped in my lap was that people who have AD(H)D do not "see" clutter. It doesn't register. He wandered upstairs while I was sitting in my recliner and surfing the web, despite the fact that our kitchen sink resembles a high rise in NYC, our bedroom looks like a tornado blew through it, and our dirty laundry pile resembles the leaning tower of Pisa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Yup, I'd say that statement of clutter is quite accurate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm actually very excited to know that J deals with AD(H)D. For one thing, he has always thought that he had an anxiety issue, or was suffering depression. But now that he is finding all these puzzle pieces that fit together, he seems to recognize what is actually the culprit. With that, he seems to be more relieved and less stressed because there is a VALID reason for why he feels the way he does. And there are tools that can help him.<br />
<br />
Also, now that he is recognizing the symptoms, it's like we're suddenly talking the same language. Well, most of the time. We still suffer the XX/XY chromosome language disconnect. But in terms of why we do what we do, it seems that we aren't so different after all. And that makes it easier to give one another support when we forget things, or act as we do. And as J learns new tools to help him, we can offer these tools to Xavier when he starts middle school and faces tougher deadlines. Having three of us in the family think the same way will help understand and acknowledge upcoming issues.<br />
<br />
Lastly, I am just so happy that I am not the sole parental unit who gave poor Xavier the ADHD gene. J can no longer blame me when Xavier is off his meds and running around like a loon. I now can look over at my husband and smile beatifically, then stick my tongue out at him. Ha!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3609853056171911143.post-77574247047537311942013-06-16T09:00:00.000-04:002013-06-16T09:00:08.573-04:00To My Children's DadToday is Father's Day, and with it will come a slew of home made gifts for dads across the country, or big gifts, like a new grill, seasons tickets to his favorite sports team, etc. And dads will smile, thank their children, and then the following day all will go back to normal.<br />
<br />
While J was out of the house yesterday, I asked my boys why they loved their daddy. <br />
<br />
Xavier: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>He gets up with me in the (early) morning and gets me breakfast</li>
<li>He helps me when I get hurt</li>
<li>He's really funny</li>
<li>He lets me stay up late on weekends</li>
<li>He helps me set up my games</li>
<li>He surprises me with treats</li>
<li>He is the best dad in the whole world!</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Ashe:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>He helps me buy my games</li>
<li>He gives me baths</li>
<li>I like his clothes</li>
<li>He's a boy like me</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Soren:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I just do</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
J is an amazing husband and father. I hear all sorts of stories from other moms about how hard it is to get their husbands to help around the house. This is not true in our household. If anything, I would say that J pampers me and the kids. It's so obvious that he loves us, and he shows it in so many ways. <br />
<br />
J gets up every morning at the crack of dawn with the boys, because he knows that I have never been, nor ever will be, a morning person. He never complains about this, and feeds the boys breakfast, gets their lunches for school ready, gets them dressed. Each school day I just need to roll out of bed and carpool them. Even then, J carpools twice a week so that I can sleep in for an extra hour. <br />
<br />
While I do the cooking, J does the dishes. Every night.<br />
<br />
We alternate putting the boys to bed. He brushes the boys teeth, reads Soren a bed time story, chases monsters away, just as much as I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
He's the Bath Master. He helps each kid clean up, washes the younger boys hair, and drains the tub.<br />
<br />
J takes out the trash every week.<br />
<br />
Every Saturday, J takes one boy out and does our food shopping.<br />
<br />
I bring down the laundry, wash and dry it. Then J brings it up three flights of stairs and sorts it out.<br />
<br />
J is always there to help out the family with electronic stuff: games, blogs, shows... anything related to electronics, J is our go to man.<br />
<br />
<br />
J is an amazing father. You couldn't fantasize better. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Over the past few months I have heard him grumbling under his breath as he is packing lunches for the boys. When I asked him what was wrong, he would pick up the juice box case and point to where it said "Approved by Moms". He was bitter (and rightfully so) that it said moms and not parents. Because he is a DAD, and dads need recognition for choosing healthy food for their children.<br />
<br />
We headed out food shopping one day and as we pulled into the parking lot, J grumbled again. When I asked him what was wrong, he said that he didn't think it was fair that the reserved spots where tagged for "Moms with Kids." Why couldn't it be "Parents with kids"? Dads do their fair of food shopping with little ones in tow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And you know what? <u>He is absolutely right.</u><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Take away this one day a year, and what we hear from the media is how hard it is for moms. How much work we moms do to raise our children. How we moms are the ones to help with homework, drag kids to soccer practice, dry away the tears when our kids fall, or have a fight with a friend at school. How we moms are superwomen and can multitask a job, maintaining a household, and raise our kids.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, aside from this one day, where is the praise for dads? Yes, there are articles being written that this day, dads are more and more stepping up. Dads are spending more time with their kids than ever before. Dads are stepping up and helping around the house more and more. And that is FANTASTIC! But most of the time when I read these articles, it almost seems as if it has been written as a relief article for moms, not a praise for this generation of dads. Now granted, there are a few out there that ae giving dads the praise that they deserve, but there are not enough of them...yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
So you know what? Today, and every day, I want us to stop for a moment, and praise dads. Praise our husbands, our children's father. The man who checks the closet and under the bed for monsters. The one who packs a nutritious lunch for his kids. The one who will stop what he is doing to fix a boo boo. The one who is always ready for a hug. The one who helps to teach our children what it is to be a good guy, a role model for the future generation.<br />
<br />
<br />
To all you dads out there, you rock! Seriously, society doesn't give you enough credit. Thank you for all that you do. You deserve so much more recognition than one day a year. You deserve a special parking space in the grocery store parking lot. You deserve equal rights of approval for juice boxes and other food products. You deserve equal recognition in the media.<br />
<br />
<br />
I appreciate you dads out there.<br />
<br />
<br />
And J, I appreciate and love you more than I can ever express. I couldn't do this journey without you. Nor could the boys. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for ALL that you do for us, your family. We love you so much.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCHoIqAMv8CmpxXnI4wEWt19JnWb1OalbUvLfO0sBu5NeffSEHxaNuOhUsdkHWJZP76PJg0NKvhlUY9ie8kAp-sbDBQ6uXsG5ZBlembso0na6uWZXNE6dzLTMxjSeB3Uq7ViWJoqaPQyR/s1600/Ashe+born+family+holding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCHoIqAMv8CmpxXnI4wEWt19JnWb1OalbUvLfO0sBu5NeffSEHxaNuOhUsdkHWJZP76PJg0NKvhlUY9ie8kAp-sbDBQ6uXsG5ZBlembso0na6uWZXNE6dzLTMxjSeB3Uq7ViWJoqaPQyR/s400/Ashe+born+family+holding.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/832/srmsig.png/" target="_blank" title="ImageShack - Image And Video Hosting"><img border="0" src="http://img832.imageshack.us/img832/7942/srmsig.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a class="twitter-share-button" href="https://twitter.com/share" via="SuburbRebelMom">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15399040913925026575noreply@blogger.com0