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

Anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes mam” they chimed in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUT…….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, mam, fighting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yeah. Did she win?”

I don’t know why this is so hard for me to admit but it is. Maybe because every time I say I am going to make this or paint that, my boyfriend rolls his eyes and says “ok, baby, ok.” and I know he totally does not believe it and it annoys me. Even though he is probably right. I throw the word procrastinator around with no problem and would probably put it on my business card if my company would allow me. I like to keep people informed. If the deadline is Tuesday, they should know whatever it is will be the last thing I work on on Monday. I am better under pressure. Or at least that is the excuse I have used my whole life.

However, I hate being a half-finisher. I have a head full of ideas at all times and sometimes I even start these little ideas, but almost never finish them. My basement is full of half-started crafts. I have flower pots I painted yellow with the intention of painting something adorable on them and making them into end-of-the-year gifts for my girls’ teachers. They somehow ended up in the basement when I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore. Mainly because Cori’s teacher really irritates me, but that is for another day.

I have mini quilts started, I have scrapbooks started - one that was for my boyfriend of his last youth football season coaching. The season that ended last November. Olivia’s room is still half-painted and the ideas that I have to finish that room are bombarding my brain at all times. Last night I lay in bed thinking about the adorable pendants I would make her to hang on a short awkward wall, out of gorgeous fabric I would buy off Etsy. I don’t even know how to sew. I don’t even own a sewing machine.

These days I can’t even visit Etsy, because I see things and say, Oh I could do that. I think I will do that for so and so for Christmas or paint something similar for so and so for her birthday.

I have a box of thank you cards and a box of birthday cards for my new year’s resolution of sending out birthday cards to family this year. They are still unopened. In fact, the present I bought for my nephew for his birthday is still in a box in my trunk. His birthday was April 15th.

Now I have it in my head that I want to do a homemade only Christmas and make things for the family. That I am going to learn to knit and make scarves and paint beautiful pictures and make thoughtful scrapbooks.

I also tell myself I could craft more if I had a craft space - a space that is dedicated to the craft supplies I have strewn about the house in different colored and shaped totes. I have a walk-in closet that I don’t use so I thought maybe that would be nice and I could clean it out and line the shelves with cute contact paper and have cute little boxes I could label to organize all my things. Yeah, the farthest I got on that project was opening the door to the unused walk-in closet and saying “Eh - tomorrow.”

Maybe the worst was the Sparkbook idea. I got this from a homey type magazine. You take a normal everyday notebook and you decorate it adorably and then use it to keep all your ideas until you get around to doing them. I thought this was a great idea and promptly bought one for each of my girls and myself. I even decorated them. Quite adorably I might add. Not a page one has an idea written on it.

Granted on a daily basis, I work, go home, make supper, clean up supper, help with homework, give baths, do hair, read books, tuck in kids, try to fit in a load of laundry or mop a floor and there is not a whole lot of time for crafting. Oh, I try to make time for the boyfriend too. Oh and I volunteer two days a week. But why on earth do I start all these dagon projects if I know I won’t finish them? Why don’t I have the self control to step away from the glue guns and fabric swatches at Wal-mart?

Is there a half-finisher’s anonymous? If so, I need the number.

I have step one down pat. My name is Mandy and I am a half-finisher.

Thank you. Thankyouverymuch.

In the car this morning on the way from her sisters’ school to her babysitter :: our mommy and me time….Emma is looking out the window and then turns to me quickly and looks at me quite inquisitively and says,

“Mama, when we go to Heaven, is Jesus the cooker for everyone, or does he just take us to eat at restaurants like Papaw?”

I tell ya, kids are so awesome!

Here I am again starting the week with a tearjerker, but if you read this post, you will understand that this story is a bittersweet one, and not all sad. I believe sometimes we can be so hardheaded that the Lord uses others and their stories to teach us something. I have learned alot from this distant family. Watching this video this morning blessed me more than anything I have seen in a very long time. Even if you are not a believer in the true story of Christ, please look into Angie’s eyes in these photos. I see past her smile and into those eyes that are filled with sadness…..but peace. Watch the video and if you need to, go read their story. You will be blessed.

Audrey Caroline Smith - Slideshow

Every day there are children just like yours and mine in impoverished countries that die from PREVENTABLE diseases like Malaria and AIDS. Today at BooMama, she is asking her readers to donate a ONE-TIME, no obligation donation of $10 to buy mosquito nets for children in Uganda. She is urging her readers to donate 50 nets in 50 hours. I know I do not have a large audience, but if just one person that visits this blog, then links to hers and donates, that is one child we could be saving together.

So skip Starbucks today or tell your kids they could maybe wait a week or two for new flip-flops and go save a life already. You can get all the information and donate here: BooMama: The Blawg. 

Some days I get sick of picking up dirty socks and washing dishes at least twice before I go to bed. Then there are days when I am giving the girls a bath and the sun is just setting and it is warm enough to put them to bed in t-shirts. I sometimes go out on the porch just to relax for a moment before finishing my tasks before bed, and I can hear them giggling upstairs through the open window; not quite ready to let go of the day and give in to their exhaustion. I look around and see how even a stranger could stop by and see the evidence of children all around. Some days I get sick of the evidence, and then some days I just look around and see how full these kids make my life and how much I will miss these things when they go away…..

THIS IS HEAVY AND VERY MUCH SELF INDULGENT AND THERAPEUTIC. SISTER, GET A TISSUE.

Dear Tony,

For the past three years, it seems you fell off the face of the planet. At one point I realized I did not even know if you were dead or alive. Some days I still see you. Emma will make a face that reminds me of you or I will pass an old DVD on the shelf at some store and think about how it was your favorite. Last week, I saw a guy buying sardines in the grocery store and I remembered how you would eat those for breakfast with french bread.

Then last Saturday it happened. At first I thought I was a mirage. My mind playing tricks on me. But there you were. Riding in the back of a truck with a bandanna on your head. You were dirty from what I can assume is a job working for your dad or uncle. I did not wave. I did not attempt to make any kind of contact with you. Mostly I just held my breath and prayed to sweet Jesus that one of the girls would not recognize you. My stomach did back flips and I felt nervous.

For the rest of the day I thought about you. I think of you sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

However, I never miss you. I never wish you were back in our lives. I have never thought your halfhearted attempt at fatherhood was good enough for my girls.

But sometimes I will be taking out the garbage or mowing the grass or putting money into a sock so that the next payday I can add to it to buy shoes or new summer clothes for our kids and I get angry with you. I think about all the things I am doing because you simply could not be a man.

Sometimes I look at my kids at the park or at karate practice and I feel sorry for them. I feel pity that they do not have a dad there to watch them like the other little girls.

Sometimes I look at my kids and I feel guilt. I feel guilty that I chose the man I chose to be their father and he let us all down. I blame myself.

And then I have moments of clarity like now and I think, I am not to blame and if anyone should be pitied it is you. You are missing out on the lives of three smart, beautiful, lively, creative, strong little girls.

They do miss you and I let them. I often thank God you did not stay around long enough for them to get to know the real you. What they do remember of you are good things and I feel content with leaving it that way.

I do this for them, not you.

When you walked from our lives I felt more for the girls than I did myself. I cried for them and I prayed for them. But someone somewhere was praying for me. Someone somewhere was praying that God would send a man to me and these little girls.

He has arrived. And I am giving your children to him.

I use to wonder if they would miss you on their wedding day. If they would wish you were there to walk them down the aisle. My new prayer is that this man is here to stay and your honored spot at their wedding will be taken over.

He has taken over every other spot in their lives and he does it as a volunteer, getting paid only in love.

He calls them and kisses them and tells them he loves them.

He taught Emma to throw a baseball and he taught Cori to ride a bike with no training wheels.

He is teaching Olivia the importance of being a lady and respecting authority. He checks report cards and kisses boo-boos.

He is present at their birthday parties.

He wraps the presents he buys them for Christmas and he was their very first valentine.

But more importantly, I believe deep in my heart, that no matter what happens, he will be there to comfort them after their first heartbreak and he will pick them up at the movies. He will attend soccer games and take pictures before prom. He will help fill out college applications.

He will walk them down the aisle.

He is the father you chose not to be and I thank you. For all things there is a reason. The reason you left and shattered my world led to the reason this man found us.

From today on I choose to believe that leaving the way you did was the nicest thing you ever did for me and our daughters.

From today on I choose to feel sorry for you, because believe me when I say:: You lose.

Love,

Mandy

The last two days have been so unbelievably wonderful that I don’t even know where to begin. As I have mentioned, oh a million times, my boyfriend is a chef. The last few days he has had some chefly type events to attend, and we have had such a wonderful time together.

First was the dinner at the Westin Hotel on Monday night. The Menus were the live performance. I am not much of a Menus fan, but they were very good. We got dressed up and made it downtown as the sun was setting. The party was going pretty strong when we got there. Two too many glasses of wine later we headed home.

Yesterday was the big shin-dig and the part I was looking the most forward to. One of his largest purveryors was having a food show at the convention center. I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting, but it was way beyond what I thought it would be. There were beautifully decorated booths as far as the eye could see. Oh, the best part? There were samples. Large samples. At.every.stinkin.booth. By the time we got ready to leave, I was actually tired of eating. I ate one of everything under the sun. Twice.

Apparently one thing I should not have eaten was the Lobster. And the lobster bisque and the crab and lobster stuffed tilapia. Seems I am a tad bit allergic to lobster. And by tad bit, I mean I am now covered head to toe in big red blotchy and very itchy hives. My throat feels a little like it is closing up and I look like this:

Ok, I took pictures and even uploaded them until I realized I was about to post nasty hive pictures of myself. On the internet. So I didn’t. But believe me. It is ugly and itchy and red and blotchy and itchy. and itchy. Did I mention they itch?

So now I know what not to eat at the next food show. And by the next food show, I mean every food show he is invited to from now until the end of time. There is something so right about all that free food under one roof.

I promised myself I would not talk about the polygamist sect controversy on this blog because I really just don’t want to get into a big debate (you know since I have so many readers) but I read this article this morning and it angered me and made me so unbelievably sad. I realize the people of this ranch should enjoy the freedom of religion like the rest of us, but as a mother of three sweet girls, I ask myself, “Could I ever watch my child carry the burden of a pregnancy and all the emotions that go with it, and more importantly go through labor at the age of thirteen?” Unfortunately, mistakes are made in this country everyday and young girls have babies way before they should (ahem, present company very much included, Read:: I was way too young to be having babies when I was having babies), but to knowingly subject your daughter to the risk seems so heartbreaking to me. I do not think I could handle it.

Dear Lady in the Grocery Store, or the Mall, or the line at the Pharmacy,

I realize you are of an older generation and sometimes change is hard. Especially when it involves race relations, which we all know is a toughy. I am sure seeing a white lady with brown kids can be a little perplexing and sometimes some of  your silly questions can even be validated. Like are my kids adopted. That one I can give you I suppose. My youngest two pretty much look nothing like me and they are well, brown. But the questions that are really none of your business anyway like “Are you married?” and then the one that always follows when I say no, “Do they all have the same dad?”, um, that’s a little much. I apologize if you ask me these questions on a bad day when I may answer by saying “I dunno, the UPS man just dropped them off one day” or “Why yes they do, have you ever heard of Denzel Washington?”

I am not near as nice when the really silly questions come out like “Is that her natural hair color?” (my red head) or “Is her hair that curly naturally?” so try to avoid those. I once convinced a lady at the playland at the mall that I paid $200 every 6 weeks to have their hair permed and professionally colored. They were 2,3, and 4 at the time. She nodded along and then made a beeline for her Canasta meeting to tell everyone all about the crazy white lady at the mall.   

I can also cut some slack on the truly sympathetic questions like “How on earth do you keep it all together raisin’ those girls without a husband?” to which I can usually just say “Easy - I just don’t keep it all together” and then point to my mismatched socks and unbrushed hair.

My new favorite is the one I was asked when we were at the dentist last. I mentioned to the girls that we needed to get moving so we could get Emma to therapy on time; an appointment that was just 20 minutes away. After brazenly asking me what she went to therapy for, I answered “um, she sees a therapist for her ADHD.” “Oh you really believe in that ADHD stuff?”

Yeah, don’t ever think it is okay to ask these kinds of questions really. If you don’t believe in ADHD I would be delighted to invite you to my house at midnight when she is so worked up and fidgety she can’t close her eyes when it is clear she is exhausted. Those nights are always a blast.

So I see that some aspects of my life can seem a little curious and just sometimes you feel like you must ask the question that is burning in your mind. But do me a favor, don’t ask me.

But lady from the gas station this morning, if you are reading this, questions like “Aren’t they just the cutest things?” are fine. Because why yes, yes they are and thank you for noticing.

Love,

Mandy