Wordy Wednesday

In my spare time (HA!), I am a volunteer education advocate for children with special needs.  You can read a little bit more about it on my other blog.  I urge you to check it out and tell your friends. 


I am having a hard time right now understanding why schools are so against parent advocates.  


I feel like in a lot of ways, I am unique and have a lot to offer in the special education planning process.  I do not have children with special needs for whom I am advocating.  I have no bankable interests in special education aside from my desire to help.  I was trained for what I do purely based on the fact that I wanted to help be a voice for those individuals who cannot speak for themselves.


A little background:  I came into education advocacy by chance.  Long story short, I was selected to be part of a special training through the Georgia Advocacy Office six years ago.  Soon after graduation I found out that I was pregnant with my first child.  Even when I was going through the training, I spent a lot of time wondering why I was exposing myself to the nasty Downtown Atlanta germs once a week (yes, I'm a tad on the OCD side) and to be perfectly honest, once I quit my "day job" and had that notch in my belt of having completed the training I didn't really give it much additional thought.  Life, diapers, and a seemingly endless flow of pregnancy and nursing followed.


Then about a year ago, a friend of mine expressed that she was having problems with the school with regards to her child who experiences Autism.  I told her I would find someone to help her.


As it turns out, I was that "someone".


Two dozen meetings, 10 active cases, and three Professional Ethics Complaints later, being an education advocate for children with special needs has become my secondary purpose in life.  My first is, of course, managing the zoo that is my day to day life of being a mom to three very young kids.


I always try to make one thing clear.  I am an advocate for CHILDREN.  So when a school tries to block me from participating or gives me unfounded rationale as to why I am not an integral part of the decision making team, I have a hard time not getting my feathers ruffled.  


I have recently been faced with "practices" intended to keep me, as an advocate, out of the decision making group.  I am irritated with the fact that schools lead parents to believe that practice equates policy, thus scaring them away from fighting for what they know is right for their children.  

As an advocate for the child, I believe that it is my responsibility to make sure that I am looking at all sides of the situation to ensure that the child's rights are being protected and that decisions are being made that are going to be in his/her best interest. This sometimes means that I may disagree with the parent; sometimes I may disagree with the school.  Sometimes, they may be saying the same things in two different ways and I need to figure out what the core issues are so that we can make sure we are staying on topic and making progress .  I thought this was the entire point in being an advocate for the child.  I am not on the side of the School or the Parents.  I am there as the child's voice.  

In a time when our schools are strapped for resources, funding, time, etc., I am struggling to understand why advocates are the "bad guys" who take things off track.  Perhaps I am naive, but I think that looking at advocates as a benefit rather than as a burden offers the potential for a lot more good than harm.  If we can eliminate the need for long, unnecessary, and often contentious meetings by looking at the situation from an external perspective, then why shouldn't we, the advocates, be involved in the process without putting up additional barriers to communication? 

At the end of the day, it's the children who are suffering because of these ridiculous "practices" and they are the ones we should be protecting.

Just my Wordy thoughts for this Wednesday evening.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

The Ugliest Word

No.

Yep, that's it.  No is the probably the UGLIEST word that you can say to me.

Because if you tell me no, I'm going to ask why.  If you tell me no, I'm going to try harder.  If you tell me no, I'm going to be relentless in trying to find a way to make you say yes.

I'll wear you down.  I'll push when you pull.  I have a four year old, a three year old, and an 18 month old. I walk six miles a day pushing 100 pounds.  I was raised by Catholic parents in Catholic school.  I can totally take you on.  I have superhuman stamina when it comes to getting my way.

So go ahead.  I dare you.  Tell me that you won't let me do something I want to do or that I can't have something my way.  Bring it, baby.  Because I can guarantee that I'll outlast you... especially when it comes to fighting for something that I believe in.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

(Disclaimer: this has nothing to do with The Husband.  He's an angel who unquestionably supports my every whim... because let's face it, he knows better than to tell me "NO" by now.)

Fool Me Twice...

I am amazed (though I'm not sure why) how ugly women can be to one another.

I'm pretty sure this isn't the first time I posted about this, but for some reason each time I witness or experience the sting of one woman's slap against another, I am still shocked and pained.

Last time I checked, we all peed the same way... Just sayin'.

I can remember as young as preschool being hurt by the words or exclusions of my classmates.  It continued through elementary school, high school, and by college I was such a glutton for punishment that I actually CHOSE to join a sorority.  Needless to say, I didn't last long.  Apparently I'm bitchy, but just not quite bitchy enough to be able to handle that much estrogen in one room at the same time.  Well, that and I don't like being told what to do and when to do it.  But that's a whole separate set of posts for another time.

Even now, I see my own daughter suffering through the ups and down of her social climbing peers.  It may seem innocent enough, but trust me, these girls are learning this behavior someplace.  I look to the mothers.

Oh yeah, I'm going there.

What is so incredibly important about being part of that "in" crowd?  Only a few weeks ago I remember writing in my private journal about how much happier and more confident I am now that I'm in my 30's, and how I wish and I would do everything in my power to pass this along to my own daughters.  Growing up sucks.  Growing up with (or without as the case may be...) boobs is even harder.

Yet over and over and over again, and for some reason even moreso in the last 24 hours, I see women perpetuating the stereotypes, snobbery, and back stabbing that does nothing to move us all forward and does everything to break us down into tiny piles of insecurity.

I'm hardly innocent.  I know that I have the chromosomal predisposition to bitchiness just like my female counterparts.  But - and this may sound sanctimonious but I promise it is really not intended to be - all I have to do is think about the fact that I would move mountains to shield my daughters from the pain of being on the receiving end of the female fire throwing, and I am silenced and humbled.

"Do unto others..."

I know that I cannot protect my children from the pain of this world.  I know that I cannot put them in a super-safe-and-torment-free bubble, no matter how much I may want to.  But what I CAN do is teach them through my own example not only of how I treat them directly, but also in the ways that I treat everyone else I encounter.

I don't have to like everyone, and I'm not asking you to blow smoke up my you-know-what.  But it isn't necessary to be part of that all-exclusive-in-crowd to find happiness.

Just think about your peer whom you have a great level of respect for.  And now, for just a moment, consider what attributes you respect about him or her.  I don't know about you, but I haven't ever been friends with someone just because of their car, their country club, or their spouse's affiliations.  The persons in my life whom I respect the most are the ones who motivate me to be a better person, a better friend, and even in some cases a better mother.  These are the people whom I would like to have in my super-clique; but at the end of the day, I'm pretty sure that they, like me, wouldn't want to belong to any clique at all.

Except, of course, for Snookie.  I have no qualms whatsoever about throwing her under the bus.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

I Couldn't Make This Up If I Tried!

(Before you begin, yes, I am posting twice in one day (GASP!!).  You do not need to adjust your subscription settings. Enjoy!)

This is me:

These are my daughters:

Clearly, they don't look exactly alike.  The oldest has a lot of my features while the youngest favors my husband.  However, if you look at all three of my children's first baby pics, you can definitely tell that they are siblings.

A few weeks ago, we pulled out a picture of my grandmother.  My youngest looks EXACTLY like her baby pictures.  I'll have to do some digging, but I will post it as proof.

And in all fairness, my husband is Colombian.  I'm Irish.  It's pretty amazing that my older two children hold any resemblance to me whatsoever.

At any rate, when shopping with my youngest, I've been asked twice over the last month this exact question:

"When did you get her?"

I'm not kidding.  I told you I couldn't make this up if I tried.

I was just as confused as you at first.  My response both times was flushed astonishment.

Yes.  I was asked "when I got" my daughter.  Apparently, she looks so different from me that I couldn't have possibly given birth to her myself.

My actual response was "I'm not sure what you mean..." and that seemed to be enough to get them to back off.  However, if I was quicker on my feet, my response might have been something along the lines of "After a really great bottle of wine...", or "We hadn't figured out exactly what caused the 'kid thing' yet...".

Offensive?  Perhaps.  Although, I find my newly formulated response to the question no less offensive than the question itself.

So yes, she IS mine.  I've HAD her since the moment we knew we wanted to grow our family.  And after a particularly stressful pregnancy and over 36 hours of labor, you darn well better believe that I gave birth to her and she has my blood beating in her heart.

In an effort to keep my ranting to a minimum, I will leave you with this: even if I hadn't actually conceived and given birth to her on my own, she would still be one hundred percent my baby.  And the question, "When did you get her?" would be no less inappropriate.

Love, hugs, and blessings,

The Mama

Love Letters

Dear Bank of America,
I think you know where you can kindly shove your fees.
Love, Jennifer

Dear a-hole in the blue porsche,
Yes, you did deserve the finger. You almost hit me - and my kids. Were you not picking your nose and talking on your phone while revving your engine on your overpriced car through the intersection you would have seen my BIG RED STROLLER.
Love, Jennifer

Dear collection agent #1,
If you are going to call my number, please at least attempt to pronounce my name correctly. Jennifer is a VERY common name. Get it right.
Love, JENN-I-FER

Dear collection agent #2,
Get in line.
Love, Jennifer

Dear Scruffy,
While I appreciate your attempt at "aiming" for something to deposit your poop into, I would appreciate it if you would at least wait until you get outside... your food bowl is NOT a toilet.
Love, Jennifer

Dear Noah,
Screaming and throwing a temper tantrum will not result in you getting your way. I will win.
Love, Mommy

Dear wrong-number caller,
My name is not Monisha. Had you LISTENED to the recording the first time and paid attention when I said YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER the second time you called, you would probably have realized that. Calling back two more times won't change that fact. And no, I do not think it is possible for you to come over this afternoon to see the house. I DO NOT KNOW YOU! Did you not get that you have the wrong number after the second time I explained it to you?
Love, JENNIFER

Dear collection agent #1,
Nothing has changed between 9:00 this morning and 3:00 this afternoon. I have not found a money tree, nor has a wealthy relative died. You may now move to the back of the line.
Love, Jennifer

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

Facebook Mompetitions

I love Facebook. Love. It. I'm a total junkie thanks to my iPhone facebook app. My favorite status updates are song lyrics, quick quips about odd child behavior, and controversial status updates that ruffle feathers and challenge friends to voice their opinions.

I got on the FarmTown bandwagon. Don't lie - you know you did too. Mafia Wars, anyone? And Island Paradise... I mean really, what's not to like about an island in the middle o' nowhere that has a climate which not only produces such exotic produce from Macadamia trees, Yarro plants, and coffee but also sustains the lives of animals such as Mystic Llamas, English Game Hens, Brown Cows, and Mountain Goats!

I've been known to participate in a quiz or two. And I even (shh, don't tell anyone) briefly joined in Sorority Life. Incidentally, SL ended in pretty much the same way my real life sorority experience ended: excommunication.

All in all, I would say that 90% of the time, it serves the purpose for which I intend it to be utilized for: to connect me to other people with in the real world, the outside world that spans beyond diapers and carpool.

10% of the time, I'm not hitting that "like" button.

There is a sinister side to Facebooking, and I'm not talking about the pedophiles and perverts. That's criminal. What I'm referring to is a different kind of evil... the kind of underhanded manipulatively innocent meanness that only women are capable of inflicting on one another.

Mompetition.

Mompetition refers to the "my kid is smarter/cuter/bigger/better/has less smelly poo than your kid" syndrome. Mompetition takes "I walked 10 miles in the snow uphill both ways barefoot carrying an elimination communication trained llama on my shoulders" one-up-ed-ness to new heights. Mompetition separates classes of super moms from the survival moms (incidentally, I'm in the latter class and am just fine with it!). Mompetition is what undermines the female mom psyche and destroys the very fibers that should be woven through our sisterhood. (Okay, so maybe I got a tad carried away with the sisterhood thing. I'm trying to make a point here!)

I truly believe that some mompetitions are completely accidental: In an attempt to explain my lack of sanity, I post a status update on my Facebook profile that outlines why I haven't had time to shower when it is already 5:30 in the evening. And while I realize that most people don't particularly care WHY I am smelly, there is some comfort in at least putting it out on the table that hey, I may smell worse than that llama I've been carrying, but it really has been one hell of a day!

But what happens when the to-do list of the super mom overachiever becomes a daily reminder to survival mom that someone else is always bigger/better/faster/stronger than she is? Every once in a while, its great to get those thumbs-up "likes" and "wow, you're my hero" comments. At some point, and I'm just being honest here, the supermom's platform for seeking validation and reinforcement goes too far.

Whether we intend to or not, we are challenging one another to a Facebook Mompetition when the daily accomplishment list becomes as regular as the horoscope app update in our news feeds.

I don't know about you, but I have many professional friends, moms included, and they don't post how many briefs they finished, how many orders they fulfilled, and how many fires they put out at work. And not once have I personally ever seen a single one of my childless friends post their daily to do's and accomplishments. Quite frankly, I don't know many people who give a rats patootie about it either. No offense, of course.

Not only do our mompetitions pit the SAHM's of the world against one another, but they also pit the SAHM's against the WOHM's in a very subliminal way. When I was a WOHM, I struggled to balance work life and home life. As a SAHM, I struggle to balance home life and, well, home life. We are ALL doing the best we can, but is it really necessary to update daily about the fact that your six month old perfectly potty trained child can also ask for cheese and crackers in Latin, French, and Sanskrit, and is learning the origins of the Gregorian calendar - all before his/her Bento lunch of cute and cuddly veggie creatures? I'm struggling to teach my two year old that poop is not finger paint and that there is a world beyond goldfish crackers and PB&J. And the mom next to me secretly wishes that she was the one teaching her child that dog food is not intended to be placed up the cat's nose instead of having that task passed onto the nanny.

At the end of the day, "THE social networking site" can either help or hurt all of us. Ultimately, no one can control what his or her friends post. And we can choose to hit the "hide all posts from John Smith" button in our news feed. But, should we really have to?

I'm just saying...

And by the way, if you were able to teach a llama elimination communication, I really would have to bow down to you and hit that "like" button.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

Unitled

Dear Family,
First of all, let me tell you how much I love you. I adore you. I love you more than all the stars in the sky and all the grains of sand on the earth combined.

That being said, I have just a couple of simple requests.

1. Could we please work on the tattling? I mean, really... is it necessary to tell me EVERY SINGLE TIME one of you looks at the other one? It isn't a criminal offense. And the wrath of The Mama will not come down on your beloved sibling simply because he/she looked in your direction. I also cannot control the extent to which the dogs look at you.

2. I, you are not moving to California on Monday. Nor can you skip ages 4 through 12 so you can immediately become a teenager. Furthermore, simply becoming a teenager will not entitle you to a spring break trip. If anything, this will prevent you from EVER SEEING THE LIGHT OF DAY on spring break. And for the record, repeatedly asking will not make me change my mind. And while I find it impressive that you have grasped the concept not only of States and Ages, but also of alternatives when one door closes, the window for you to move Hawaii in lieu of California will not be opening anytime before you are 18. I also commend your persistence. Asking more than 70 times in the course of three hours is impressive. But I will not be worn down... yet. Oh, and you cannot marry your brother. Or Chewie. I'm just saying...

3. N, your creativity is amazing. However, I really don't want to have to remind you again that your slice of pizza is NOT a golf club. Chewie's head is also not a golf ball. Scruffy is not a tractor to be ridden on. Your baby sister is also not a toy to be dragged around the house, although for the life of me I cannot figure out why her blood curdling screams every time you touch her have not alerted you to this already. And the way you say Sowee is adorable, but no matter how cute you are, you cannot repeatedly hit Sissy in the head and say "sowee" each time. It doesn't make it hurt any less, or prevent you from getting in trouble.

4. Hubs... really? Watch the news? Cars has played six times in the last four days; Tinkerbell has played twice. And when I get online, I'm much more concerned with my Farmtown skills than with the fast track on the crap train that our country is heading down. I need less stress in my life, not more. Google reader and Facebook are my bff's. It's not that I'm a space cadet. But lately, I need my happy place when the house gets quiet.

5. Dogs, please remember that YOU ARE DOGS!! You are not entitled to eat the food that I feed my human babies. And children, I appreciate your generosity, but please don't share your sandwiches and pop-tarts with the four-legged friends in our house. I clean up enough poop as it is.

I adore you all.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

Is it bedtime yet?

When Hubs is out of town, my kids go to bed impossibly early. And by impossibly early, I mean as early as possible without their little bodies confusing night sleep with nap sleep.

Around here, that has been known to be as early as 6:30 some nights (6:15 if we're really honest about things).

It's not that I don't love my children. It's that I love them more when I am given the opportunity to have a little bit of quiet time to myself to get things done and relax a little bit.

Hubs has been on the road for about 5 weeks. He worked one of those Saturdays in between and will be working this Saturday before heading back out for his 6th week.

I am so, so, so thankful for his job.

But to be perfectly frank, on day 4 of his 5th week of travel, I really wish I had a little more support. Reading about my friends who have mom's helpers so they can go to the store and they have one or two children kind of makes me want to puke/cry/scream. No offense. It just does. That little green-eyed jealousy mom-monster comes out. I don't have anyone who can invite us over for dinner when he's gone or who offer to watch the kids so I can have an afternoon break.

Boo hoo.

I have a certain sick sense of pride about being able to be she-woman-super-mom and do things with so much independence. But I'm not going to lie. It does get really, really hard.

So by my calculations, it's about 5:25. I have about 30 minutes until the bedtime routines can begin. And since Little Einsteins is over and my chef, Papa John, just delivered dinner, it's about time for me to begin our evening rituals.

Until next time...

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

I Think I Would Rather Be Stabbed In The Back

WARNING: MAJOR SELF PITY PARTY WHINING TO ENSUE

I spent Saturday afternoon/evening in the emergency room due to chest pain. For four hours, I had myself convinced I had everything from stage 4 melanoma (thanks, Grey's Anatomy for spiking the hypochondriac in me) to swine flu.

Turns out, I have Pleurisy. Basically, it's an inflammation of the chest wall around your lungs. On Saturday, the ER doc told me to just take Advil. I was back at the doctor this morning and walked out with two new prescriptions.

This Pleurisy thing pretty much sucks. It hurts ALL THE TIME. It hurts even worse when I breathe. It hurts if I sleep wrong. It hurts if I laugh, or cough, or hiccup. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the chest and rotating the knife around for shits and giggles. Nice visual, I know.

And you know what really makes me mad?

My birthday is tomorrow. I'm turning 31 and I feel like I'm 80 right now. A week ago I was running 3 miles and swimming 1000 laps five days a week. Today, I could barely climb the stairs without stopping to take a breath. And when I did, it hurt. Bad.

My labs are all perfect. My x-rays were clear. My EKG was beautiful. But apparently, there is this invisible irritation inside my chest that is making everything I do exponentially harder and more painful than it needs to be.

And in case you were wondering, Google and Wikipedia are EVIL when it comes to getting information about your illness. Unless you want to force yourself into a full-on panic attack of monumental proportions, do not risk your sanity by using them to get additional information about what ails you.

Thanks for allowing me this opportunity to whine and wallow in my own self pity. Tomorrow, we will return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama

Clothes? A Towel? Something?

If you are one of those bare-all-in-the-locker-room kind of people, you might want to just stop reading now.

Because seriously... I do NOT understand how you can parade - yes, there is some parading going on - around in front of complete strangers stark naked. DO NOT GET IT!!! I mean, unless of course, that is your profession - but that's not really what we're talking about here, now is it?!

So this gym we joined - LOVE IT. Except for one thing. Every single woman in the locker room struts around start naked, or 50% nude at best.

Really. Really? Do you REALLY think that your boobs look THAT GOOD hanging down to your knees that EVERYONE in the entire locker room wants to look at them? Really.

And if you could take the time to set the towel underneath your butt so that you could sit down naked and play on your iPhone, do you not think that you could take the extra, oh I don't know... twenty seconds it would take to put a shirt on or maybe even just throw an extra towel over your lap so we don't all have to see your nether-regions? Oh, and by the way... crossing your LEGS would be at least COURTEOUS, don't you think??!!??!!

I am so proud of the men and women who are comfortable with their bodies. That's great. Really. But honestly, there IS a difference between dressing post-workout and parading around the locker room in your not-so-new-and-definitely-not-yet-improved birthday suit.

So, your endorphins have kicked in and you are feeling a little extra confident, maybe even a little bit exhibitonist-esque. But COME ON LADIES!!! Drying your hair totally in the nude in a crowded locker room? Really? REALLY???

If I have offended you, I apologize.

Love, hugs, and blessings,
The Mama