Somebody's Hero

This woman? She is my new hero. Her name is Linda Tirado. Up until a couple of days ago, she was a hard working mother of two small children who worked two jobs and averaged 4 hours of sleep a night. Then she wrote an essay that was published on the Huffington Post and her life changed...almost immediately. She is a complete stranger to me, yet I am thrilled for her new found celebrity. 

Ms. Tirado's essay focused on poverty and how it affects women. Her objective was to shine a light on the bad decisions made by the lower class and, in a sense, explain to those in the middle and upper classes the thought process behind those decisions. 

This Is Why Poor People's Bad Decisions Make Perfect Sense exposes what women in the lower class must deal with every day just to put food on the table for their families and pay the necessary bills to get them by one more month. Ms. Tirado writes:

"We have learned not to try too hard to be middle-class. It never works out well and always makes you feel worse for having tried and failed yet again. " 

"There's a certain pull to live what bits of life you can while there's money in your pocket, because no matter how responsible you are you will be broke in three days anyway. When you never have enough money it ceases to have meaning. I imagine having a lot of it is the same thing."

 Her words struck me to my core. It was if she reached deep into my psyche and discovered my thoughts, fears and feelings of the last 8 years. Someone finally understood what I was going through with paying bills and buying groceries and gas for the car. She KNEW I wear disguises when I use the CoinStar machine just so I can get a little after-dinner surprise for everyone instead of just the bland pasta dish and bread. 
Ms. Tirado's essay was fraught with references from her life that were mirror images of my own: the struggle to get bills paid, going into a tailspin when an unexpected expense arose, worrying about what her family was going to eat. 

I haven't always been poor. My parents were solidly middle class - my father was a life-long railroad employee and my mother worked for a sporting goods manufacturer. I grew up without a clue of how my parents provided for me; they just did. I got what I wanted for Christmas and birthdays and we did pretty well, I guess. I went to college on their dime - no students loans, scholarships or grants for me. I did a fair job of managing life after college, up until my mom died. I admittedly fell apart on every level and became very financially irresponsible in the following couple of years. I established a solid financial footing during the 9 years I worked at a private school. I shared a house with my best friend at the time, so I only had minimal basic bills. I could afford almost all of what I wanted and was able to acquire larger ticket items with my recently rebuilt credit. Life was good; I had money in the bank, I had good medical insurance and I felt quite stable. Then the proverbial boom was lowered. 

I lost my job, along with 15 others, in a layoff due to an operations budget shortfall at the school. I was offered a generous severance package, but the blow to my emotional and mental state was damn near impossible to overcome. I was severely depressed and ended up making some REALLY bad decisions, acting more on alcohol induced impulse than on logic. Within about 6 months, I was broke and about to be evicted. I moved in with a guy that I thought would be the answer to all my problems. Suffice it to say that he most definitely was not. During a particularly dark period, I wandered around in a fog, participating in more rash behavior. Remarkably, I ended up pregnant and unmarried. 

In that moment - and every moment since then - I was poverty stricken. It's been so difficult to accept my station in life. But once I learned how to shed my pride, I found no shame in becoming a couponer and bargain shopper! It's especially challenging to have physicians, educators, and other high earners as good friends, but because I love them, I've learned to live with their salaries and I am extremely grateful when they share their good fortune with me in the form of dinner, shows, toys for the Pie. 

The world looks down on the poor. Society judges the lower class without knowing the circumstances under which they became so. Yes, it's embarrassing. It's humiliating, is what it is. But it's the life we have and we try to make the best of it. Linda Tirado summed it up this way: 

"I am not asking for sympathy. I am just trying to explain, on a human level, how it is that people make what look from the outside like awful decisions. This is what our lives are like, and here are our defense mechanisms, and here is why we think differently. It's certainly self-defeating, but it's safer. That's all. I hope it helps make sense of it."

To read the entire essay by Ms. Tirado, click here 

Funds Needed

http://www.gofundme.com/5gpa6k


This link will take you to a GoFundMe page where you can donate, if you wish, to helping to pay for plumbing repairs.

thank you for your consideration

Mixed Messages

Suddenly, everyone is talking about princesses. A few days ago, a media outlet ran a story about a private girls school in Kentucky that has launched a new development campaign. The school poses that modern girls are not vapid, helpless princesses, but strong, capable and independent young women. Here is one of the several print ads they offer:

I find this very intriguing since Disney just released their new spots on television:

So, which is it? Do we encourage our daughters to be princesses or not? The so-called experts on child development and psychology have conflicting opinions and are sending mixed messages to parents of little girls. There are valid points to each side of the argument, but I'm trying to determine which point weighs more heavily with me. 

On the one hand, we have called our daughters "princess" since time immemorial. A daughter is such a sweet little creature that we take pains to shelter her from harm or negativity. We swaddle them in pink the instant they leave the womb and painstakingly buy them dolls, play kitchen equipment and tiny vacuums in order to prepare them for their roles as homemakers. We shower them with whatever they want at the sight of the first tear, pouty lip or batted lash. And why not? They are our precious baby girls - our princesses!  

Disney would have us believe that being a princess is the ultimate goal for every little girl. I question this singular path of thought. Every Disney princess I have seen (and that's a lot!) presents in appearance as perfect. They are all stunningly beautiful with long flowing locks, huge eyes, lovely and radiant skin, and many of them have the singing voice of an angel. They are immediately adored by all those they meet and usually have gentlemen falling over themselves to make the her their bride. That ideal is unattainable. Is that what we should be training our girls for? To become a wife...and then what? We never hear about what happens "happily ever after." 

Click here to see a very interesting take on modern women and how they are princess-ified. 

Admittedly, some Disney princesses do possess characteristics and values that I would like my daughter to emulate: kindness (Snow White), compassion (Ariel), intelligence (Belle), humility (Cinderella), strength (Mulan), courage (Merida), determination (Tiana), and adventurousness (Jasmine). But I look at it as more my responsibility to model those values every day at home, rather than cross my fingers and hope she picks it up by watching the movies. The Pie often inquires, "Is this real?" when we watch a movie together. I explain that they are made up stories, but they teach us a lesson about life. I try to let her figure out that lesson, instead of brow beating her with it. 

What I want my daughter to grow up knowing is that she - as herself - is good enough. She is perfect in my eyes and she makes me proud to be her mother. I need her to understand that she doesn't need a tiara to be special. She already is.  

The Other Woman

In recent weeks, some people have told me that I am "too nice." I'm not entirely certain what that is supposed to imply, but I found myself reflecting on it. Before I became a mother, I had an edge. I was tough ...didn't take crap from anybody. Now, upon careful examination, I can see soft spots. Little chinks in my armor show up more often than I would like. I don't care about how I look, as long as I'm clean. I've become another woman. 

There was a time when I would never dare to leave my house without my hair and make-up done and dressed presentably. I regularly had my hair colored and styled, visited tanning salons and had manicures every 3 weeks. Nowadays, I make regular trips to Wal-Mart not only without make-up, but with my hair pulled back and many times without a bra! My hair turns grayer every day and is desperate need of a cut... and my nails? I'm lucky to get to cut and file them myself, rather than chew them off! Pedicures? A very rare treat! 

Before I was a mommy, I was a tough chick. My exterior was hard, crusty and nearly impenetrable. I spoke harshly and sarcastically to people and didn't care if I offended anyone. I was honest and straightforward. No sugar coating for me. Now, 6 years after birthing the most awesome child on the planet, I am more aware of tact and diplomacy. I choose my words carefully and make a concerted effort to remain positive in difficult situations. I am more friendly to strangers and find polite conversation less annoying than I used to. 

Once upon a time, my agenda was all that mattered. I worked 10 or 12 hour days, stopped for a drink on the way home. Stayed out all night and slept all day on weekends. Mornings consisted of sleeping until the last possible minute, repeatedly slapping the snooze button. (Oh, wait...I still do that last thing!) I had no one else to answer to, no one to feed but myself, no one to take care of but myself. I didn't ingratiate myself with the neighbors. I wasn't a part of a community. If I didn't want to do something, I didn't; and harbored no guilt whatsoever about saying "no." In present day, I sleep very little. I am always the first one up to make sure homework is in the book bag, clothes are ready to be worn, breakfast is made and lunch is packed. I have a strict schedule of dropping at school, nap times, picking up from school, extracurricular activities, preparing meals, getting baths and stories read, slathering lotions and potions on old,

neuropathic feet and then cleaning up before I can finally fall into bed. On many occasions, I am responsible for not only my kid and father, but the children of other people, as well. Neighbors rely on me to plan their garage sales, teach them to use a new piece of technology, babysit and otherwise counsel. And I do it all! I don't want to let anyone down. I care now about being a part of something bigger than me. I help because I once needed help and was afraid to ask. When I received what I needed, gratitude became my way of life. 

Admittedly, there are times when I wish I could morph back into that hard edged, stone cold bitch that I was when I wasn't a parent. But for the most part, I like being the other woman. 

An Open Letter to Men

WARNING: MEMBERS OF MY FAMILY AND/OR THOSE WITH SENSITIVITIES TOWARD VULGARITY WILL NOT WANT TO READ THIS. IT CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND DEPICTIONS OF SITUATIONS THAT COULD BE UPSETTING TO YOU. 

An Open Letter to Men

Dear Penis Possessors,

I have something to say. I don’t think you’re going to like it, but for my own sanity, it has to be said. And I need some questions answered.

 I have recently found myself the recipient of uncomfortable attention from men.  Within the past several months, four different men have thought nothing of suggesting I have sex with him for no other reason than the pleasure of it. None of those men were my steady boyfriend … and one was my father.  

Last week, as I lay quietly in my bed, reading a book, my father entered my bedroom, slid his hand up my leg and grabbed my genitals. He sometimes gets confused and disoriented, so I asked him, “What are you doing?” He answered by repeating the offense. Shocked, I asked, “Do you know what you are doing?” He then showed me his penis, and then grabbed at my genitals again. I firmly instructed him to return to his bedroom, closed my door and cried. I could not begin to process what had taken place in the supposed safety of my home and began to freak out. I posted a number of cryptic quotes on Facebook and fortunately, my neighbor saw them and called me to talk. Our conversation helped calm me down, then I went to take a shower in an attempt to cleanse myself of the incident. I then vomited while standing in the shower, overcome with disgust and shame.

The day before the unthinkable happened with my father, a man I briefly knew over 10 years ago and had slept with once, spent the day texting me in an attempt to get me to agree to meet him in order to recreate the past. For several weeks, this man hounded me through Facebook messaging and texts for this reason only and I tried to decline in a subtle way, but that seemed to go unnoticed.  I had to state directly that I was not interested in a situation that debased me and lowered my value as a human being to that of a sex toy. It is my hope that he does not contact me again, but I cannot be certain.

A couple of months ago, a new guy friend talked me into coming to his apartment for the sole purpose of performing oral sex. I admit it was a mistake and will only say in my defense that my self-esteem was at a dangerously low level and I desperately needed to feel and be wanted. More requests followed but when I passed on the opportunity, I was verbally abused; I was called names and made to feel less than a person.

Back in November, I was on a date with a man I met in a restaurant. He is the friend of a friend, so I felt comfortable going out to dinner with him. The entire evening, he spoke suggestively, then graphically, about what he wanted from me. I tried to play coy, hoping that a nice first date would evolve into a second date and maybe something more concrete. He took me to a park and while we were there, he forced himself on me. I said “No” several times, but he would not be stopped from getting what he wanted. Afterwards, he dropped me at my car and said he would call me. He did. A week or so of ignoring his calls and texts only made him mad, so I confessed that I didn't want to see him again. He didn't take it well, and again I found myself being verbally abused. I wasn't invested in him much, so I didn't let it bother me. I knew it wasn't about me, it was about him.

This past weekend, I attended my high school reunion with a girl friend. I was having a great time until I caught the attention of a guy who had obviously drunk a lot of alcohol. Thirty years ago, we never exchanged one word, but he was more than happy to share words with me now. Specific, graphic words involving sex acts came tumbling out of his mouth into my ear as I sat trying to watch a slide show of pictures. He cornered me at the food table and began kissing my neck and telling me he wanted us to get together. He suggested we go into the parking lot to get to know each other better. I reminded him that is was a high school reunion….not high school. By mingling with my classmates, I was able to lose him a few times, but at the end of the night he wanted me to have his number so I could call him to hook up.  Oh, I forgot to mention…he’s married.

Now guys, here is what I want to know:

Do I dress or present myself in a way that indicates I am willing to have sex with any guy that comes along? Do I provoke feelings in you that you can only communicate in a sexual manner? Do I seem to acquiesce to your dirty talk when I simply smile and turn away?  Do I hang my tits out for you to ogle at or wear skimpy skirts with no underwear? (That answer is no, by the way) Just what is it about you men that make you think this behavior is okay?  And furthermore...Why me?

I know this about myself: I am not drop dead gorgeous, a hot chick or a knockout. I think I can be reasonably attractive with the right make up and lighting, but I would not consider myself pretty. I am overweight…considerably overweight. I dress well for my size and just try to look nice. I know I am a quick wit and intelligent, but that doesn't seem to come into play in this situation, since all you want to do is shove that ugly piece of meat in one of my bodily orifices!

I completed a counseling treatment program back in May and feel far better about myself than ever before. Is it that new confidence that is drawing you in? Because maybe I need to re calibrate that.

When a woman feels good about herself, wants to look good and seems to be enjoying life, why must you swoop in and piss all over our good thoughts?

Some of the men mentioned in this writing will recognize themselves. Well, men…what do you have to say for yourselves?

Scandalous!

I’m in the mood for a good, juicy scandal. One so outrageous that simply can’t be believed. One that gets round the clock CNN coverage for a solid week. I have only two conditions for said scandal: 1) no one can be harmed or killed and 2) it must involve someone that is almost above reproach.  I wonder why we, as a society, enjoy seeing someone fall from grace. Why do we soak up the humiliation of others and hang on our seats for the next breaking news about it?

For me, I think it comes from a place of envy. Seeing someone who seems to have it all lose face among his or her fans seems to be a sort of comeuppance, a way of reminding the subject that he or she is not impervious to scrutiny. That we are all human. In many instances, a scandal exposes hypocrisy at government level or reduces a pompous ass to a sniveling weasel. The Germans even have a word for that feeling: schadenfreude. 

When thinking about what might shock America to its core, I came up with a few ideas. None of them may turn into stuff of legend or history books, but I figured they might at least give us something to think about … other than our own dull lives.

For example, what if Michelle Obama was discovered scarfing donuts and gulping down Red Bull before delivering a stirring speech about childhood obesity? What if Angelina Jolie turned out to really be a man? Adultery scandals are always good fodder for tabloids…what if someone leaked that Queen Elizabeth II has carried on a love affair with one her palace servants for the last 50 years? Sex tapes are de rigueur, but what if Oprah Winfrey starred in her own and it was exposed on TMZ?  It needs to be something unique and mind-boggling. Any one can send of picture of their genitals on their phone…ho, hum. Boring! Leave hate-filled rants on your child’s voice mail? Seen it. Prostitute your daughter on a stage for the sake of fake-jeweled crowns? It’s a popular television show. Yawn.

So, it’s time for someone America has placed on a ridiculously high pedestal, who has the respect of nearly citizen, to really screw up. News casts are getting pretty boring, so let’s get busy!!

Life of Pie

I didn't want her to be born on April 19. It was the same day of the Waco, TX tragedy and the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.  I didn't want such a celebratory event to be shadowed by such atrocities. This week has been one of terrible tragedy, as well, but ended with a cautious sigh of relief.

It was six years ago today that I lay in a hospital bed waiting to give birth to a little girl I wasn't sure I was ready for. When my water broke at straight up noon, I asked, apropos of nothing, “What color is it?” I think it was the drugs…

My baby turns six today and will soon be “graduating” from kindergarten and moving on to the real nuts and bolts of elementary school. She is succeeding in the Accelerated Reader program and is poised on the brink of being a precocious little girl, not just a precocious preschooler. Her vocabulary is HUGE, her wit is quick and her heart is pure.

As she lay in her crib at the age of 8 days, I could not imagine her any older than she was right then. Every day I look at her, I can’t see past the moment I am in, gazing into her dark blue eyes, framed by her spun gold hair; can’t fathom her being a 6^th grader, entering high school or her leaving for college.  

Every year, I plan an outrageous celebration in honor of her birthday. Let’s face it, the girl is here against incredible odds. She was destined to grace this earth, so what not celebrate in style? This year, we chose a medieval princess and knight theme. Planning has been in full swing since January and I am ready to throw a royal bash the likes of which no one (in the neighborhood, at least) has seen! I have built a castle out of toilet paper and paper towel rolls, baked cupcakes and cookies, arranged a feast fit for royalty, purchased games and favors and costumes. Pictures of this grand event will come later, so check back in a few days. 

Today, we celebrate the life of The Pie. 

Bathroom Business

Tonight, I experienced a potential tragedy; one that most likely would have broken the hearts of my friends and family and then would be exploited in the local media for a week or two. It’s been over three hours since it happened and I am still shaking. This forum is the best way for me to process it.

For a while, The Pie has taken baths by herself, only needing my help when it comes to shampooing. She likes to loll around in the warm water, wash herself, then call me in. This evening I thought she had been in the tub long enough – a few minutes past her bedtime, actually – so I went to check her progress. I said her name three times and she did not respond.

I gently shook her and she turned to me, startled. She had fallen asleep in the tub. Her angelic face mere inches from the water line that could, at any time, have slipped beneath the surface and stolen her breath. In the seconds it took me to get her awake and out of the tub, my mind flashed myriad scenarios of an undesired outcome. My heart banged in my chest so loudly I thought even my mostly deaf father could hear it. I heard blood rushing in my ears, beginning to prepare my brain for what I might find.  

Of course, The Pie is fine. Today was her tumbling class and it always wears her out. She had also taken an early dose of her nighttime Melatonin dissolvable pill, and the warm water must have relaxed her to the point of succumbing to her fatigue.

As I dried her off with her favorite monkey towel, I looked into her sapphire eyes and thought about how close I had come to losing her.  A sob choked in my throat and my heart dropped. I cannot imagine not having that child in my life. 

Six years ago this week, I was moving into a new place, enormously pregnant, and wondering how I could possibly have a kid. My life wasn’t set up to accommodate a baby or anything that even smelled remotely of maternal instincts.  How was I going to make room in my life for this little needy person?

What happened was that little needy person not only found room in my life, she became my life. Suffice it to say that if I lost her, I would lose my life…figuratively and literally. Her sweet hugs and kisses feed my soul, her delighted giggles pump through my heart, her curious questions exercise my brain to keep it in shape. She keeps me alive.

So, for her to continue in her current valuable position, I believe showers will now be in order. And we do have a hose in the back yard…

Every Mother's Nightmare

There are bound to be hundreds of things that parents dread as they raise children. Your son decides that the only acceptable undergarment he will wear (at the age of 17) is festooned with  images of Spider Man.   Your daughter’s prom date is a guy named “Snake” who looks like he fell down face first in the bolt section of Home Depot. Those things are mere blips on the radar of parental nightmares. Last weekend, I reached the pinnacle: The Pie had lice.

I don’t mean one or a few little buggies…I mean a head full of the wee parasites. I found myself shocked, embarrassed and horrified all at once. I never imagined I would experience the humiliation of pulling insects from my daughter’s hair, much less writing about it, but it happened. And I’m okay with it. Sort of.  Here’s what happened:

We had traveled to my cousin’s home in Kansas for spring break and discovered that the weather was much colder and unpleasant than I planned for. We had been there only a couple of hours before I decided to go in search of warmer clothes. During my solo shopping trip, my cousin called and stated simply, The Pie “has lice.” In the middle of the store, I shouted, “WHAT?” which drew the attention of all the other shoppers. I was instructed to get mayonnaise and come on back for treatment.  I looked around, wondering if everyone could see the neon light of shame blinking over my head: “MY KID HAS LICE!”  I skulked around Wal Mart with my head down, paid for my two giant jars of mayonnaise and drove back to my cousin’s house in tears. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex, trying to determine how this could have happened. I wanted to blame someone and I wanted to be mad. I knew that I must advise all of the children The Pie played with, as well as the mother of the children I babysit. It was most humbling to send texts to four mothers, explaining that my child may have infested theirs.

When I returned to the house, my daughter sat in the bathroom with a head full of mayonnaise and my cousin slowly drew a flea comb through her hair. I was grateful that I wasn't forced to struggle with The Pie for that activity…she will do anything for my cousin, so that eased the situation a little. After we all dumped a tub of Hellman’s on our heads, we sat for two hours, playing Monopoly, while the little parasites slowly suffocated within our follicles. We washed EVERYTHING we brought with us and tossed stuffed animals in the dryer to fluff them on the high heat setting for an hour. Very late into the night, we finally washed the salad dressing from our hair and went to bed.

 It is every mother’s nightmare to have their adorable little cherub scratching her head like a stray pup with fleas. I may be misremembering, but I don’t recall having to deal with a head lice infestation of my own in childhood, but I am familiar with the social stigma attached to it. I spent hours trolling the Internet, looking for some measure of clarity regarding head lice.  What calmed me most was the website of the Centers for Disease Control (yes, I went there!). It explained that head lice are not an indication of poor hygiene or filthy conditions; in fact, they prefer clean, healthy scalps for their encampment.

We did a follow-up treatment and I have placed cotton balls soaked with tea tree oil all around our beds. I still check The Pie’s head every time she scratches, and I am gladdened every time I find nothing. I would like to think that this crisis is over, but I am fairly certain I will see it again. Kids, especially younger ones like The Pie, play in such close proximity of each other – like a litter of puppies – that there is bound to be a sequel to this horror show.  I’ll just make sure to stock up on the mayo!    

That's What I Said...

I am one of those annoying “tell-it-like-it-is” kind of people.  I typically try to be as diplomatic as possible if it’s a sensitive situation, but occasionally, I just blurt out what comes to my mind. It’s served me well for many years. In some instances, it has caused some bad blood or hurt feelings. I dealt with those consequences as they came, but recently I noticed that when other people tell ME like it is, I don’t much care for it. Yeah, I see the irony, there.

Facebook is not a place to be if you are feeling the least bit vulnerable. The disconnect of an interpersonal relationship allows people to say (in this case, type) whatever they feel, regardless of how it might affect another person…or how they might take the comment. In recent weeks, I've been called a “bitch” for one of my comments, had my parenting called into question, and insulted a friend of 30 years with what I thought would be a funny comment about a picture she posted.  When the whole issue of Internet bullying first surfaced, I thought that it was just another way to limit free speech, but when I find myself on the other side of the line, I realize it can be hurtful when people say things about you that might be either untrue or quite personal. 

I offended my friend when I posted the comment: “Gotta love Photoshop!” to a picture she posted of she and her stepdaughters, husband and grandson. The shot had obviously been altered and those who know her best should have been immediately shocked by the difference in her appearance, as well as that of one of her stepdaughters.  I’m not talking about lines or wrinkles…I’m talking about pounds…the addition of some and the removal of some. For making the aforementioned comment, I was called a “bitch” by a total stranger who felt the need to take up for my “friend” because she thought my comment was uncalled for.  Ugly words ensued via Facebook and text messaging and finally ended with my friend instructing me to “not contact (her) again.” 

I have had family members chastise my sense of humor to me in the Facebook forum. After posting a joke about my dad, the backlash began to fly. Part of the problem I see with the site is that people you barely know (or don’t necessarily want in your business) are free to comment on your life and how you live it.

People question my decisions regarding The Pie and the things I teach her. So which is it? Do I spoil her or am I too strict? Is she stunted in her development because I let her watch Spongebob Squarepants?  Or is she advanced because she uses words typically found on a third grade reading level?

Why are we such a judgmental society?

Why is it only “my way or the highway?”

Listen, I am just as guilty when I see someone that doesn't fit into my tunnel-vision idea of what is normal. When I encounter someone who has a different life experience than mine, it is sometimes jarring, sometimes enlightening, sometimes inspirational, and sometimes just plain scary. I have corrected The Pie for making assumptions about people she doesn't know, but I participate in the same type of behavior. Why? What is my motivation? I know that I model that behavior to her, but I can’t figure out how to change that process. (I will bring that up at the next counseling session.)

I consider myself tolerant, accepting and even supportive of alternative lifestyles, artists, and quirky folks. Some of my good friends fit into those categories! I think I’m an enigma when it comes to certain human rights, as well as responsibilities. I am liberal, but somewhat conservative, also. It depends on the situation.

What I really wonder is: why can’t we all just get a long?

The School Drama

My daughter is a sensitive, emotional and dramatic child who expresses her feelings easily and surprisingly succinctly. I attribute this to my encouraging her to share what she thinks and for teaching her to believe that she has a right to be heard. But I think I made a mistake somewhere along the way.

Every day last week, as we prepared to leave the house for school, The Pie began to claim an upset stomach and didn't want to go. The first day our little power struggle ended up in her coming back home and eating a bowl of cereal. Within an hour, she said she was ready to go to school.

The next day, as she put on her shoes, she told me that she wanted to stay home and her tummy was upset. When I advised her that she still had to go to school, the tears and accusations came in torrents.

“You never believe me, Mama!”

“Mama, I really don’t feel good!”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

As I loaded her and the other kids into the car, she still claimed she was sick. When we arrived in the drop off line, she dug in her heels and cried some more. Then she saw one of her friends, and she was magically cured. Off she skipped to school with her friend.

The following day, same thing happened. As we sat in the drop off line, cars backing up with every moment that passed, she cried, screamed and protested. She didn’t want to go to school. She was going to be sick. So, I knelt before her and cupped my hands.

“Okay,” I said. “This is how much I love you. Go ahead and throw up in my hands. Be sick.”

“MAMA!” she screamed at me. “How could you do this to me?”

The teacher on drop off duty wandered over to us and was able to intercede with The Pie. She convinced her that going to class was good and that if she did get sick, the office staff would call me and I would come pick her up. With a sad little, “okay” The Pie agreed to being led to her classroom. It was on this day, that I asked her teacher if there was a problem with anyone or anything in class. Mrs. X-Box said that everything was great and The Pie is an outstanding student. My confusion deepened.

Day number 4: As if she were starring in a well-rehearsed play, she delivered her lines at precisely the same time. This time, however, were accompanied by panicked screaming and I literally had to pull her from the car during drop off. The teacher had to call the school guidance counselor out to talk The Pie down from her little ledge and convinced my daughter to enter the school. I was embarrassed and concerned but when I asked the child why she didn’t want to go, she simply responded that she was sick. I would threaten to take her to the doctor, but she loves her doctor and doesn’t mind going to the office.

On Friday, I attempted to garner enthusiasm for school by chanting that it was the last day of the week and even made a special lunch for The Pie to take. Everything was fine until we got in the car and buckled up. She began to whine and cry, saying her tummy hurt and she needed to stay home from school. The behavior made me furious, but I remained calm and spoke to her gently, explaining that Mama would get in trouble if she missed school and her friends would miss her. Just then, one of her friends walked up and offered to walk The Pie to class. She would not budge. Shortly, another friend arrived and said she would walk, too. A third friend, our next door neighbor’s daughter, walked up to the scene taking place and said, “Let’s go to class.” And The Pie said…”OK!” with a smile. And off they skipped with barely a minute to spare before final bell.

I was dumbfounded! Gobsmacked! Stunned, shocked and awed. I cannot figure out what my daughter is up to. Is it a ploy for attention? Is it a need to spend time alone with me? Could she be having trouble with a classmate?

 Further investigation is clearly required…any insight from you mamas out there? 

Family Flu Follies

It’s been a rough couple of weeks in our house. Illness overtook the three of us and we don’t much care for it. I don’t like it at all, but can handle it easier if it comes to one person at a time. This time, it swooped down on all of us at the same time.

One Thursday evening, Dad mentioned he was having trouble breathing and suggested I take him to the emergency room. I wasn’t inclined to go to that extreme until I saw that he was coughing up blood. So, I got him dressed, put The Pie in her pajamas and loaded them both in the car. I dropped The Pie at a neighbor’s house and headed to the hospital. Medical staff ministered to Dad, took vitals and blood, asked questions and eventually administered a breathing treatment. After a couple of hours of waiting, I was advised that Dad had bronchitis and yet another urinary tract infection and I could take him home. They didn’t even give him a Tylenol to take down his fever until I asked for it. That was $19 well spent, I think. Mere moments after I got Dad home and settled – around 1:30 a.m., my phone rang.

My neighbor called to tell me that The Pie was vomiting all over her house, was running a fever and wanted to come home. So, I walked over and picked up The Pie, carrying her hot, sweaty, stinky body close to mine. I cleaned and dressed her, gave her some Motrin, and put her in her bed amid her numerous stuffed animals.  Then I fell into my own bed…at about 3:00 a.m.

Four hours later, I checked The Pie’s temperature and it was still up, so I called the school, checked on Dad and went back to bed. The weekend was pretty much a blur because I spent it cleaning up bodily messes of one kind or another. The Pie missed three more days of school with the flu and I began to feel more and more sluggish, my throat scratchy and my head aching.

I was slated to host a baby shower for my next-door neighbor and I wanted it to be perfect (it was). When I awoke that morning, I felt as though every fiber of my being was protesting. I could barely keep my eyes open and it was a major effort to move. But I had to push through it to keep my commitment, so I managed through the shower and when it was over, I crashed. Hard.

I sent The Pie back next door and slept through Saturday night and all day Sunday. My wonderful friend, Stephanie, who happens to hold a medical degree, called in some Tamiflu for me and I got some egg drop soup, of which I only ate about 4 bites. On the third day, I felt better, but I am still dealing with a scratchy throat and a cough. At least I don’t feel like I got run over by a train! Did I mention that during this whole time, I was still responsible for taking care of other kids and getting them back and forth to school? Yeah, that, too. I hope that this little brush with the flu is the only illness I have to deal with this winter.

But I worry that the way The Pie plays with her friends like a litter of puppies, it may just get passed back and forth until it mutates into a giant monster flu that takes over our house and eats all the jello cups and drinks all the orange juice and plays punk music too loud on the stereo. Uh oh, I think I have a fever…