Now

I wear a lot of pink. Not the brand necessarily, although given my discount and love of yoga pants (they improve my butt faster than squats and are more affordable than William Rasts) it is not unusual for me to be advertising PINK somewhere on my body, or on the bag I am carrying, or the hoodie I am about to put on...you get the idea. Sometimes, actually often, I even wear pink PINK. Ask me my favourite colour and I will tell you it's yellow, although when I wear it people often ask when I was diagnosed with jaundice. So I don't wear yellow, I wear pink. I don't know when I started accumulating so much pink in my wardrobe, my trainers (those are sneakers, I am also rereading Harry Potter, so be prepared most of this blog will be written in the minimal British slang I know) all I know is now it is my favourite colour to wear.

Always remember...

Two years ago I wrote a blog, one of my first, about teaching our children about 9/11 (it's called Our Job if you want to read it) because many of our kids are too young to remember the tragedy vividly-or at all. I don't know that I have much more to add or say, my feelings about our roles as parents certainly haven't changed in the two years that have passed. But, as a person, I am a much different person now. And much like our country is much different now than it was before that terrible terrorist attack, I think tragedy is what has changed me.
If you are a regular reader of this blog (and you know you are, Mom. Bless you) then you have read my entries about Steeler Seaburn, who was probably my favourite student I ever had, and how shattered I was by his death 17 months ago. As I prepare to work at the second annual Steefest-the large fundraiser for the scholarship fund founded in his memory- on Saturday, I am still sometimes dumbfounded that this is real. That he is really gone. I still feel that way when I take him Arnie Palmers-like I used to at school-at the cemetery and see his headstone. How can this be real? Yet it is. And so much has changed in those 17 short months, and so much of it is connected with Steeler.

Now, I consider his mom, Genny, one of my best friends. I talk to her often, not just a few times a year. And not just for scholarship events, but as a friend-for parenting advice, funny stories or just those times you need a friend. She's probably the strongest person I've ever met, and one of the funniest and most generous. Her son was very much like her, I see that now. His aunts are friends of mine. Now, I have all these friends when I go to football games, or other Willard events, and I don't sit alone or duck my head any more. There are all of these wonderful people in my life Steeler left me with.
Now my son is a wrestler like Steeler was. He loves wrestling, and it has meant a lot of learning for me in a short amount of time. At times, it has brought that grief back to the surface because my wrestling connection was always Steeler. The day of Aaron's first wrestling match I cried all the way there, I cried for the questions I had with no Steeler to answer, and I cried because I knew I needed to make this wrestling season about the son I had, not the boy who I lost. And I did, helped by this community of other wrestling parents (Genny among them) who answered my questions, cheered for my son, and pitched in when this single mom needed an extra hand. But there are still moments when I see my son in his pink socks and hear his hilarious comments, movie quotes, or Daniel Tosh jokes and that hole in my heart both fills a little and hurts a little.
Now I am back in the classroom, somewhere I swore I would never be. I am substitute teaching while waiting to hear my nursing school fate. And I am enjoying it, although I have already met kids who I know I could easily love. As a teacher, that was what motivated me-I loved kids and I wanted to help them. I am different now. I have seen kids devastated and been powerless to help, I have lost one and been shattered. I don't want to experience that again, so I like my distance now. It is why I am glad I am only the substitute. It is one of the reasons why I will make a good nurse, but why my teaching days are probably best behind me.
Now, after work I hurry home to my kids instead of making plans with my friends. I am a better mother now. Now, I squeeze our tight budget a little tighter instead of taking the shift that means I have to miss the band competition, the wrestling tournament, or even not be able to keep an eye on the homework. Now I am rereading Harry Potter in my spare time, turning off the tv and ignoring Twitter or Facebook. Now I understand that life is short and precious. Now, I have this wrestling community of family and friends who I am not afraid to ask for help if we need it.
Tragedy does not define us-just as 9/11 did not define us as a country of victims. Tragedy does change us, it makes us stronger sometimes. It makes us see our priorities, it can teach us lessons and bring us closer. So now, as I put on another pink outfit (pink was Steeler's colour, he wore it well) and say a prayer for 9/11, I am thankful for the strength and change I see in my life.

Dear Dwight

Dear Dwight,
You don't know me (yet) but I am a big fan. Okay, let's be honest-with the media blasting you've taken this last year, and the team uncertainty and the slightly unfilled expectations in LA-I may be your last fan. Me and your mom. But that's okay, I have the dedication of at least 10 fans, so statistically I should count as...I am not sure, there's probably a formula. Involving Greek letters and at least one square root, I am struggling in Statistics. Hopefully it's not on the test. But the point is, I love you, Dwight.  I support you, Dwight. I will cheer for whatever team you end up on, even if Dirk also plays on it. And you know how I feel about Dirk (You don't? Read more blogs. Tell your famous friends to read it too.)
I am dedicated, Dwight. I loved you through the media bashing last year when you went to the Lakers, who are my less than favourite team. (I don't like Kobe's smile, it creeps me out) I loved you when you were injured, when you didn't play well, when you wore that headband (we have all made poor accessory choices, it's okay. I once had blonde hair). And I love you now, while you are carefully choosing which team to play for in the future. The future is important, Dwight. I know, I am a (tiny) bit older than you. I have wisdom. And wisdom, they say, is the new sexy. Or maybe that's funny, funny is the new sexy. Or maybe it's short moms over 30 who like cupcakes are the new sexy. Yes, that's it.
I understand that sometimes what you think you want-or what everyone else wants for you, just doesn't work out. I know you care about your fan(s) and want to keep us (me) happy, but we just want you to be happy. And by we, I mean me. Most everyone else just wants you to bring them a championship and be fodder for their criticism (I see you, Jalen Rose)
The media says you have a lot of options for your future. I have heard (and by heard, I mean some guys from Twitter, who are generally well informed, told me) that even staying in LA is an option. Sometimes that is for the best, stay with what you know and make it work. Sometimes, though, you have to reinvent yourself. Maybe it's your time for reinvention, to try something new. Are you willing to work hard, Dwight? Because being something new takes hard work, harder than you have ever worked. It takes time and commitment and the dedication to a goal that may seem very far away. But if you are, even the hard work will feel right and worth it. The hard work will only make you want to keep working harder and be more successful. Trust me on this, I have some experience with reinvention.
Remember when you were in that Queen Latifah movie? The one about the NBA player (cough, cough) who ditches the skinny, super attractive model for the health care worker, technically Queen Latifah-who is gorgeous-who was playing the health care worker. (like say, a nurse) Acting was new for you, but your 2 minutes of screen time really made the whole movie. Trust me, I've seen it like 3 times. You sit on that couch like you were born to do it. It's never too late to learn something new, to improve on who you are. You know what would have made that movie even better? Let's say Queen Latifah had two kids....and I really believe she was a (tiny) bit older than that NBA player...

Don't be afraid, Dwight. Sometimes change can be scary, but we have to do what scares us a little if we really want something new. It's like free throws...Bad example. Repetition may be safe, but it doesn't always make you better and if LA isn't working for you, then move on. Of course some people will criticize you. Some people criticise everyone, they have a million ideas in their head-and they apply them to everyone, regardless of any differences. Don't let those people (haters, I believe they are called) bother you, they will be already judging and improving the next person before they even notice you are gone. Be your own person, find the best fit for you. Even if it's outside of what everyone expects, say a single mom instead of a NBA dancer, or beautiful actress. Wouldn't it be fun if that single mom is fascinated by tall people, and has a few questions (Do you have to special order pants? Is everything in your house giant sized, like in Alice in Wonderland, Would you please drive a smart car just so I can laugh?)  Maybe you could take her to a Justin Timberlake concert.
Sometimes we all miss what we are aiming for (I promise I am not bringing up free throws again. It was a general metaphor. Using the backboard is generally a good idea, just saying), but you are a strong rebounder. It's one of your best skills. I have faith in you that you will be a huge success wherever you go. I believe your new fans will love you-how could they not, I mean look at you...and your basketball skills. I believe some wise person has hidden the headbands, so you can start fresh. I think a great future lies ahead of you, Dwight. I think a great future lies ahead for both of us.

Mirrors

If there's one thing that annoys me, it's radio overplay. I'm sure it's a problem everywhere, but in Springfield Missouri, it seems local radio has a play list consisting of Bruno Mars, Pitbull, Niki Minaj, and Thrift Shop. Perhaps it only seems like radio is overplaying Niki and Pitbull because they keep showing up in everyone else's songs-or is it the other way around, is everyone else collaborating with Pitbull?-but it seems like I can't escape either. Like a toddler that follows you into the bathroom, there's Niki Minaj and the same rap on every station, in every song...there's Pitbull reminding you of his area code.

Overplay this guy

The only time overplay doesn't bother me is when local radio overplays a song I really like. Every so often a song comes along I just can't get enough of, and currently Justin Timberlake's Mirrors is one of them. Although really, if you know me, you already know that when it comes to Justin Timberlake, enough is not a word in my vocabulary. I am a loud, proud Justin Timberlake disciple. Justin the recording artist? Love him....my Ipod features a ridiculous amount of both Justin as well as N'Sync. Justin the actor? Oh yes, I've seen his movies...Justin the designer? William Rast is the only brand of jeans I will wear, even though you can't even buy them in Springfield.

This past year has been one of great change for me, even my daughter commented to me the other day "you're so different now than you were a year ago." She made her offhand comment the day before her birthday, and she is right. Months of job searching-and months of grief- had left me feeling frantic, exhausted and disheartened. No matter where I looked, even teaching-something I felt I had been good at-seemed to hold any hope of a better future. Quite frankly, I felt like a loser. I could see why people just give up and buy lottery tickets.
It was just about then, a job fair discussion about nursing school ignited something inside me I hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. My favourite Bible verses are about hope because hope changes everything. Hope is something real. I swallowed my fear and sat in the admissions office at Cox College of Nursing -tears streaming down my face-and asked simply, "is there a way I can do this?" And someone said yes. And hope grew.
So now I have hope...and fear...and a future. I start school again in a week. And if all goes well, when my daughter graduates from high school, I will graduate too. And my BSN will support my both my daughter and son through college. It's a long way off, its a long hard road....but I have a plan and  hope.
I think that-hope-is what I hear when Justin Timberlake sings. Something about his voice...I saw him on television once, performing What Goes Around (one of my favourite songs, because I want it to be true. We all want it to be true) and he was playing the piano. I remember thinking "wow, the kid can really play the piano, he's got some talent..." I saw him in the Omletteville skit on Saturday Night Live (YouTube it. Trust me, just YouTube it. And prepare to laugh) and thought "this kid is funny, he can actually act. He's hilarious. He's got some talent." Mostly, there was that moment a few years ago when I tried on my first pair of William Rast jeans and looked in the mirror. I looked at those jeans, and thought-these look good. My butt looks good. No other voices, not Ed's, just mine. It was one of my first moments of complete freedom in Recovery. It was a moment of hope-of more to come- and victory of a hard fought battle.

Sings, dances, acts....

I think of those jeans, of that mirror, of that moment when I wonder if I can handle going back to school. I know it's going to be hard, but I know I've seen harder-and survived. I over play that song-Mirrors- in my head while I run to calm my anxiety about that scary road ahead.  And even though "tomorrow's a mystery"...I feel ready. 

Runners

I used to be a cardio queen, I was pretty much addicted to those EFX or Arc Trainers at the gym. You know those machines that are like hamster wheels-you "run" around but never go anywhere- I probably logged thousands of miles on those in my relentless pursuit of "being skinny." And while I was cardioing (go ahead, check the dictionary, there's probably a picture of me, on a machine, in there) I would read a book, or watch one of the numerous tv's dangling from the ceiling for the enjoyment of myself and the rest of the cardio crew. These days I rarely spend time in the cardio room, unless my running injury is bothering me, or I am using the row machine (I like to pretend I am on a crew team, possibly at Harvard or some other school which would never accept me). These days I prefer to run (and by run, I mean jog slowly), box on the heavy bag (with my pink boxing gloves and terrible form, I'm like Sugar Ray Leonard..if he was a woman with poor boxing skills), jump rope, run stairs, or even lift weights. I like variety, I like challenging myself, I like sweating-a lot-I like acting like I care about fitness crazes like INSANITY (read that in a loud, screaming motivational voice)or CrossFit (use same voice). I like the kickboxing class I take on days when my schedule permits it. Some days I like leaving my stuff in the locker, leaving the gym, and running through the neighbourhood, enjoying the flowering trees and looking at the houses. These days, my exercise time is my time to relieve stress; my time to remind myself my body is better strong than skinny; my time with just me (and the music stylings of whoever I choose to accompany me). These days, I am not in charge of my own fitness, and my recovery thanks me every day.

When it comes to making fitness decisions for me, one of the last strong holds of Ed in my life, I finally decided to hire out. Like my daily decisions about food, I must learn to manage exercise. Unlike an alcoholic, with Ed recovery, we must learn to manage what tempts us every day; we don't have the ability to just cut it out of our lives. I must eat healthy, I must exercise...just like I must sleep, I must read good books. A healthy life includes all of these, probably along with other things like shelter, love, having a dog instead of a cat, but those are subjects of another blog. As strong as I may feel in recovery one day, crisis and stress can bring a backslide at approximately the speed of a race car. So, when I felt myself backsliding as I faced grief, financial stress, and just the regular single mom struggles....I found professional help. I hired a trainer.
Turning my fitness plan over to someone else is an element of trust for me like those other people have in healthy marriages. It's a question of control...and Ed likes to hang onto any piece of your life he can control. Fitness was mine. I always felt I wasn't "doing" enough, not running far enough, not working with weights enough, not working on my abs enough. Now someone else decides how much I will lift, what activity I will do, how many ab exercises I need. Now, when I exercise on my own time, it truly is just that. My time to do what I like, which many times is run.
The first time I met the man who would become my trainer, he said "you look like a runner." I was surprised by his comment. Yes, I like to run. Yes, I run almost daily. Yes, I run an occasional 5K. But I'm not a "runner"...Those would be those lean people in the short shorts (in January) with the crazy gleam in their eye. I've seen them...I am just someone who runs..sometimes. Most every day. I used to run ridiculous amounts, like 10 miles at a time, but I can't anymore.
I started running because, quite frankly, I was bored. I was taking kickboxing class, but I was bored by the cardio machines. So I tried alternating a few laps of running and walking at the indoor track at my gym. Then my brother mentioned a 5K, so I signed up. I think the grand total I had run at that time was a bout a mile and a half, and I had about 3 weeks to prepare. I prepared, and discovered, I liked running. I liked it because I felt like I was accomplishing something every time I ran, I liked it because I had to eat well to run well, I liked it because it was just me and my headphones. About a year into my running career, I had already overdone it though. I was running 10-11 miles at a time, when I started having pain down my left leg. Constant pain. I was literally limping and not able to sleep by the time I gave in and went to the doctor (yet I was still running...an obvious conflict of logic).
The doctor called me a runner. He sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat, then assigned me to a physical therapist. He called me a runner too, sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat. I have no idea where this came from, although by the time physical therapy was over, during which I had run most of the days he told me not to, I wondered if perhaps I was hard to treat. Physical therapy helped, but the bottom line is I have tendinitis in my ITB, I have something called Piriformis Syndrome, and these are over use injuries. As long as I use my legs, I will probably have problems ....
 I work on my feet on a tile floor for 7-8 hour shifts. I like to look vaguely stylish, so I don't have orthopedic shoes. My leg hurts a lot. I average 4-6 miles per run now, and the 4 miles are more common than the 6. I don't use a mile counter when I run outside, so many days I have no idea how far I ran, I just run further if my leg feels good, less if it doesn't. And if it is hurting badly, then I use the EFX machine or the row machine. I try to listen to my body...even when I don't like what I hear.
Every year in October I run the 10K Sunshine Run, the last two I ran with my friend Carmen. Neither of us really prepare, we just run. My leg usually hurts during the Sunshine Run, but I keep going. I have to finish, I have to run it all, no matter how slowly. I'll crawl before I walk, it's just the way I am. I am not a runner though, those people are crazy. I always wear the same things when I run, I always wear the same socks, I always listen to my Ipod. I have to do those things, or it bothers me. I bought new socks recently, I can't decide if I like them. When I run, I can feel that they are different, and it bothers me. But I am not a runner, those people are regimented and crazy. I don't own any spandex running pants, nor do I own appropriate cold weather running clothes. I run in an Under Armour sweatshirt I "borrowed" from my son (found on his floor) if it is cold. See, I am not a runner-those people are crazy, out there dressed inappropriately for the weather.
I simply enjoy running, so don't confuse me with a runner. Now, pardon me while I put on these expensive running shoes, and plug in my ear buds. It's time for a run....

Good Ol Boys

The other night I was in the kitchen studying cookbooks (and by studying cookbooks, I mean eating snacks) when I found myself rather fascinated by what I was hearing on television. My son was watching one of his shows; he has a lot of shows, mostly on A&E usually about people making money by either buying, selling, or scavenging what I call useless crap. He enjoys watching Storage Wars, Pawn Stars, and other televised celebrations of what I consider hoarder behaviour.
This night, he was watching another favourite Duck Dynasty. Although I had never watched it, I know about the show, it seems many people I know watch it. Many people I see at the mall wear clothing advertising it and many men I see through out Springfield seemed to have adopted the facial hair as some sort of a trend I would title Ways To Make Yourself REALLY Unattractive with the Addition of Facial Hair.This particular Duck Dynasty adventure had two men (I don't know their names, but they had beards) searching for donuts and then staging a contest to eat the donuts. I stood there, fascinated, slowly shaking my head like there might be something I was missing in the appeal of this as television. However, at the same time as I heard the men commentate their adventure, I got it. I got it, because as a kid there was a little shop my parents used to take us to where we ate donuts, and washed them down with Mr. Pibb. Yes, Mr. Pibb, and kids-it doesn't get much more redneck than Mr. Pibb.
These days, I desire neither a Mr. Pibb nor a donut, there's nothing about the taste of either that I really like. I have many of the same feelings about most of the food I grew up eating (heavy country cooking); music I grew up listening to (country); or hobbies my parents enjoyed (camping & floating, I'm a hotel person. I like beds and showers.) My children sometimes seem a bit surprised when I say or do something that reminds them I am from a very small town in rural Missouri. Although Springfield, or Willard (where they attend school) is hardly a cutting edge metropolis, both of them are more progressive than Ava-the county seat of Douglas County, Missouri. My mother was raised there, and my father was raised on a farm, outside of Mansfield and Hartville, both towns smaller even than Ava. And although both of my kids lived in Ava for a while when I taught there, neither of them are old enough to remember living in a town without a mall, multiple fast food options, and  a high school of 1000 students.
Perhaps this is why Duck Dynasty has never appealed to me, I know what rednecks do; I don't need to watch it. And redneck is a term I tend to use with scorn these days, tossing it out in frustration at small minded thinking, rebel flags, or screaming conservatives fighting all forms of civil rights or social progression. But as I watched (and watched again, my son convinced me to watch two whole episodes) I kept thinking "I know these guys." Because I do. They are good ol' boys, and I grew up around dozens of guys just like them.
When I say good ol' boys, I don't mean those strutting kings of small town politics, because I know those guys too, and I detest them. I have had plenty of interactions with these good ol' boys in my days since leaving Ava, and the less of those I meet the better off my life will be. These sorts of good ol' boys are the reason I am glad my son wrestles instead of plays basketball, the reason I am continually frustrated by some of policies or decisions my children's school district makes, and the reason why I was happy to wash my hands of public education. Anyone can be a big fish in a small pond, and these guys are whales in mud puddles.
The kind of good ol' boys I am talking about are people like my dad, who was raised working on a farm and has maintained those values and work ethic his whole life. He still believes in the ideals and morals of a small town: you put your family first, and I don't mean by tweeting Team FOE or rapping about them, I mean by working and saving your money to provide for your family, and always coming through when they need you. I don't ever remember a crisis or emergency in my family that my dad didn't handle. He's the first person you call, the first person who shows up. He worked more than 40 years in public education and paid for the college education of all three of his children. And when he remarried, my stepmom's children became family too. These kind of good ol' boys live by the rules I saw played out on Duck Dynasty:
If you sink something, haul it up- Or in other words, clean up your messes. Take responsibility. You break something, fix it (even if its with duct tape). You lose a job, find another one; someone will always pay a hard worker, no matter what the work. Sometimes you may need to call another guy (or someone with a truck, or a trailer, or both) but you can always solve a problem.
Too many large men sink a boat- Or in other words, everything has its limit. Too many hours of work will kill you; too many drinks will leave you with bruises and a hangover; and too much ego will provide someone a reason to properly kick your ass. Know your limits, know your family's limits, know your friends' limits and live within them. If you don't, you may find yourself up a creek without a paddle, or at the bottom of the creek, looking for your boat.
A deer won't fit in a sports car- Common sense goes a long way to good ol' boys. And we all know you can't haul a deer in a Toyota. My dad, and most of his friends, hunt. I grew up eating wild game, he often fills our freezer with deer meat. Many good ol' boys hunt, and eat what they kill. Many of them fish and eat what they catch, its common sense. These are not men hunting Bengal Tigers, these are men hunting food they will actually eat. They need guns, they use them. And they need big sturdy trucks, that probably guzzle gas, but that's that's their lifestyle and they are entitled to it.
You don't get rid of something just cause its a little rusty-I don't know if the Duck Dynasty boys ever found that barbecue that fell outta the truck, (sometimes I need more snacks) but I understand their desire to fix/return it. My dad always knew a guy who could fix something, if Daddy couldn't fix it himself. My dad saves everything, it used to delight him when his cars would be over 150,000 miles. My stepmom always keeps leftover, or wraps your plate if you don't finish it. They don't waste, people who grew up on farms usually don't. Either they worked too hard to get it, or they aren't sure when another is coming, so you take care of what you have. This barbecue metaphor can also be translated into a relationship one, but no one likes an overly long sermon when supper is waiting.
NASCAR is a sport-Okay it's not. But its fast cars, and that's fun. And it's really, really loud. 'Merica!
Banjos belong in bluegrass bands-This has nothing to do with the show really, I just threw it in for all the hipsters at Starbucks feeling meaningful while they listen to Mumford and Sons. You're not. You're not any more unique, deep, intelligent or reflective than those listening to a good Bluegrass band on Friday night on the Ava square. You're following a trend (multiple trends with your Pumpkin latte, fashionable scarf and Toms shoes) just the same as the wanna be rappers and mini gangstas. Be genuine, be yourself.
Those two episodes may be all the Duck Dynasty I ever watch, but at least I understand why everyone is talking about it. And it was a good reminder of my roots, or as Jay-Z says "never forget where you came from."(Technically Denzel says it in a Jay-Z song). My dad and I don't always agree on everything; I doubt we have ever voted for the same man for President. I probably won't ever take a date to a family function because awkward is not my favourite feeling. I drive a Toyota, he would never buy a "foreign" car. But I respect who he is, and where he came from. Because it's who I am, and where I came from too.

Wrestling with Pineterest

I think I may be the last person in America who doesn't use Pineterest, I really don't understand what it is. I know my daughter loves Pineterest, but she also loves One Direction, so her endorsement isn't always a guarantee I will be enthralled with a product. (The Boy Band will never be done better than N'Sync. Appreciate the classics). I often see Facebook postings about Pineterest, many times from my daughter, making me wonder if this is the initiative her school was looking for when they provided her with a laptop.She says she finds inspiration there for art projects, makeup, hairstyles; but I sometimes wish she was working on more chores and less inspiring. I've heard people talk about cute little crafts they made with ideas from Pineterest, but I don't craft. I think there might be recipes on Pineterest, but I imagine them to be like those"busy mom" recipes that require you to crush your own garlic. Here's a shocking secret: busy moms don't crush garlic. If we are feeling gourmet we have time for the crock pot. Actual busy moms microwave corn dogs, because that is life and your worth as a mother is not determined by the elaborate spread you put on the table, but the support you give to your children.

Not happening at my house...

 I have enough ways to waste my time on the Internet. For instance I have this blog, which allows me to waste my time, and yours with my random thoughts, usually about men I find attractive. I have word games like Words With Friends or Ruzzle, which I have heard help prevent Alzheimers by keeping your mind sharp, except I immediately forget all words I know, and I then worry maybe I am getting Alzheimers. I have Twitter, where I post every thought in my head, creep on NBA players, read inspirational quotes and make friends with other KU fans. Twitter is very demanding.
Perhaps I need better hobbies, but between work, my kids and searching for a career where I can use my useless Education degree and still afford food, I am pretty busy. In my free time, I work out, or read a book. And I attend wrestling practice, wrestling tournaments, wrestling scholarship fund meetings. I watch sports on tv, and sometimes attempt to have a social life (Does Pineterest have tips for practicing cougars?). Sometimes I feel like I should be one of those people who watch A&E and try to improve or redecorate my home, but usually just keeping the demon spawn cat from destroying our belongings is about all I can do. I live with a 13 year old boy, and both of my kids have to manage on their own while I work, my house is usually in chaos, so cleaning takes up what might be home improvement time. (And removing the used forks from the couch is an improvement, I think). I try to bake sometimes, but I don't really like following directions(which might explain a great many things in my life) so the outcomes are a bit like the Lakers defense, usually disappointing. As my daughter tells me I'm not like other moms.

Isn't this every mom's favorite series?

She has a point. I dance in the kitchen when I should be cleaning. I make inappropriate Daniel Tosh style comments and jokes. I listen to unedited rap music with my kids. I read teen literature. I quote Harry Potter, the books, not just the movies. I don't put Honor Roll bumperstickers on my car(my children's achievements belong to them, not me). The only television channels I watch are ESPN, BETand TNT (only on NBA nights). I drive too fast and get mouthy with police men. (Willard cops only). Much like 2 Chainz, I'm Different, yeah I'm Different.

Inspiration...

But I guess we need all moms in the world, the busy ones, the baking ones, the Pineterest crafting ones, the ones with boxing gloves and running shoes. My children have been dragged on this journey with me through recovery as I figure out what to do with my life, and it hasn't been easy for them. We are poor, my hours are long, sometimes I am frustrated. My son, who played basketball since he was 4, decided to go out for wrestling this year.  I have watched him improve and learn, and get knocked down so many times in this unbelievably grueling sport. This is real wrestling, not the WWF kind, where you face constant physical battle to gut out a win; there is no one to pass the ball to in traffic, no hail Mary to win. I have seen a transformation in my son from a kid who wrestles to a wrestler and I'd like to believe some of his adaptability and determination he learned from his mother. That maybe in this crazy, busy, unsure life I am making for our little family my children are learning something from me, besides Jay-Z songs. Perhaps my holiday crafts may fail miserably (craptastic Christmas display, 20 pound caramel apples, the gingerbread train fiasco) my drive to succeed will not. Inspiration can come from many places, hopefully they are finding it when they look around our messy house and see Mom making this life work.