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.

Mariah and the Meaning of Christmas

Mariah's best feature...

I am not a Mariah Carey fan, as a matter a fact I detest everything about her. To me, Mariah is the epitome of everything that is wrong with women's perception of ourselves-everything about the woman screams insecurity. Her skirts always seem a little too short, her makeup a little too overdone,her boobs a little too on display. I just want to slap her, remind her she is a beautiful woman with a ridiculous amount of talent and tell her to settle down. Her songs seem the same way to me. Why scream when you have a beautiful voice? We know you can travel through multiple octaves, it's not necessary to do it on every note. In short, Mariah, calm your spandex-encased ass down and just sing. Enjoy your smoking hot husband and stop traipsing about needing everybodys attention, Mariah-you are the original attention whore.
Which is why I wonder if it's a sign of the impending end of the world that I find myself enjoying Mariah's Christmas melodies. That's right, now playing on my Pandora- All I Want For Christmas Is You....and Christmas music by The Jackson 5. And a lot of Christmas Music that would best be described as Chamber Music, as in Hark The Herald Angels Sing by Felix Mendelsshon (who's name I probably misspelled, but that's okay, you probably haven't heard of him anyway). Felix would be playing on the Classical Christmas Station, which I listened to on a two hour drive the other night. Many hymns were sung and much of the music was instrumental on the Classical Christmas Station, there were several offerings from the music of The Nutcracker. This might not seem like a strange choice of driving music unless you know me very well and know that my other Pandora stations are things like Gucci Mane radio, Eminem radio, Jay-Z radio, and for light listening-Kanye radio. When I am feeling whimsical, I have Beyonce radio. It may not seem odd I listened to two hours of Christmas music except that I work in retail, where Christmas music is piped in my ears 8 hours a day, much of it Mariah. And I mostly detest Christmas music.

 I eat these, I don't make them

It might not seem odd except that I am an extremely anti-tradition person. I shop in Pink, not Coldwater Creek; I'd rather watch ESPN than HGTV; I don't do marriage; I live in Missouri and cheer for Kansas. And when it comes to Christmas, I'm not exactly decorating sugar cookies and gingerbread houses. But tradition and meaning are not the same thing. When you work retail, Christmas can quickly lose any meaning. Hours a day assisting people with their gift lists can reduce the holiday season to more cranky customers spending money they don't really have on people they don't really like. A few extra dollars in your paycheck can come at an exhausting price, as anyone who has ever worked Black Friday will tell you. If you want your Christmas Spirit crushed like a roach under someones shoe, try "helping" that customer who is in hour 4 of sleepless Black Friday shopping, they are not exactly merry. They aren't jolly. They are an angry elf and the little voice in the back of your head might be reminding you how little you get paid.
When you are a single mom, it's easy to be stressed out in the holiday season. Those long hours don't produce very large paychecks, and bills don't take holiday vacations. Stretching them to find a way to put anything under the tree isn't easy. Holidays can bring depression and stress and can morph into a nightmare when life seems like a struggle anyway. It's a time of questioning if you're actually doing the best you can when you can't even give your kids a nice Christmas, a time for feeling lonely because while having children is fulfilling, you are also reminded of your aloneness. Christmas can be a wonderfully romantic time with all of the lights, and gifts, and parties  to attend together. Unless you are single, when you admire Christmas lights ALONE, attend parties ALONE, and awkwardly tell your family (again) that you are ALONE because No, you're still not dating anyone. Which is why you are ALONE.
But, for all the stress and exhaustion, I still love Christmas. I still find meaning in Christmas. Even though I work in retail, I know the meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with anything I'm selling. The meaning of Christmas is why I listen to songs like Joy To The World instead of White Christmas. I find the meaning of Christmas when I go to midnight Mass, or if I'm exhausted after working Christmas Eve, Christmas Day Mass. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch the movie The Polar Express, because I still believe in the magic of believing. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch It's a Wonderful Life because "each man's life touches so many others, and when he's gone it leaves an awful hole." & "no man is a failure who has friends."

All I want for Christmas

The meaning of Christmas isn't about all the stuff that magazines and shows tell us we are supposed to do, unless we enjoy doing them and they bring us closer to our family and our God. Baking, shopping, parties, even family get togethers shouldn't be stressful. If they are, then somewhere, the meaning has been lost and you are becoming the Mariah of Christmas-and not the one who actually does a good job on O Holy Night. The one who looks like she should be paid by the hour in that stupid Santa getup. Don't turn Christmas into an attention whore holiday, find your priorities.
As for me, it will be a meaningful-and for us, traditional- Christmas, at my house. There will be no big turkey dinner (I don't enjoy cooking), and anything that is baked will probably be burned because I will be distracted when Dwight and the Lakers are on. There will be gifts because retail hours are good during the holidays. There will be Mass, where we will celebrate the real gift of the season. There will be basketball, because Aaron and I always watch the NBA on Christmas. And there will be Elf,  because it is my favourite movie. Buddy the Elf is everything Christmas should be-genuine, happy, and excited. And not afraid to believe, and believing is the true meaning of the season.
The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear. Obviously, Mariah listened to this advice.

April not Katey

When my daughter was born I decided to name her after my oldest childhood friend. I picked the name out when I found out I was having a little girl-April after my friend, Kathryn after my grandmother. All of the daughters in my family are named either Mary or Kathryn (or in my sister's case, both) which is ironic since I am the only Catholic in my family and my sister Mary Kathryn is Jewish, but that's our own special Douglas County diversity I guess. I wanted to call my baby Katey, I liked spelling it a little different, I liked the cute name for my adorable baby girl and Katey she was.
When Katey was about five, she met the mother and sister of the girl she is named after; my friend April died when I was 19. I had chosen the name because I remembered April as a happy child, I wanted to name my daughter after someone I only had good memories of. My happiest childhood memories, some of my few memories of my parents when they were together, are of times spent with April's family. I hoped the name would bring good karma (or whatever) to my little girl. Although Katey was always called Katey, I still knew the significance of her name. She was a happy baby, and a seemingly happy little girl, with a beautiful smile and an artistic dreamy side.
Like most parents, I never wanted anything bad to happen to my child, I wanted to protect her from the pain and suffering of the world. I wanted her life to be perfect. It wasn't. When she was two and half, I had to explain why her daddy wasn't coming home, and Katey and I had to learn a new way to live as just the two of us. That night after she went to bed, I calmly went and laid out her clothes for the next day, because life goes on when you are a mom and have a child to take care of and one on the way. That winter her brother was born and now our two was three. I remember that first night home with my new baby, and my daughter, needing to feed him and make her dinner and wondering what I would do...My daughter was patient in a way many two year olds would not have been, she learned that two outnumber one and this new life was how we are.
When Katey was in preschool I picked her up one day and turned the tv on to the continuing coverage of 9/11. She asked about it, and I remember how frightened I was that I had brought my children into a world that was no longer safe. I felt it was the first bad thing I ever had to tell my daughter, I hoped it would be the worst.
It wasn't. Last spring I stumbled into the house trying to get control of my emotions after I found out about the death of Steeler Seaburn. My daughter was a freshman, she knew Steeler, she talked about him often. She had heard about him for years from me and went to school with him. I knew I needed to wake her up and tell her. I knew I needed to be the adult, I needed to be strong for her. I needed to find that place that had laid out her clothes after her dad left, that had assured her we were safe after planes crashed into buildings, that had recovered and stood up to Ed so I could see her grow up. I didn't find it. My daughter took care of me for a couple of days, reminding me to eat; asking me if I was okay, cleaning the house and telling me about my new niece. I saw a side of her I didn't know she had, a strength that made me proud, and also makes me realise how grown up she is.
When Katey moved from elementary to middle school she decided she wanted to be called her first name instead of Katey. Her friends and teachers call her April now, but to me she is still Katey. I'm stubborn, and I'm sure it annoys her. I'm fortunate that I feel like I have a good relationship with my amazing daughter, we laugh and joke like friends and I genuinely enjoy being around her. She confides in me, we share interests; and despite the difficulties of being a teenager (and yes, they are there) I am blessed with a good kid. Sometimes a dramatic and moody kid, but a good one who takes on more responsibility than most because I work long hours for little money-it's not an easy life being the child of a single mother. It hasn't been an easy thing to share your mother with grief over a child that wasn't hers, but Katey doesn't complain. Her brother and I steal the tv for sports, but Katey doesn't complain. She doesn't have the spending money other kids have, but Katey doesn't complain.
I'm more protective than I used to be, letting go and watching her grow up is harder than I expected. Putting her in a car with other kids, the idea of her driving a car, those are things that terrify me now. But I know she must grow into this person who she is....and that person is April. I need to start calling her by the name she chooses to go by, start recognizing that she is no longer the little girl with the bow in her hair. She is growing into a young woman, she is her own person and is free to make her own choices. I can't protect her from the pain of the world. Keeping her "little" doesn't keep her safe. Recognizing her strength prepares her to keep herself safe. And that, really, is the best I can do for my little girl. For my April.

Cheerio

When I was a little girl, if you had asked me who the most beautiful woman in the world was, or who I wanted to be like when I grew up, I would have given you one of two answers. Both were about equally delusional, and at completely opposite ends of the spectrum of sophistication. One was a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. I used to practice cheerleading for hours, I loved pom-pons, I wanted gymnastic lessons more than anything. Then someone broke the news that Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders weren't short and chubby, and my dream died (and Ed lived). But the person I admired most in the world, who I thought was even more beautiful and classy than a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader (if that's possible) was Princess Diana. In a time before mass marketing of Disney princesses, she was a real live, beautiful princess splashed across magazines and headlines everywhere for me to see. My friends may have been admiring the cast of 90210 or Alyssa Milano, but I wanted to be Princess Diana.Other girls read Seventeen magazine, I read books about the Royal Family.
When Princess Diana died in 1997, I cried for days. I got up at 3am to watch her funeral and sat with my baby in my lap bawling my eyes out. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I was a mother-like Diana-and by then I knew the things about her I hadn't seen in the pictures as a little girl. Her life was far from perfect, she was living proof that money, fame, and beauty are not always keys to happiness. I loved her as a Princess, but grew to admire her as a real person, a mother, and someone who's struggles I could identify with even if her life was very far removed from mine.

Single mom, like me

My love of Princess Diana meant as a kid, and even now as an adult, I was obsessed with the United Kingdom. I still am. My phone is set to the UK keyboard & settings-as is my Facebook-; my bedroom decorated with pictures of London; and my speech is littered with British slang (probably incorrectly, but just try and correct me, you pratt). Many of my favourite authors and books are British-I find British writers funnier. I follow the British Prime Minister, and Clarence House, as well as several UK authors (like the hilarious Jenny Colgan) on Twitter.
 I applied to teach there a few years ago, but emigration laws and my financial status are not exactly in line right now-or ever. I have a fit for British accents..Once or twice I might have told people I was from England and therefore I don't celebrate the 4th of July. (stop judging, I really dislike fireworks and potato salad, okay?) Prince Harry is one of the only white guys on the planet that I find attractive. Obviously, then, I am more than a little excited about the Olympics in London. Its going to be like a two-week British binge and I am all for it.

The man who taught my son what the word "bong" means...

There's something about the Olympics that brings out that part of me that buys all that questionable music on Itunes completely takes over. "Is gymnastics on?"-excited, Nickelback loving Jean Ann will ask. "I love gymnastics!!" Because sadly, I do-I'll watch every event, every tumble, every sappy story. Keri Shrug and her ankle-I was on that like a teenybopper on Bieber. Give me an Olympic feel good story and I am like an American Idol fan (do those still exist?), glued to my television cheering. Phelps fans? You better believe it, my whole house was. We watched every swimming event in the 2008 games. Some people criticise Michael Phelps for smoking weed, I say -"Thank you, I had to have the Just Say No talk with my kids sometime....why not when they were still only in elementary school." Its just one more special family moment Michael shared with us.

Each ring symbolizes...I have no idea. 

You better believe I will be watching track-and- field. It's like all the action of NASCAR, only quieter and with trained athletes. In honor of the Olympians, I will not snarl and grimace when my new trainers tell me to "sprint!"-I will be motivated by Olympic greatness and achieve greatness myself, or at least run faster and not curse at them under my breath. I'll watch sports I know nothing about just because its the Olympics, perhaps I will become interested in archery again (or never). And it's the Olympics from London-LONDON. There will be such media saturation of the country I love so much...err I mean I will cheer for the USA again and again.
How about that new Dream Team? I sure hope they defeat Spain in the finals and bring home the gold (read: I hope I get to see more of Serge Ibaka on tv-- go Spain, go...oops did I type that outloud?) Maybe for the love of my country I will finally embrace that muppet-looking kid from Kentucky and forgive him for beating Kansas. (That's not required, though, right? I can still support Team USA and carry my grudge like an Olympic Torch, right?)

More TV time, Team Spain

Anyway, because I love all things British, and Olympic, tomorrow night I am hoping to watch the Opening Ceremonies with my family and I will be asking myself many important Olympic questions. Is it too late for me to learn a back handspring? ...How are my flip turns these days? Would I drop the baton? (yes) How heavy is a gold medal to wear? ...Why did all the really hot members of Team USA get hurt? Is Lebron hot or not? .Will they focus the camera more on Serge Ibaka, less on Kobe?..What sport is this? What are the damn rules to this sport? Is that water ballet, is that really an Olympic sport? Would the kids laugh if I bought some of these rhythmic gymnastic ribbons? ....How many days in London would I need to see things properly? How much would like two weeks in the UK cost? .... Is it wrong to be attracted to Prince Harry? Why isn't there more Olympic coverage of Prince Harry?....  Will my trainers know how many biscuits (that's cookies in the States) I ate while watching this Olympic coverage? How old is Bob Costas? His work looks good...how do you find out who his Botox guy is? ..... Oh, the Olympics are over? Is the BBC running a program about Prince Harry?