The Green and Gold

As a teacher I often think of the impact I have on my students. How will they remember me? What will they remember about the times they spent with me? Will they remember me at all?

I have the teachers that left their impacts. My second grade teacher I'll never forget because we, as a class, made her cry due to a poor performance at a school wide Stations of the Cross service.

My first grade teacher still keeps in touch with me through a teacher that I work with. She was one of the kindest nuns I knew.

My third grade teacher? We sent her into retirement. But she loved each and every one of us dearly. And made sure we knew it.

My sixth grade teacher got me in so much trouble at home that I had to write a letter apologizing for me behavior. I still maintain, to this day, that I did not talk or cause problems NEARLY as much as she claimed. Seriously.

My Senior year English teacher. Well, now, she's the one that got me to love real literature. She is THE teacher. The one I would thank if they shoved a video camera in my face on the street and asked me about that one teacher that had an impact. She had the ability to laugh with us and teach us at the same time. She was, is, strong and kind. She was scary, yet completely approachable.

Today is not about any of them.

Yesterday, the former Athletic Director and gym teacher from my high school succumbed to Pancreatic Cancer. She fought the good fight, as so many do. She saw Europe. She spent time with her family. She lived. And then she died.

I have fond memories of Fetrow. I also have not so fond memories of her. She could be a total B and she could be your very best friend. Most times it was the perfect balance.

She constantly wore these kelly green sweaters with yellow turtlenecks. Those were our school colors and if ever there was a proponent of our school it was Fetrow. She lived and breathed what we learned and stood for. And did it in green and "gold".

We made fun of her for that ensemble. She knew it. Most times she laughed right along with us.

She was the only person I knew that would order the Fish Sandwich at McDonald's- with extra Tartar Sauce!! Even now, as I laugh about it, I am dry heaving at the thought and memory of the smell of that sandwich.

She would talk of her children, endlessly. Share their travels and lives with us. She loved them completely and totally. She loved us, as her students, completely and totally. She shared with us her weekends. She spent endless hours at school. At sporting events. At other schools. At meetings. At the pub.

For those of us who were athletes she was our biggest supporter and sometimes our biggest enemy.

She went to bat for me. She stood up for me. I was a freshman. I was not doing well academically. Actually I was sucking wind. But I was doing well enough that I could still play basketball. I was a starter on junior varsity and a swing up to varsity on a regular basis. I was being groomed. The principal pulled me aside one day after class. That day would be my last game for at least two weeks. I was on academic probation because of my grades. (PS-the principal HATED me. Literally. Thought I was worthless.)

I informed the AD, Fetrow, that I was done for at least two weeks. No more practices or games. She did a little investigating. Apparently, there were girls on the team doing far worse than I was. They were allowed to play. There was no probation for them. Fetrow saved me.

I was back on the court in a week. I was back in practices. But, I was also in study hall. I was watched. My grades were coming up or she would take me off the team. She went to bat for me. It's what she did. It's why she was there.

Later that year when my parents went to surprise me with a jacket for basketball she made sure Varsity made it on the back rather than junior varsity. She built me up so that I would make it. She was disappointed when I allowed fear to overcome me and I left basketball.

Two years later when I "beat up" another school's mascot she stood up for me again. She defended me as the mascot and encouraged me. She commended my school spirit. She laughed and made sure I always had the equipment I needed.

The last time I saw Fetrow I was pregnant. She was driving around in golf cart on campus. Now that I think about it, it was probably just a short time after that when she received her initial diagnosis. She was wearing her green and gold. She was busy at a soccer game and a tennis match. But she stopped. We talked. She was excited that I was having a baby. She was genuine. She asked if I was playing any sports or anything like that. I laughed, looked at my protruding belly, and said 'not right now'.

That was it.

Fetrow wasn't the teacher that had the greatest impact on me. But the impact she had was important and memorable. And I will never forget the green and gold. Her green and gold.

The Number of Your Days is Great

I've been having trouble writing lately. I really don't know why.

Things are pretty good. I think of things and I start posts and then I hit save and never return to them.

Some of them are crap. Some of them have the potential to be good. And some, well, I don't know about some them- they're gibberish!!

I have close to 600 items in my reader. I am reading. Slowly. Commenting is a bit hard but I'm trying. Even if you don't see me, I'm there.

~~~~~

I love TV. I have made this known before. I really do enjoy TV. I always have. It's a bit sad how much I enjoy it. I can almost always find something to watch.

I have been a fan of ER for quite some time. Since Dr. Greene and Dr. Ross. Since Carter and Weaver. Since the beginning. This is ER's final season. I'm a bit sad about it.

I watched it the other day, after my other favorite medical drama (Grey's), and it appears that Abby Lockhart has left the show. As she was leaving she did a voiceover of a reading from the book of Job.

I'm not familiar with Job. I have not really read much of it. Job had a hard time of things.

Abby Lockhart, the character, read part of chapter 38 and it just stuck with me. I don't know why. Maybe it was how she read it. Maybe it was because it was the show. Maybe it was simply the words.

It stuck with me.

It struck me.

I looked it up and I had to print it up. I love it. And I cannot fully explain why.

There is just something about it that touches me.

I cannot find the words right now to say much of anything. And that's not for any reason in particular. The words just aren't coming right now. It bothers me. I have to be patient, though. When the words need to come out, they will.

For right now, I'd like to share these words from Job that shook me:

Have you entered into the springs of the sea
Or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have the gates of death been revealed to you,
Or have you seen the gates of deep darkness?
Have you understood the expanse of the earth?
Tell Me, if you know all this.
Where is the way to the dwelling of light?
And darkness, where is its place,
That you may take it to its territory
And that you may discern the paths to its home?
You know, for you were born then,
And the number of your days is great!
~Job 38:16-21~


I love all of it but the last two lines are my favorite. So hopeful.
We have so much to live for. So much to give to one another. So much to learn from one another.
And so many days to do it.

Letters

Dear Significant Other of Someone Else,

If you knew what he said about you I have to believe you wouldn't be ok with it. If you knew that he called you weak and told others that you were not a good mom, I have to believe your heart would break. If you knew that he said you have no idea how to care for your children and that you have no idea what family is like, I have to believe you would be outraged.

I have to believe these things because I had all of those reactions and more when he said those things.

Does he say those things to you?

Does he share with you his views on women?

Does he share with you that he's told people he really does not care for you but wanted a second child?

Do those things ever come up in your "home"?

Are you ok with that?

I have to believe that if he has the cojones to say those things to strangers than he says them to you as well.

Those words have the power to kill. They have the power to sear and hurt. They have the power to crush one's spirit. And they have the power to induce nausea and sadness for a person that I've never even met.

Maybe you're ok with those word, these sentiments that he is perfectly ok with sharing. Maybe you feel that what he has to say is accurate. I hope not.

I hope I get to meet you one day. I don't know what I'd say but I hope I get to meet you. I hope I get to speak with you for even just a moment. Just an instant to see that you're ok. A second to see that you're not being crushed by his words. A wrinkle in time to see that he hasn't broken your spirit. Anything to let me know that maybe, just maybe, he is not the total and complete asshole that he has revealed himself to be to me.

Sincerely,
Momma

~~~~~

Dear Cuz,
What will it take? When will the lies end? What needs to happen for you to see?

Does he need to physically hurt you for you to finally walk away? Aren't his words and lack of actions enough?

Does he need to take you completely away from your friends and family before you can see that maybe it's just not right? Isn't enough that you haven't spoken to half of us in more than a year?

How long will you wait around for him to grow up and start treating your right?

When will it go from 'it's complicated' to 'it's over'?

It's so hard to sit on the outside and see what is happening. It is so easy for me to say I see where and when and how it all went wrong. It is so easy for me to see what he's doing and what you're ignoring. It is so easy for me to watch, yet it is so unbelievably hard.

You deserve more. You will not end up alone. You will find what is right for you. He is not.

You are not like her. Her life is not your future. There is a lifetime of happiness and joy waiting for you. I just wish you could move beyond the beast and see it.

It will be hard. It will be the saddest you've ever been. It will be life changing and depressing. But it will be exactly what you need and exactly what is supposed to happen.

Why didn't you call him? OR did you? Why didn't he show up when you were hurt? Why wasn't he there and don't tell me that you didn't bother to call. Nothing lines up anymore. Nothing makes sense from you and I am afraid of what you are hiding.

Living in hiding is no way to live. It is not living.

Come out of the hiding. We have always been here for you and always will be. He's not worth it.

You are.

Lovingly,
A

~~~~~

Dear You,

I know. You're not worth it. I won't get roped in again.

MM

~~~~~

Dear Readers,

Thank you for sticking around. Thank you for reading and commenting. Thank you for just being and sharing. I've been silent lately. I've been sporadic in my blogging and my reading. I am grateful for each and every one of you.
Thank You

Yours,

Mountain Momma

It's in the Reactions

I've talked about positive thinking before.

It's all related to him. I blame him for not allowing me to wallow for nearly as long as I used to.

I also thank him.

October 27th is fast approaching. It will be one year since I was in a major car accident that changed everything.

I have passed other milestones along the way from other events. My daughter's first birthday. The one year anniversary of my last radiation which also happened to be the end of the time limit on my "not allowed to get pregnant" time. The one year anniversary of starting a job that I am finally happy in.

Other milestones will come over the next months.

I've been thinking a lot about where I was a year ago and what the past 12 months have brought. I was in such a different place. I was such a different person.

I was on the cusp of change waiting for it to come. I hadn't realized that I needed to make change happen. I had to bring the change to me.

Thank God I did.

I get to the end of my work week and I think about the weekend ahead. It makes me tired. I think about the fact that my husband won't be home with me and I'd really just like to sleep until 11. I know that won't happen. I think about the past week and the good points and the not so good points. I think about how tired I am. I think about the break that I want. The stoppage of time that will never come.

I get to the end of my work week and after I've wallowed momentarily, since I can't wallow for much more than that any longer thanks to him, I am excited. The prospect of moments alone with my children. The idea of hours spent with family sitting around the house or out and about. The notion of sleeping past 4:45am. All of it excites me.

The more and more I think about where I was 12 months ago and where I am now the more I see how the power of positive thinking really works.

Things are not always roses and teddy bears. I still have bills(too many) and I work too much (sometimes). I still have those days where I just want to stay under the covers all day and not face the world. Those moments of sadness and depression that were ever present and constant one and two years ago are few and far between now but they do still make appearances. They just don't get to stay as long.

Every school has students that are total pains in the ass. Every teacher has kids that sit in their classroom and make them want to re consider their career choice. It is what it is. But what I'm finding is that it's all in how you approach these kids. It's in how you handle them and deal with them. It's how you react to them.

I've been teaching for more than 5 years and I'm just learning that. I'm learning it because it's universal. It's applicable to every aspect of life. It's necessary to understand for every part of who we are and what we encounter.

It's all about how you respond. It's in how you deal with things. It's in how you react.

My reactions have changed over the past year. Every time something would knock me down I would become a bit more defeated. A bit more wallowing would ensue.

It's not like that anymore. The reactions are different and that makes everything else different.

I feel like I've painted this picture of pure and total happiness. It's not. But it's pretty good. Things are on an upswing and I'm planning on having them continue.

I get to the end of my work week or I hear the alarm at 4:45 and I'm tired. I want to sleep. But I am so unbelievably grateful for that exhaustion because it means that I've reacted in ways that have kept me active and positive. And plus, I'm awake and alive.

Who could ask for more?

Sometimes It's Just About Surviving

I haven't been posting regularly. Things are just so busy. Busy good. But busy, nonetheless. I've had a lot to say, just not a lot of time to say it!! Hopefully, I'll be getting into the swing of things again soon!

~~~~~

Today, two friends and I took our kids to a large, giant, festival about 40 minutes from where we live. We were looking forward to a lot of fun and time outside.

We got both those things.

We also received an extra added bonus which I'd like to share with you.

Between us we have three kids- my two, and one other. My one friend doesn't have kids yet. We opted to bring just my double stroller and figured that the boy would want to walk everywhere. Which he did.

What we found, though, was that he wanted to walk on his own and be a "big boy". I get that. He is all about independence nowadays. (If only he'd independently stop pooping his pants!!) Needless to say we had hand holding issues. Meaning, we wanted him to and he didn't want to.

Problem.

There were a TON of people there. Seriously. Most of the streets were shut down so people could walk right down the middle and the sides were lined with different vendors. Well, the middle, the sides, everywhere was FULL of people. It was really like standing in line and shuffling along. Having a child "free" and unwilling to hold your hand was not only annoying but also frightening.

You just never know what's going to happen.

My friend happened to bring a "leash" or tether for her child. She had planned to use it in case her child didn't want to be in the stroller.

Now, I'm not a fan of these. At all. The image bothers me. The idea of my child on a leash upsets me. I just don't like them. I've seen the cute ones that look like backpacks and have teddy bears on them. I've seen the coiled ones that look like phone cords. I just don't like them.

My friend's child never really wanted to walk or run, unless we were on the playground, so the leash was unnecessary. Or so we thought.

The boy had wandered a bit too far, one too many times. My heart couldn't take it anymore. My nerves were shot. My friend offered to tether to the boy while I pushed the stroller. She made it a game. She made it so that she and the boy had matching "bracelets". He LOVED it! Didn't even realize that he was "attached" to someone and when he noticed it, he played with it.

I was not completely ok with the leash BUT I was much more at ease with him on it. I was much more comfortable knowing that there was no way a stranger could easily walk away with him. I was calmer knowing that I didn't have to stop every 20 steps to make sure I knew exactly where the boy was. I was just feeling better about the whole experience.

We were walking through part of the festival when I passed two young women, childless at that moment. These two young women looked like they were early to mid 20s. If they were married, their significant others were not with them. And if they had children, they were not with them either. My friend walked ahead of me and the stroller with the boy right next to her. As they passed these two young women one of the women decided it was her God given right to pass judgment, out loud, on us as parents, "Your kid on a leash! That's real nice! Ridiculous, who puts their kid on a leash?"

I stopped.

I literally had to wrap my hands around handle of the stroller so as to stop myself from turning around, pulling her greasy, stringy, hair, ripping off her giant "bug-like" sun glasses, and screaming at her. I turned to my other friend and said, "Did you hear her? Did you catch that?" She hadn't. She missed what Dirty McJudgy had to say about my son on the leash. I filled her in, as loudly as possible knowing full well McJudgy was right behind us. And then we walked away.

I don't know what bothered me more, the fact that she felt it was ok to let her opinion, her judgment, be known in such a loud and obvious manner. Or that 6 years ago that might have been me.

I have always expressed my thoughts on child leashes, tethers. I may have even expressed them in the same manner that McJudgy decided to express them. I may have been that bitchy girl at the festival or the mall who decided it was her God given right to pass judgment on the parents who felt that the tether was necessary. I hope not, but I can't say for sure.

I used to feel that tethers were used because parents could not control their children. That clearly, they had no discipline and never ever listened. I assured myself that I would never leash my child like a dog.

I had also assured myself, in my pre-parent days, that my children would be potty trained by age 2. We all know how well that's working out for me!!

Today, I had to use the tether on my son. I think we used it for maybe 15 minutes. He got a kick out of it and I was able to relax and know that he was right next to me. I was not happy about it but it was necessary. It was not my first choice but it worked really well and I am grateful that my friend had it. I'm not running out to purchase one of my own. I did it because in the excitement of the day the boy was overwhelmed. He listened very well, on and off the leash. He was on best behavior. He just was so excited to see everything that he would lose himself in the moment. I didn't want to lose him at all.

I got a glimpse of myself, the much dirtier and stringier version, today. A blast from the past, if you will.

I had grand ideas before I had kids. I had these notions that while it would be hard, it would also be roses and buttercream filled chocolates (my favorites!). I knew that my kids would never experience the terrible twos. (My 18 month old has recently decorated our lovely walls with shades of crayola green and blue.) I was convinced that I would be that mom who had the spotless house and never more than one load of laundry to do. (The pile outside my laundry room is scandalous and my house FINALLY got cleaned today for the first time since school started!) I really thought that it would be different and never once did I stop to consider what it would REALLY be like.

I really wanted to stop that young woman and let her know I was just like her. I wanted her to see that while she thought it was close to child abuse to have my son on a leash, it was a protective measure. It was about making sure I left the festival with the same amount of kids that I showed up with. It was about staying sane and safe. It was about surviving and sometimes parenting is about just surviving.

I wanted to make her see.

I couldn't. It's not my job. My job is to be the best parent I can be. To care for my children in the best way possible. To protect them as best as I can while also giving them confidence and independence.

My job is to recognize that the girl walking by who has no idea about anything else doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. I have to be able to look myself in the mirror each day and I have to be able to say that I did my very best and what was right for me and my family.

Putting my kid on a leash or tether was what right for me today.

I'm ok with that because he's home with me and not lost. I'm ok with that because we had a good time today. I'm ok with that because I received a picture of what I once was and I was able to see what I am now.

I'm much happier.

And now I know I don't have to get a dog, I can just put the boy on a leash and he's more than happy to chase after frisbees and tennis balls! :)

JUST VOTE

The best part about this?
Not once do they say "Go vote for X or Y."

JUST VOTE!!

My Greatest Risk

I was talking with someone the other day about taking risks.

The background isn't overly important but essentially this person was worried about the results of a risk that they really wanted to take. They were worried about the possible fallout. The possible negative associations and consequences.

All things that are completely normal to think about when considering risky behaviors and choices.

My thoughts for them were that the possible positive outcomes, possible positive consequences were so much better than the possible negatives that the risk was worth it. It was worth taking that leap, that jump and putting yourself out there.

No question.

I am not a huge risk taker.

I definitely don't make stupid risky choices, such as driving with no seat belts or driving after tying on a few. But I have made choices that I guess some would consider risky.

My biggest risk?

Probably carrying and giving birth to my second child.

I will never forget the well meaning nurse who, after hearing my entire situation and all of medical issues and circumstances, posed the question to me, "Is this really a pregnancy that you want to carry on?"

Yes, seriously. She, in a roundabout way, was asking if I wanted to keep the baby or possibly consider abortion.

I had been exposed to high dose radiation, as had my baby. I had a fairly serious medical condition that would require constant monitoring- weekly. This condition would also threaten my life and the life of my child. It was not a positive situation that I was in. It was so far from ideal that it resembled life alteringly bad. Her question was not unexpected. It was not meant in a mean way. It was matter of fact. It was honest. It was what she felt to be appropriate.

I was taken aback. There was a brief moment in my mind after that second line popped up that I wondered if my child would have 4 arms and be missing life sustaining parts due to my exposure and illness. There was a moment of question, of fear. But it quickly dissipated.

I looked at her, caught my breath and answered, "Yes, of course it is."

I wasn't completely sure that we were ready. I wasn't completely sure that I would be able to handle the weeks and months ahead. I wasn't completely sure that this wasn't going to kill me or the life inside of me.

But I was sure that as soon as that second line popped up I was having that baby. Regardless of anything else.

I was high risk. I saw doctors almost every week of my pregnancy, sometimes twice or three times a week. I landed in the hospital a few times for monitoring and had more blood drawn than I care to remember. And I peed in more containers than anyone should EVER have to.

The possible positive outcomes of my choice. My decision to have our baby. Which was never really a choice. It always just was. Those positives FAR outweighed any possible negative. Any possible chance that could happen.

That life FAR outweighed everything else.

I took the risk. I risked everything and yet it was nothing. It was exactly what it was supposed to be.

Risks are scary. I was terrified during my ENTIRE pregnancy.

Risks are stress inducing. My blood pressure went up and hovered somewhere around 190/100 for a good portion of time.

Risks are fabulously rewarding. I have a gorgeous carrot red haired child that most days is one of the most fabulous gifts I have ever received.

She is my greatest risk.

What is yours?

Please go and read this .

Share it. Keep it. Whatever. Just read it.

READ IT

Doing It All

A very good friend of mine informed me the other day that I could not "do it all". I needed to stop worrying about everything else and everyone else and just stop for a moment.

She's right.

I hate that.

Why?

Why can't I do it all?

Why do I feel like I have to?

I'm the only one who does it right. I know exactly how I want things done and when and if I leave that up to someone else, it won't be done the right way.

Think I have some control issues?

I have a lot on my plate. All of us do. I don't care if you work outside the home or you work inside your home. I don't care if you have 1 kid or 5 kids. We all have a lot on our plates and more often than not it's too much.

What do we do about that?

Do we make the plate smaller? Weight Watchers suggests that you eat off a smaller plate so as to keep your portions smaller and thereby trick your brain into thinking you're eating a lot because your plate looks so full. Is that the trick with all we have to do, too?

Do we get rid of something or not pick from what is offered? How? What do I get rid of? Grad school? Work? My PPD group? What do I throw away? Certainly not my kids.

There is no simple solution. There is nothing out there letting us know how to do it all and still stay somewhat sane. There is nothing out there that helps us figure out what to let go of. What to give up.

It is not an option for me to make my plate smaller. I am a perpetual "overeater." My plate needs to stay platter sized so that when the new things arise, I have room for them. It is not an option for me to not tackle something. And I hate when I decide to tackle something and I have to either hand it off or postpone it.

Again, do we think I have some control issues?

Clearly, I need to learn to say no. I need to learn to say enough is enough. But I can't. I don't have it in me. I feel as if I don't do it, who will?

I don't think I'm alone in this. I have to believe that there other people, moms, dads, whomever, out there who feel the same. Who believe that they can and have to do it all.

Being busy makes me feel good. It lets me know that I'm getting things done. That things are getting accomplished. That I'm productive.

But I'm still mastering the balancing act. I'm still working on keeping my platter steady in one hand while I take on a few more things in my other hand.

I know that I can't do it all. I hate that. I know that I need to delegate. I know that others are perfectly capable. I know all of this.

Why can't I just do it? Why can't I just accept it and let others tackle something? What is stopping me?

Do you feel like you can do it all? Do you feel like you are? How do you handle it?

Brain Vomit: Age is more than just a number

*Disclaimer: This is quite the disjointed post. I think I got it all out. I think I said all I wanted to say. I think I conveyed in a way that I wanted to. But I also think this is all brain vomit. Enjoy!*

I'm young. I know that. Compared to my co-workers. Compared to some of my friends. Compared to some moms out there. Compared to a lot of people I'm young.

So what?

So, I feel like I get judged based on my age. I feel like people look at me in a different way because of my age. I feel that people don't take me as seriously because of my age.

When I started my current job the women who work in the office thought I was a new student. This was also the case at my last high school teaching job. Personally, I don't think I look THAT young but who knows?!

Last night was back to school night. Normally, I loathe back to school night but last night was not so bad. I'm having a lot more fun this year. I'm enjoying myself and my job and I think that makes a HUGE difference! At any rate, last night the parents have the opportunity to come in and go through their child's schedule and meet their teachers. Each class is brief. We give a short presentation, answer a few questions and move on. Nothing too exciting.

The look I get from parents bothers me.

They look at me as if to say "she's way too young to teach my child."

They look at me as if to say "she could not have the experience required to really handle a classroom full of kids."

They look at me as if to say "what could she possibly know about theology?"

Or maybe it's all in my head.

Maybe it's my insecurities.

Maybe I'm imagining it.

Maybe not.

I had a parent roll their eyes at me last night. Literally. She rolled her eyes and shook her head as I described a year long project we're working on. As I talked about ways that her child could gain extra credit. She almost stopped me in my tracks.

Almost.

I don't know if she was shaking her head because she thought my ideas were ridiculous.

I don't know if she was shaking her head because she knew that her daughter would never attempt the extra credit project I was suggesting.

I don't know. But I do know that I wanted to walk over to where she was sitting and punch her. I wanted to scream at her, "What the hell lady?!?!" I wanted to ask her what she found so ridiculous that she had the balls enough to sit there and roll her eyes and shake her head at me.

But I didn't.

I packed up my room. Chatted with some friends. Headed home. I drove and thought about how people perceive me. I thought about what those parents must have been thinking as they sat in my desks and hung on almost my every word. I thought about the fact that at 28 years old I've been teaching high school for more than 5 years and teaching in general for closer to 7. I thought about my age.

Weird, right?

I don't know if my parents- meaning my students' parents- judged me based on my age. Part of me thinks they do. They don't bother me nearly as much as the other moms out there that I think judge me based on my age.

I've encountered moms that won't take my advice or thoughts on a particular subject because clearly, I'm too young and couldn't possibly know anything about childrearing. It doesn't matter that I've managed to keep two children alive for close to 4.5 years (including pregnancies). It doesn't matter that my kids have run the gamut with problems, illnesses and experiences that have given me new wisdom on things. It doesn't matter that before I had kids I was a nanny, a baby sitter, a pre school teacher.

What seems to matter to them is that I appear to be far too young to know anything. Or at least that's my perception.

Why do I think this? What makes me feel this way? Why do I care?

I think this because I've watched as moms have asked advice on something and listened to what I've had to say and then ignored it. Until another mom, older than I, gave them the same advice.

Maybe that's a trust thing. Maybe it's a comfort thing.

I'm not sure why I care. I guess it's because I feel that I've got a lot in me in terms of experience and knowledge and know how. I've got a lot to share. I'm a lot more than a number.

But maybe it's all me. Maybe I'm perceiving wrong. Maybe I'm paranoid. I really don't know.

Finding the Words

I diffuse situations with humor. Not all situations, but a lot of them.

I sometimes have a hard time finding the words. Great, right? This from the person studying to be a counselor. Here's the thing though, I can find the words for strangers or for people I don't know all that well. Finding the words for friends is harder for me. It's almost impossible sometimes.

I have a friend who is hurting. She is struggling. She is having a hard time getting back to work. She desperately misses her kids. She wants to be home with them more than anything. Her pain is palpable.

I have no idea what to say to her. I offer her my shoulder. I offer her my "condolences." I offer her whatever compassion and friendship I can. She is miles away. My words, because they come in the "written" form hold so much more weight for me. I feel they should be perfect. I feel they should carry with them relief and love and kindness.

I think they carry bits and pieces of those things. But I do not think they are perfect. I do not think they convey how much hurt I feel for her. I do not think they hold the weight I want them to hold.

Why?

This is not the first time or the only time I have felt that my words do not carry the magnitude that they are meant to carry.

I don't know how to present my words so that they convey what I want them to. I don't always know what to say. I know that sometimes that is ok. But I still feel like I need to be able to come up with the right words. Come up with the words that will help. Come up with the words that will comfort.

How do I do that?

How do you come up with the words?

Happy Hour Revelations

I spend a lot of time on here bitching. I spent a lot of time everywhere bitching.

I bitch about my kids and how they annoy me and I need a break.

I bitch about my husband.

I bitch about my job.

I bitch and complain. Complain and bitch.

Today I went to Happy Hour with my co-workers friends. It actually was more like Happy 3 Hours, but whatever.

I love my job. I really do. I love where I work. I love my students, even when they are total shits. I love the people I work with. I really am very happy at my job. That being said, there is always something to bitch about. There are always negatives. I just choose not to focus and harp on them. I really enjoy what I do. I hate getting up in the morning but I don't hate going there.

Spending an extra three hours with the people I work with was wonderful. I've had jobs where an extra three hours with my co-workers would have been painful. Just not the case anymore.

We laughed. We shared. We talked. And it wasn't all about work. It wasn't all about our students. It wasn't all about our jobs.

It was about us. It was about being friends. It was about community and family and bonding. It was fun and I was a little sad when it ended.

Four of us were left in the end, three of the four of us are actually pretty good friends. The fourth fit in perfectly. We parted ways and each of us went to our respective families and homes. Each of us departed and began our weekend.

I drove through the rain and thought about the past week and the conversations and experiences I've had. I thought and thought. I do that when I drive. I get lost in all of it. I get lost in my head as I listen to music and drive.

I realized something.

I am so damned lucky. Seriously. Lucky. Fortunate. Blessed.

I am so grateful.

I have the most wonderful people in my life. My husband has the most wonderful people in his life. We are blessed to have to the individuals that we do in our lives, both separately and together.

I drove home, walked into my house and was greeted by both of my kids wrapping themselves around my legs. Again, lucky. Definitely not annoyed. Those hugs wipe away any possibility of annoyance.

I listened as my son regaled me with stories from his day at school and presented me with a giant life sized portrait of himself, with 42 eyes on it. Again, lucky. And a little creeped out by the eyes.

I watched as my daughter danced around in her mismatched outfit of extra clothes because clearly she had somehow soiled the dress my husband sent her into school wearing. I laughed at her pigtails that her teacher had put in. I sat on the floor in my kitchen and she snuggled into my lap. Again, lucky.

I read over text messages from my day. Responses from a text I sent to a bunch of friends letting them know how grateful I was for them. Many of them inquiring about my mental well being and my alcohol "status". But all of them returning the sentiment. Again, lucky. And amused that they all think I would either need to be off my gourd or drunk to text them something heartfelt, rather than my normal BS texting.

One set of messages was from a friend I've known since I was 5. We lead totally different lives. But at the same time we lead very similar lives. We have been friends, in some capacity, since kindergarten. We have drifted together and apart. We have shared ups and downs. We've shared weddings(both) and babies(mine) and divorces(hers). And for her, I am lucky because I know when we come together it is as if no time has passed. We are back in my parents basement having sleepovers and watching "Dirty Dancing".

It is incredible to me the paths that we walk along and the people that accompany us. Some starting off with us and staying for the long haul. Some drifting off never to return. Some coming in and going out and coming back in. All of them important. All of them impactful.

You know, I bitch and I moan and I complain. And I whine and I vent and I bitch. I do it on here. I do it at home. I do it at work. I do it in the supermarket. But God, I am so freaking lucky. I cannot believe it took a Happy Hour, time with friends, laughing, enjoying each other's lives, to really awaken that in me again.

I forget. I don't see it always. I ignore it because sometimes the crappy shit, the annoying stuff, the whining is just easier to deal with. It's just easier to have. It's just easier to live within.

I cannot always promise that I'll remember how lucky I am. I cannot always promise that the bad stuff won't take over. I cannot always promise that I won't bitch and moan and complain. Because I know that those are promises I would never be able to keep.

I can promise to remind myself often of how lucky I am. I can promise to let those in my life know that they are valued and I am so grateful for them and I am better off because of them. I can promise to try and stop myself when I see the negative trying to overtake the positive and I will do all that I can to reverse it.

And I can definitely promise that there will be many more Happy Hours, or three, in my future.

Sending You Elsewhere Today

I shared my little black box with you below and it's entertaining. I'd like you to go and read something else today.

Oh The Joys has posted an editorial from a friend of hers and I think it bears sharing. Go take a look.

I try to stay away from politics but, like OTJ, I think it's an important perspective to consider.

Oh, The Joys

Black Boxes

Click the black box or the satin right in the middle and don't blame me if you can't walk away from your computer once you start.....I blame her

Where Were You?

I'm sure this topic is going to be all over the blogosphere today. As it should be.

It should be all over everywhere.

Do you remember? Can you say exactly where you were and exactly what you were doing when it happened or when you found out?

I wasn't alive when Kennedy was shot but my parents were. They can recall pretty vividly that day. They can recall random details and moments about that day. It lives for them on November 22nd each year. But really, I don't think it's the same.

I was alive for the Challenger. It was the day before my birthday. I remember it. Sort of. Again, I don't think it's really the same.

September 11, 2001 I remember. I see it in my head. I relive those moments.

I was not in the city. As a matter of fact I was in Philadelphia that morning. I was living there. I was a senior in college. One stage of my life was ending and another was getting ready to begin.

Like everyone else, life was going.

I skipped class that morning. Ethics. I'm not sure why. I was tired, I guess. But I did. I slept in. I slept through my home phone ringing again and again. I slept through my cell phone ringing again and again. In my half sleep I thought it was my professor calling to find out why I wasn't in class.

Finally, I got out of bed. Finally, I answered the phone. It was my mom. The moment I heard her voice I thought for sure she was calling to tell me my grandfather had died.

I was wrong.

Planes were flying into buildings. I needed to come home before they shut down Philadelphia. NOW.

I turned on the TV. I saw the second plane hit. I nearly vomited my empty stomach. I hung up the phone. Maybe I showered. Maybe not. I made a point of grabbing my dirty laundry. I loaded myself and as much crap as possible into my dad's Volvo that I had for some reason. I can't remember why. And I fled.

I drove fast that day. The fastest I had ever driven. Everyone seemed to be driving fast. Everyone seemed to be fleeing.

I cried most of the way home. I listened to the radio, unable to tear myself from the news. I listened as the first tower came down. I listened as speculations flew over the airwaves. I listened as silence came over the NY airwaves. I searched for any news that I could.

As I drove I called people. I called everyone I could. Everyone I could think of. I was dating my husband at the time. I must have called his phone and his cell phone 25 times in a 5 minute period. The phone lines were tied up but even when they weren't he was not answering.

He had no reason to be in the city that day. He really had no reason to be in the city at all, ever. He wasn't in the city but I was sure that he had woken up that morning, extra early, and decided to take a trip into NY.

Not so.

He was upstairs. His father had woken him up just after the first plane hit. They were watching the coverage. He was fine. I drove on.

I arrived home. Home, 35 minutes from the city. Home, where from the right vantage point you could see the plumes of smoke. Home.

I watched coverage until I could watch no more. There was nothing anyone could tell us. It was what it was. We called to make sure people were ok. We awaited word on those that might not be. My sister went into the city that day. She was a first responder. She worked for the Red Cross then. She has had Bronchitis and Pneumonia a number of times in the past 7 years. Life has changed.

I finally went into work. I went to the job that I worked at on the weekends and during the summer. They were my second family and a community. I could not sit at home any longer. I could not watch the coverage.

Work was a distraction. Until it wasn't. Until the trains started emptying. Until the people were getting over the bridges and off the buses. Until they started coming into my work, my store. Then it stopped being a distraction and became a reminder of the reality.

I will never forget the man who came into the store in his business attire. He was dressed nicely. He had his wife and child with him. His pants were khaki. His shirt was blue. He was covered in blood. I didn't know whether to cry or vomit. He paid for his items and you could see the strain and stress on his face. And they left. They were going to get donuts because his son wanted some Munchkins. I don't know why they told me that, but they did.

I can't even begin to tell you the things I learned about people that day. The things they shared. The number of people who came into my store covered in dust or blood or dirt or debris. The number of people with tear stained faces.

They marked me. They marked my brain and my heart. They are there forever. The people I knew that no longer are, are there forever. I still see my neighbor jogging even though he perished when one of the towers came down. I see him jogging through my old neighborhood with his walkman wrapped around his upper arm. I see his face as clear as day.

I had nightmares for a long time after that day. Nightmares about being on the planes. Being with those men that flew the planes into the buildings and into the field. Seeing their photos burned into my brain. They still are. I think they always will be. Those faces haunt me. Frighten me.

That night I lay in my childhood bed at my home, the windows open. And I listened. I listened as helicopters flew overhead. I listened as fighter jets patrolled the airspace. I listened to sounds that I never thought I would ever hear. Sounds that signaled a beginning that I was not ready for. Sounds that penetrate the heart and mind.

Seven years ago a new stage of life began in a way that no one expected. Today, I remember it as if it were yesterday. Today, I think of it and it makes me sad.

I hope to never hear those sounds again. I hope to never see images like that again.

I hope that our beginnings come from good from now on and the images that haunt us are those of laughter and happiness.

I hope for peace. But I always remember.

Why Doesn't Ernie have eyebrows and other reasons I'm Spitting Fire

I've had this post about guilt brewing for the past few days but I just haven't been able to sit down and write it.

I will. Maybe today.

Right now, though, I am in such a foul freaking mood.

My daughter brought home the daycare plague. You know the one. That cold and runny nose that never goes away. At least not until it either become pneumonia or you take them out of daycare. Since she is a bottomless pit of food and likes to taste everything we eat, even after she's consumed 4 chicken nuggets, two pieces of cheese, 3 strawberries, a cup of milk (we're not dairy free anymore), some grapes, some corn, and half of her brother's dinner, she has been eating off my plate and off my utensils. She has ever so kindly shared her "disease" with me.

I was out cold by 7:30 last night. DEAD.TO.THE.WORLD.

I was not ready to get out of bed at 5:15 this morning. So I didn't. I got out at 5:35 instead.

I awoke in a foul mood. I'm not really sure why.

I couldn't find anything to wear and when I did I decided that it looked like crap but I was late and I wasn't changing.

I decided to only dry a piece of my hair...my "side bangs" so that they looked halfway decent. Now the rest of my hair looks like crap rolled over. Half curly, half frizzy, half shitty.

I left my lunch at home. I left my giant water bottle at home. I had to eat a Fiber One bar for breakfast and while it was tasty I know I'll be paying for it later.

I have not waxed my eyebrows in weeks and I'm approaching Bert status.
FYI-I had this awesome shot of Bert and Ernie but because the internet blows ass right now at work, I can't put it up!! Why doesn't Ernie have eyebrows?!?!


The internet is spotty, at best, at work right now which sucks because it hinders EVERYTHING I need to do!!

One of my bfs has been away since Saturday and I've had no one, except the husband, to vent to. And venting to him just doesn't always work. Plus, he doesn't always enjoy it when I yell at him about him!

I am spitting fire right now. I have no clue why. Well, it could be because I feel like crap and I'm totally disorganized and grad school starts this week but no one let us, the students, know and I really need a break from-uh- life at this point!

When is Summer vacation?

Anyone else need to vent.....feel free...the comments are waiting!

Back to School

The back to school outfits are laid out.

The Lunches are packed.

The diapers, wipes and extra big boy underpants are sitting on the front seat of the husband's car.

The extra clothes are just waiting to be worn after a good soiling or some mud on the kids' "real" outfits.

Everything is set.

Tomorrow my boy goes to Pre-K 4. I found that out today. We were unsure of which class he'd be heading to but when I called today to discuss potty issues we decided on the 4s. WOW. He's too advanced to be in 3s. 4s will suit him well.

I'm sorry when exactly did I have a 4 year old child. Or almost 4 year old child.

The girl? Well, she'll be in the toddler room. With 2 year olds. She's talking too much and, again, too advanced, to be with the babies. Good lord. And they, the school, is perfectly ok with potty training her. So, she'll probably start seriously in the next week or two.

Tomorrow my kids go back to school and I'm not sure how I'll handle it or how they will.

I'm busy at work tomorrow. I think I'll be ok. I have a feeling I may be in K or F's rooms temporarily wallowing but I don't think it will be bad. Maybe a tear or two shed. Not sure.

The part I'm most upset about? I won't be here tomorrow morning to take the pictures. I won't see them off on their first day of school. I won't be dropping them off. I won't be here when they walk out the door.

That upsets me.

There is nothing for the husband to do tomorrow morning except dress our children and get them out the door. EVERYTHING is done for him. I made sure that it was complete so that tomorrow he could take the pictures. He could document the first day of school for me. He could make sure I see their back to school outfits before they are soiled with pee or mud.

He better.

I worry about the kids, too. I worry that my son will have potty issues. But then I think that this may be the very best thing for him. He will be surrounded by kids who don't crap their pants on a regular basis. There will be peer pressure. Hopefully, we'll come out of tomorrow and maybe next week and be done with pull ups except for bedtime.

I worry that my girl, my precious little princess who is a monster in her own right, will have separation issues. She's a tough little cookie but strangers are not her favorite by any means right now. I think the new toys and other kids will help the situation but there is a little part of me that is glad to not be there when she gets dropped off. It would just break my heart too much if she cried when I left.

Tomorrow is the first day of school for my kids and I think it's going to be great. I think it's going to be hard and I'm going to miss them. Even more than I have the past few days. I think it's going to be fun for them once they get settled and comfortable. I think it's going to be a mixed bag and it's exactly what's supposed to be happening.

Tomorrow my kids go back to school and I'm sad that I'm going to miss it. But I cannot wait to hear the stories and get the hugs and kisses when I pick them up. Sometimes that makes it all worth it.

Sometimes.

Triggers

A few weeks ago Momo did a post about smells. Smells that bring back memories. She asked us. her readers, to try and name what smells made us remember. At the time, the only one I could really remember- and it was only because Momo brought it up herself- was the smell of the hospital from when the boy was in there. I cannot smell antiseptic or hand sanitizer without being brought back to those days instantly.

Since she wrote that post I have not been able to get it out of my head. Each time I smell something and it triggers a memory it brings me right back. It instantly reminds me of her post and makes me focus on the memory.

Lately, I've found that I've been remembering a lot more. But it's not just smells.

My triggers and smells and moments.

I walked into the gymnasium at the school in which I teach and I was immediately brought back to February of 1995. I teach at a school that has my high school alma mater as a rival. We both had, and have, incredible basketball teams. We fought each other on the soccer field and the softball field. We were rivals in every sense of the word.

My basketball career was cut short on the court at the school in which I currently teach. I was a freshman in high school. I was starting on the JV team and swinging up to the Varsity team regularly. I was really doing well. I had coaches that encouraged me. I was having a pretty good time after a rocky start with grades. I remember the ride in the school van to the game. Our coach was a psycho driver. The windows didn't open on the van all the way and he was a dipper. He would spit into a gatorade bottle and then open the van door to dump his "juice" out. It was gross.

I was the only one "Brave" enough to sit shot gun.

It was supposed to snow that night. My dad was meeting me at the game. We were all geared up and excited for this contest. It was going to be a great game most likely followed the next day by a snow day.

It was early in the game. Probably close to second quarter, maybe about halfway through. We were on offense. I was down on the post and I planted my left foot and was trying to get free. The point guard, a sophomore girl who was pretty ok but basketball was not her ticket to celebrity or college, was bringing the ball down and looking to me under the basket. She wanted to get the ball underneath so we could score.

I was ready. Planted. I pivoted. And that was it.

The action was so fluid and effortless I don't remember how it even happened. I had made that move a million times before and never had the end result be what it was. I twisted, my leg twisted and yet it didn't. I wanted it to twist. I wanted it to turn towards the ball and be ready to turn and make the layup.

No. Such. Luck.

My leg stayed where it was, my knee did not. That was it. I was done. I was on the floor and could see that everything was wrong with my left leg. Things were in places where they were not supposed to be. I remember screaming. I remember the pain. I remember the sounds. I remember the way the bleachers looked full of people from my spot on the floor. I remember all of it.

Everytime I walk back into that gym and I smell it. The smell of varnish mixed with sweat. I remember. It's my trigger. It's my reminder of when I first allowed fear to take over.

I tried to get back in the game that night. No one would let me. I spent weeks on crutches and in therapy. I sat at practices and eagerly awaited the day that I could return. It did not come that season. I was not allowed to return my freshman season.

I chose not to return my sophomore. My fear of injury and pain and failure wouldn't permit me to. I wouldn't allow myself.

I smell that gymnasium on a daily basis now. My first year teaching was a constant reminder each time we held an event in there. Each time I saw a game. Each time I walked past. A constant reminder of how I allowed fear to take away one of the things I loved the most. One of the things that could have gotten me college for free at D-III school.

I was young. I was afraid. I hated pain. And it was easy to give in to the fear.

The car accident I had last year happened moments from my house. It happened on a road that I drive every day. On a curve that I take just about any time I go some place.

I don't remember every time I drive that road or that curve. But the times that I do, the memories are vivid and painful.

I remember seeing the car come at me. I remember thinking, "Oh, Shit, they're going to hit me." I think I may have even said that out loud. I remember the moments after when my children were silent and I was afraid to turn around for fear of what I'd see. I remember calling 911. I remember the phone call I made to my parents after my husband. I was hysterical. I remember hanging up with my mother and wanting to just pass out and the EMT in the car with me, not allowing me to. I remember the pain and the rain as they removed in my collar and on the back board.

All of those images run through my head when I remember that day. And more often than they bring me to tears. They regurgitate all of my fears from that day and the days that follow. Those images are what make me afraid to drive some days.

Those images, like that smell, are what keep the fear alive.

After getting hurt and abandoning my beloved sport I knew that I never wanted to allow fear to reign supreme again. I knew that I couldn't allow it.

In the weeks and months that followed the accident I worked very hard to put the fears aside. I worked very hard to get back into my car and drive it without thinking about every single other driver plowing into me. I worked very hard to feel comfortable in cars where other people were driving and I was not in control.

I worked very hard to make sure that I did not allow the fear to stop my life and take over.

The triggers are still there. They always will be. There will always be the memories and sometimes they may make me pause but they will not stop me.

The smells and the moments are not all bad. I recall the good things too. But sometimes the fear is what overwhelms us. The pain and the memories. It's in those times that I try and recall the good things. I try and remember the good smells and the good moments so that they can replace the fears and create new triggers.

How Our Third Child Came to Be

I can't tell you exactly when it was.

I can't tell you exactly where it was.

I can't tell you exactly you what brought it on.

I can tell you exactly what I was wearing. Jeans and a hot pink polo. My hair was in a ponytail.

I was probably at a family party. I think it may have even been an in laws' party. It may have been after the party.

It was Summertime. I think. I can't really be sure.

The husband was there. I don't think we talked about this. The boy was walking at this point.

I don't know why I remember what I was wearing or what my hair looked like and not anything else that could be significant.

What I remember were the thoughts that I had before my second child came to be. Before she came into our lives unexpectedly.

What I remember crystal clear was thinking how nice it was that the husband and I were coming out of that baby stage with the boy. We had a great baby sitter which meant we had alone time and date nights and time as a couple. The boy was at an age where, at parties and gatherings, he could play with other kids a bit and we didn't have to be on top of him completely. We could trade off responsibility. There were no more middle of the night feedings, there hadn't been for months. We were off formula. It was like we were starting this whole new chapter of our life as a family. It was freeing, in a sense.

I knew that we wanted more kids. I was just beginning to think that maybe we didn't want them so soon. Maybe it would be ok if they were further apart than we had originally thought. My sister and I are close to 6.5 years apart and while I had a sibling, I also had the chance to be alone. It was a nice balance, most of the time.

I envisioned our son being 3 or 4 years old and running into a hospital room to meet his new baby sister or brother. I envisioned mornings dropping the boy at pre-school and his new infant sibling and I going to the supermarket and the park and mommy groups and gymboree. I envisioned the years before those mornings being all about the boy and our family of three.

I was young. I had plenty of time. I had no concerns of infertility or complicated pregnancies. And I really was not in the mood to relive the pregnancy I had with the boy any time soon.

We had no plans to have another baby any time soon. It just wasn't right, yet.

Less than 4 months later I took my 5th pregnancy in a week and it came back positive. Life had already begun to change.

No longer would my visions be of the boy being 3 or 4 and waltzing into the hospital room. It was more like 2.

No longer would it be a family of 3. It was at least 4 from now on.

No longer could we trade off or play a zone defense. It was now one on one or man to man with our kids.

Life was different and unexpected and scary and out of control.

I would share with you what I was wearing when that test came back positive but I don't know that I remember. I do know that I have no idea whether or not I washed my hair in the shower that morning.

Two years ago this week I was a month pregnant.

Now I am the mother of two kids and life is still different and unexpected and out of control.

Now I am quickly approaching 30 and the question of infertility is more than a real possibility.

Now I am looking forward to exiting another baby stage and getting rid of all and every diaper in my house, car and desk.

And yet the wonder still looms. Is two where we stop? Is my last pregnancy really the one I want to remember as my last? Am I really ok with never feeling a baby move inside me again? Am I really sure that I could never attempt natural childbirth again?

I don't know.

I know that right now another baby, another child, is not in the cards. At least not in the current hand we've been dealt. We may have to toss a few cards in the years to come and see what comes back. I'm hoping for a Royal Flush, but we'll see.

I wonder if a few years from now, if there is a positive pregnancy test, if I'll remember this night? If I'll remember what I'm wearing and what's on the TV or how I spent my day?

Part of me hopes that I will. The other part of me hopes that I am so excited by the prospect of bringing a new life to our family that it will overwhelm my memory with new memories that I can think of when I think of how our third child came to be.

And how it was just as wonderful and unexpected as when our second child came to be.

Well, maybe not THAT unexpected!!

The Potty Chronicles- Part Deux

Potty training is going ok.

I thought you all deserved an update seeing as how you've been waiting so patiently! ;)

The boy has mastered pee. I knew he would. He's mastered it to the point that he woke up this morning and was dry. He mastered it to the point that we went out yesterday afternoon and stayed dry- even though he was in a pull up. He mastered it to the point that he asks or tells me he has to pee and he actually does.

For that I am super proud and happy. He's been trying really hard and really loves his big boy underwear. He gets that babies wear diapers or pull ups and hates wearing them now.

But.

Pooping is our obstacle. I don't know how to surmount it. I think he's holding it in until he can't anymore. I think he's afraid to let go of it on the potty. He knows where it's supposed to go but either doesn't get there in time or is just afraid.

I'm on constant poop watch. CONSTANT. We sit and push. Push and sit. Nothing. He didn't poop at all yesterday. It's making me neurotic and sick because I'm stressing out over it so completely!

This morning he woke up. He peed and sat for a bit. I knew the poop had to be coming....he couldn't hold it forever!! It came. 25 minutes later in the big boy underwear!! GAH!

The part that gets me is that he apologizes when it happens. He KNOWS that it doesn't belong there. He KNOWS that he was supposed to go in the potty. He KNOWS how this is supposed to work but for some reason his brain and his sphincter aren't communicating!

And , for the life of me, I can't figure out how to get them to do so.

So, the toys sit unopened. The Giant Red Wagon that was the ultimate poop reward still sits in my hallway, in the box. The boy sits in a pull up right now because we're out of clean big boy underwear. And I sit here scouring every inch of the internet to figure out how to get this child to release his feces into the toilet!!

I know it takes time. I know that it's probably going to be that he'll wake up and the poop part will just click. I know that I can't force him. I know he has to be ready.

I happen to think he is. I happen to believe that he's so smart that he knows how to do all of this but there is something. Something I can't figure out, that is holding him and his poop back.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make this work. It's going good. Seriously. I'm really proud of him. He is trying so hard. I just wish I could figure out how to get the poop in the potty and out of the underwear!!