“Bullies Are Cruel” – Our New School Song

The kids playing together while dinner is prepped (Photo credit: Alexander N)

“I want to sing like a hyena, and dance like a ballerina

Make ice cream out of your toes

Flip sausages for your nose

I want to run, jump and hide

with my friends at my side

We want to play and never go to sleep

we want to giggle and flop into a heap.

On the days there is no school

we can be found jumping in the park’s pool.

Life is great in every way,

just have friends

like mine, it’s the only way.

If there is someone who seems alone

go up to them and ask them to play along.

It’s not easy being new

so try your best to be kind and true.

It was that way for me

before my friends were nice to me.

So give a helping hand, whenever you can

give everyone a chance to hold hands and play

Peers become important in middle childhood and have an influence distinct from that of parents. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t hurt someone’s feelings

not on purpose and not by chance

think of how you would feel

if you were in their PANTS!

No BULLIES at our school

because we know BULLIES ARE CRUEL!!!!”

my day by sherry

Image via Wikipedia

my dday waas verry diffrent from yesssterdat, funnyhow ur day cann be really bad andd scary and u  want to  just cry an cry. thaats what i felt like   today. mommy and pops were all tryin  to  preetend to b hapy but i culd know thaat its was just becaaause  i was stil their. i felt that in my bakk as i walked out the dorr so i culd catch the lellow school bus. my hair waz in 2 long braidss, my feet werr flyin in my new red lite up ssneakers witch ar so ammasing!!! andd i had a baloni and merican cheese sandwitch in my hello kitty! lunch boxx.i dont know whats goin on really but i know it feels kinda wrong and badand sad. i hav a brover who is just makin me feel jumpy and sad and mad andd that shouldnt happen. isnt family suppo two be nice tto family? no iguess thats not just so for some peepel, everyone is different i know.my teacherr told me that. i was sitting on the playground when  jessie came over to me and u know what, she didn’t do anythin but sit right down next to me and that was relly good. it was plenty, she asked me to play wit her like jump rop or hopsscotch or use   chawk but i didnt want to play or jump rope or hoppscotch.i just wanted someone to know who i wasss and what i was feeling like and jessie was all quiet and she put her arm around my neck and then we both smiled. smiled like we had won the lottery like on tvee or something cuz that is just how it felt. we both felt happy for no reason, well, no special reason at all. after that we held hands an went bakk incide. me and jess, we are best freinds now.

wen i gott home my brooter  said some  baad words and slamme the door an every ones voics were sso loud and screamin. my brother sam, i am, is 14 and hes in some kiind of badd truble, somes ttimes gronups dont listenn enuf but i no something was wronng and when i came baaak from skool, i was not  so hapy anymore andd at leaast i knew tht tmmrrow woud be sccool again  and i woud ssee Jessie aand she wood still be my bestest friendd. so i no thaats  really good an i donnt hav to say a word if i don’nt wan to.

Being A Mom With A Chronic Illness (ChronicBabe carnival)

Image by Praziquantel via Flickr

My goal in life, since I was five years old, was to become a mom.  I thought getting pregnant would be natural and beautiful but it seemed we needed a little help. After two and a half years of painful shots, medication and an every day visit to the infertility clinic  for blood work and ultra-sounds I finally was pregnant. I collapsed to my knees behind the closed-door in my stuffy office and kissed the dirty gray carpet in gratitude. I cried with happiness, one hand already covering my tiny belly.

My son was born and we called him Buddha baby, he never cried, he was always happy, a smiling, compassionate and outgoing kid.  He was my miracle baby, my first born. I went to every baseball game for my son, sitting in the bleachers in the rain, and sneaking away to the car to warm myself up.

My daughter came, naturally, twenty-one months after her brother was born, screaming on top of her lungs as she entered the world. I remember going into her room and lifting this red-faced baby girl to my shoulders, she would take a deep breath and her whole body relaxed into my neck.  I was her only source of comfort when she was a baby. I was there for every ballet lesson and dance recital, holding a bouquet of daisies, her favorite flower, in my arms like I was nestling a newborn baby‘s head.

I did everything for my kids and I loved doing it. This was the career I decided on and I wanted nothing more. I stayed home with them even when they got older because I knew they needed me during the tough middle school years. They would never admit it but they were happy to see me when they got home. Working moms called me “old-fashioned” but I didn’t care.

When I was 50, I went through menopause and my body fell apart. I was diagnosed first with Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, an auto- immune disease. When Synthroid, did not help me at all, I warily shuffled from one doctor to another, every bone and muscle and joint in my body screaming with agony.  My internist had given up on me, she stormed out of the room while I was laying there on the exam table crying in pain.  After visits to many different doctors I was finally diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. I felt like I had the flu, every single day and night, with no fever, my personal definition of Fibromyalgia.

My life changed after that. I became the mom “before” I was sick and the mom “after.” I felt that I was no longer the mom you could always count on. I prefaced everything by saying “If I feel okay that day,” and “I’ll call you the morning of…”  Luckily my children were fourteen and twelve but it was now Dad who got up, made breakfast and lunches and dinner. Me? I was asleep, always asleep and in pain.

I felt lost and sad for years, not being able, physically, to be the mom I once was. Now, I am dropped off at an entrance to anywhere we go  like the handicapped patient I am. I sit alone, on a chair, when all the other parents and children go on a campus tour to see the entire campus. I cannot walk that far. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to my children or a burden for my husband.  I want the kids to remember the mom I was before I was sick but I know they don’t. They probably just remember me as I am today. I am not the mom I was before my illness even though my heart remains unchanged. I am the mom that they have now and because of that I have tremendous guilt and a lot of residual, emotional pain.

Ah, Roommates

Image by Michelle Brea via Flickr

You mean UGH, ROOMMATES? Don’t you?

The one word you or your college student should fear when they get the information from their chosen school is “TRIPLE.” It’s what happened to me when I applied to college, many, many years before Naviance even existed. We applied by mail, we knew the admissions department’s response by the thickness or the thinness of the envelope. Things were different way back then…..as my daughter likes to say “when the dinosaur’s roamed.”

When I was admitted to college I was unfortunate to be assigned to a triple, 3 girls, one small room. Another phrase for that would be “hell on earth.” I was the big city girl, the two others were from teeny, tiny towns, population probably at the 400 mark. I was doomed right from the start.

I was waiting to be let into the dorm, I was the first one in line. It didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t have my choice of beds, why wouldn’t I? I waited, for the official starting time. Rejoice! I could pick the bed I wanted. I went to my assigned room and once there saw someone’s coat and belongings lounging on the single bed. Apparently not every one was as rule conscious as I was. Apparently, since I was the first in line, one of the girls, apparently, had sneaked into the dorm the night before and laid claim to the single bed. I was absolutely stunned, confused and thought that was unfair;  I was also very naive.

The two roommates bonded in an instant, two small town girls with nothing on their minds but boys, boys and well, boys. I found myself sitting outside in the hallway a lot when the two girls were….ummm…entertaining, their individual boyfriends of the week, on their separate beds, together. The hallway floor and my soft blue and white one piece, zip-up robe became friends. The RA (Resident Assistant) couldn’t really do too much about it although she did offer me a seat on her bed once in a rare while.

As soon as I could, I asked for a transfer but it took months. Finally, I had a new roommate that was great but then, after a while, she left. The rest of the short semester I had a single. I loved it, every single, second of it. Call me antisocial, it felt like heaven.

If I Could Go Back in Time

Buttons in a bowl

There’s an internal button that was sewn into my soul when I was a baby, maybe even before I was born. It was a FEAR button which made me very unsure of myself when I was young. I took the easy way out when I could. I didn’t believe in myself and did not have any self-confidence. I needed to grow into that and embrace it. There was a job I interviewed for when I was 22, it was for a Production Assistant. It scared me, to be out and about in NYC getting props. I chose the safer route, the one I knew and I wish I hadn’t. Had I failed more, I would have had more experience but I played it safe. I would change that FEAR button and replace it with TRY.

Dancing With Daughters

Last night I committed a sin, a major sin, according to my 15 and a half-year old daughter. She didn’t tell me in words; she didn’t have to. I was in the bedroom listening to music that I like, feeling happy and I started to dance. Alone. It was just one of those moments when I felt energetic enough to do some minor dancing by myself, Ellen Degeneres style.  Having Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, an auto-immune disease, and Fibromyalgia, I don’t feel this way all too often. Methotrexate, one of the drugs I am taking twice a week is also a total kill joy. That night, however, I was given a break and I celebrated. I felt good!

On the way out of my daughter’s room she passed me, stopped, and gave me the dirtiest look I have received to date, complete with the eye roll upwards and “the look.” You know which look I mean, moms and dads, the look of hate and utter disgust.  Why? I guess because I am a “mom” and  I embarrassed her. To quote my daughter:” it was weird.” Why?  It’s NOT as if all my daughter’s friends were over or that we were in public. I was in my soft, pretty white nightgown that had petite fir- green flowers printed on it (probably the first major mistake) and happily swaying to the music from The Black Eyed Peas. I wasn’t EVEN listening to John Denver or Josh Groban, this was a bona fide group that she likes.

Yet this afternoon when my daughter was asked to go to a movie this evening with her friend, she trudged into my room asking me to give her a few reasons (hint, hint, I don’t want to go) why I wouldn’t “allow” her to go. I suggested a few things which did not suit her, and then she suddenly looks happier and says “I know! I’ll tell her you’re really annoying and that you are freaking out about all the snow we are getting.”  Mission accomplished, glad I could be of help, dear. “You’re welcome” I shouted and she glanced back at me all golden blonde hair swinging down her back, brilliant blue eyes and Forever 21 outfit and replies somewhat sheepishly: “thanks.” No problem.

I know, I know, hormones mixed with the emotional turmoil of having an embarrassing mom (didn’t we all have one of those?”) combined with the separation process. I get it. I understand it on a rational and psychological level. It doesn’t mean I have to like it  but I accept it (face it, what choice do I have?).

The next time my illness or the dreaded Methotrexate medicine gives me a reprieve, I will continue to dance to the music that makes me happy. And when I do, I will wear my 1970’s  faded neon orange T-shirt that my husband gave me and my flannel pink and rose flowered pajama pants. My door will be wide open and my voice will be loud and clear and strong.

Pop Cop: Heidi Montag –Repost

Image via Wikipedia

1/24/2010

Heidi WHO?   There has been a lot of media attention about some actress named Heidi and I have no idea why. Her name and tons of photos of her have been shown relentlessly on TV and articles have been written about her in all the gossip rags. Why? Supposedly, this  TV” star”( and I use that term VERY loosely) recently had ten cosmetic surgical procedures done in one day. She’s getting all this media attention for THAT? Now, won’t that certainly assure her of getting her a star on Hollywood Boulevard…..? Not.

Frankly, I don’t give a crap about Heidi Montag and all her surgeries.  The only people who SHOULD be concerned and involved are her mother, husband, best friend and the psychiatrist she apparently really needs to meet.   I could care less whether Heidi Montag or Jane Fame have ten surgeries in a day,  let them have 20 procedures for all I care. Can’t we just keep it under wraps and not give her this shameful publicity?  In my opinion, I think she needs serious psychiatric help instead of  fame.  I read that she was/is on a tv show with some dude, Spencer Pratt. From what I have read, I thinks she is married to him but there’s a bit of controversy regarding that.  Incredible Hall of Fame. Fabulous resume too.

Heidi,  you famous thing. Apparently you are an actress so why don’t we  just put you in the same category of say, the invincible Meryl Streep while we are at it? The difference? Meryl Streep deserves to be famous; Meryl Streep is an unbelievable actress and a true star. A woman I would be honored to meet, an icon.   Heidi -Who, in my opinion should get help for her mind, not her body. Does anyone else hear the word Dysmorphic syndrome?  And, why, why, when girls are just getting exposed (finally) to full-figured models and “real” women are we showcasing this person?  Think, people, think. Do you think it’s a good message?  Right. NO, it isn’t. I’m all for freedom of speech but really?    TMZ,  I actually really like you but come on, even you?

Heidi, and I quote, says that “she feels like plastic”and basically, she is plastic, from top to bottom and ten times over.   She says she is not addicted to plastic surgery, umm, ok if you say so but I beg to differ. If you want to emulate Barbie, fine. Barbie is a GOOD role model compared to you. She has different types of careers and areas of expertise. She can be a veterinarian or a pilot, or a brain surgeon, a mom or an Olympic gold medalist.

Heidi-Who on the other hand? I’ve got it.  She will be a contender for the silver medal in the Nip/Tuck category of the Olympics. For representing a really bad role model to others,  and a disturbing image of herself.

Calling All Girl Scouts

There’s been a buzz around me and thy name is Girl Scout cookies.  I’ve been hearing  people brag about their recently acquired  Girl Scout cookies, describing the gooey caramel, the coconut flakes, the very minty chocolate, and the lush butter of trefoils. I am not feeling good about it. Isn’t girl scout cookie delivery a spring thing? Could it be that in my area, it’s just a later time zone. Could it be that there ARE NO girl scouts in my neighborhood and we won’t have the chance to linger over the cookie list and fight and choose and then buy them all? That doesn’t seem right.

Do I have such a pathetic life that when I googled Girl Scout Cookie I was thrilled to see that they showed,  actually showed this year’s offerings? What kind of nerd am I?? (Sung to the tune of What Kind of Fool Am I?).  I don’t even like some of the cookies to tell you the truth but I like to be asked, thus my philosophy in life. I don’t want to necessarily do something but I would like to be included, even though I may not want to participate. Just a question of good manners, I say.

I may  put in a few calls to the Girl Scout Cookie Hotline or something like it. I know! Facebook for Girl Scout Cookies? Everything  has a page on Facebook, why not cookies?  Knowing Facebook though, they probably already do.  I just want to know that if my family has been overlooked I could piggy back on another person’s order. Is that too much to ask?  I like seeing those cute little girl scouts with their sweet banners and green outfits with those horrible badges I had to clumsily sew ( or illegally glue)  when my daughter was a daisy, brownie  and a girl scout.  She was crushed when in third grade the Scout leaders wanted a break and there would no be Girl Scouts no more. The parents all secretly applauded.

I remember I would have to do special projects with the girls, all the moms took turns. I was a nervous wreck. Seriously, a Bio-Engineering degree would have been easier for me than that. Yes, it is a bit of an exaggeration but I am not an arts and crafts kind of person. I had to beg my friends to help me out.  I would get impatient at the one girl whose sullen face and refusal to participate made me nuts. All the”” pleases, and “thank you’s”, the cajoling and coaxing, would not budge her. If she wasn’t calling her mom every half hour to be picked up because she had some ache or another, she would refuse to participate and disrupt the class. Even though I adore children, I don’t think I would have been a very good elementary school teacher. This girl was sullen and mean and a brat and not nice to the other girls, except one (and she couldn’t get her to participate either) .  Eventually her parents put her in private school and from what I have heard, it worked out well. Being a member of  the Girl Scout troop?  Not quite the team player she should have been.

So, to all the Girl Scout members out there, please come to our house. We would love to buy cookies from you. I know the fights between my children will ensue. My son will buy “his own”, my daughter will  buy “her own”, and my husband and I will just buy a few to be good neighbors. I would be happy to support the  Girl Scouts and participate. Except if THAT one girl comes to my door again, I will steal a line from Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi and say: “No cookies FROM YOU!”