RIP Rant

             

RIP, Gary Marshall.

Seriously? That's all you've got? For the man who brought us The Odd Couple and Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and Mork and Mindy and The Princess Diaries and even had that part in Hocus Pocus, that's all you've got?

Come on! My childhood memories are full of him. My children's childhood memories are full of him. He brought laughter and smiles to millions of people, and all you've got is an acronym that sounds like a fart?

And what about this guy?

I suppose for Alan Rickman, maybe you have a POOP? Peace, Ovations, Obsequies, and Prayers?


For Mya Angelo, something more poetic might be called for.

We'll give her BARF. Benediction, Applause, Respect, and Fondness.

If you can't tell, I hate the RIP. Hate, hate, hate it. It's is the laziest manner of recognition ever created. You know who uses it? People who want to be the first ones on social media to acknowledge the death of some big name star. I wonder how many David Bowie RIP-ers could name more than one of his songs? What about Joan Rivers and James Garner and Robin Williams? If you enjoyed the lifetime of talent and hard work and dedication these folks shared with you, don't they deserve more than the gallant effort you put forth to type three letters?

You know what's worse? When I see social media posts where regular people post RIPs for other regular people. Especially when those RIP-ers are eagerly opening their apps to be the first. I have learned of the death of more than one acquaintance or former school mate from someone's over-zealous use of the Facebook RIP. Most often those RIPs come from other acquaintances or former school mates, not the close friends and families of the deceased. You know why? The close friends and family members are actually grieving, not rushing to FB to get social media attention for their ability to type three letters.

If you need to recognize the passing of a celebrity or loved one, how about sharing a memory? How about listing your favorite things about that person? How about asking others to share as well? Wouldn't that be a better tribute? If you can take the time to tell the social media world when you have a hacking cough or need a drink or how a driver cut you off or where your potty-training kid urinated today or what an ass your ex-spouse is, can't you take the time to offer a comment of appreciation for the dead.

In conclusion, let me ask this one thing of you. When my Maker calls me, I beg of you, please do not RIP me.

10 Reasons I'm Dreading Back to School

I want to be ready. I really do. But the answer is no on every single level. I am not ready for Back to School. I don't even feel like thinking about getting ready. All the television ads keep telling me I should be overjoyed to be send the kids back to school. There must be something wrong with me because I'm just not feeling it.

Top 10 Reasons I'm dreading Back to School:

10. We are not morning people. Even with a daily caffeine overdose, my brain doesn't work until at least 10:00 a.m.. During the school year, I'm out of bed a 5:30. Because I can't jump right out of bed like my mother who thought it was a great idea to start her children's day out blaring opera, I push snooze at least 5 times before I flop my lifeless body out from under the covers and slither to the shower like a dying snake. 5:30 a.m. in house full of night owls is ugly. Pure ugly.

9. Homework: Teachers assign too much of that crap. It's a ridiculously impossible mountain designed to produce panic attacks, fits of frustration, low self-esteem, temptation to cheat, and general FML pity parties. And that's just for the parents.

8. Lunch: The guilt associated with forgetting to load up the lunch account and hitting snooze so many times that you don't have time to pack a lunch and neither do they can drive a parent to drink.

7. Socks: From August to may, there is no such thing as a pair of matching socks. Is there anything that puts a nail in the coffin of your day before you even walk out the door like having to wear mismatched socks?

6. Math

5. Permission Slips: They are forever being lost in the black hole of the back pack. Is teaching your kids to forge your signature considered bad parenting?

4.Late Night Laundry:There must be an unwritten rule that whatever uniform or favorite jeans or spirit shirt my child needs for the next day won't be located until 10:30 at night in the bottom of a hamper.

3. Special Project Supplies: I guess it's not that big of a deal that I'm doing laundry in the middle of the night because I am probably going to have to run to Walmart anyway for the special sized poster board and e colored marker that no one told me they needed until after we located the favorite jeans in the bottom of the hamper.

2. Young Love: Teenage boys are cruel and teenage girls are crazy.

1. And the number 1 reason I'm dread Back To School this year--My youngest two have only two years left. I can't bear the thought of all of my babies leaving home. What on earth will I do at 10:30 on a Wednesday night with no socks to match, no uniform to wash, no markers to buy, no permission slips to sign, no heartbreak to mend, no homework to finish?

I can't believe it's almost over. It really did go by too fast.

When Your Kids Don't Need You Anymore

She was about five when she tied her shoe by herself for the first time. I smiled, all teary, at her and said, "Pretty soon you aren't going to need me anymore."

She gave me a giant hug and said, "But Mommy, I'll always use you!"

I hope it's true. I hope they always, always use me. That way at least I'll feel like they need me for something.

This week I listened proudly as my oldest daughter told me about her job interview with a company that is looking to expand. She excitedly explained how she was the right one for the job. She knows what they need to do to succeed and is confident in her ability to make it happen--all while she's planning a wedding and raising her two-year-old son.

My second daughter drove herself all over the Mid-west like it was no big deal. From Kansas to Oklahoma to Dallas to New Mexico. No big deal. Now she's in LA, where she knows almost no one, training to accomplish her life's dream. No big deal.

My son (my baby) drove himself all over--well, not the Midwest--but far enough for this Mom, anyway. He also decided he'd teach himself to play the guitar. Two weeks and TEN SONGS later, he's already performing for family and friends.

My 17-yr-old flew unaccompanied half-way across the country. Her first tweet from San Francisco informed the world that she was never coming back. She's already chosen her California college. Just last week, she insisted she was attending a Kansas university only 3 hours away. That was enough to kill me. Now it's San Francisco.

No. Big. Deal.

Here's the flip side.

Just this week my oldest daughter just had to call me all excited about this new job opportunity, so she could discuss with me the pros and cons. My second daughter cried in my arms as she mourned the loss of a dear friend. She knew I understood. My son didn't need me to nag him to practice the guitar, but still required some gentle persuasion to do his homework. My senior texted me all jealous that my first Instagram picture was of her brother--not her. ( I also know she's quietly excited that I'm redo-ing her room for her while she's gone--just in case she does decide to come back.)

There is a definite longing for younger days when your young-uns gain their independence. There is a tugging at the heart, a sort-of-happy sadness. It sucks. And it's beautiful.

Watch out all you Moms of Toddlers. There will come a day when they no longer need you. I guess the good news is, they will always use you.

UPDATE: As I write this, I just received a picture from my second daughter of the latest long underarm hair craze because, apparently, she's jumped on this bandwagon. I'm shipping her an assortment of razors and shaving cream first thing tomorrow, along with a sternly worded note to have some self-respect and consideration for the folks around her. I guess maybe sometimes they need us more than they know. If only so we can help them help themselves. Roaring Mom to the rescue once again!!

The Best Thing I've Ever Done

As a mom, I get it wrong a lot! 

I got it wrong when I gave my daughter permission to get her nose pierced just because I was mad at her dad.

I got it wrong when I let my kids quit piano, or so they have told me repeatedly.

I got it wrong when I told my daughter she wasn't sick, she just didn't want to go to ballet. And then she puked in the van on the way to ballet.

Every now and again, however, I get it right.

My son's favorite music artist was going to be in concert in Kansas City. He had to go! I agreed and bought the tickets.

The thing about living as a single mom on a teacher's salary...well, I'm a single mom living on a teacher's salary.

The day arrived, I filled up the gas tank and carefully budgeted for the trip. By budgeted, I mean we stayed at the cheapest motel I could find. The view included what my son referred to as a "rape van" just outside our door. You know--big, white (even the windows painted white). But the room seemed clean enough and the bars on the windows of the little check-in office made me feel really safe...as long as I was standing in the little check-in office.

We checked in, got ready, ran past the rape van to the car, dined at the Hardees Drive-through, and headed to the Power and Light District where I proceeded to show my son around to all the restaurants he would have had the option of patronizing if his dad had taken him to the concert. We meandered our way past the Fred Phelps clan and their "God hates Great Britain" signs, pausing only for my son to ask them, "Is that all of Great Britain, or just certain parts?"

We found our seats and the concert started. Just a boy and his guitar--Ed Sheeran took the stage.

My son was clearly impressed, enthralled, enthused, and cool. I, however, lost it.

Here I was sharing this moment with my son. It was his first time to see in person the artist who inspired him to pick up a guitar, who let him understand that sharing the gift of his voice was okay, even noble. Here was my son in the presence of his inspiration, and I was there, too.

I sat back and watched a boy and his guitar, and a boy and his inspiration and a thought--from somewhere outside of me--entered my psyche, and I knew it was the best thing I've ever done with and for my son.

It was better than the times I made his sister stop forcing him to play dress up. It was better than when I took him to the batting coach because I didn't know a thing about baseball. It was better than risking having a stroke because I finally relented and tried to teach him how to drive.

It was just a concert, but it was also a moment--the kind that you never forget.

It didn't happen the way I wanted. I wish I could have made it more, made it better. But in the end, it was the best thing I've ever done.

Movies Make Good Memories

Our children cannot escape media!!

As a mom and a teacher of teens, I have to tell you that most of what media offers is crap—terrifying, humiliating, soul sucking, IQ lowering, demoralizing crap.

Nevertheless, what is on media is also woven throughout the fabric of our lives. Celebrating Independence Day last week helped me realize it’s okay. In fact, it can be celebratory, educational, inspirational, laughter inducing, memory making stuff. You see, while my kids enjoyed blowing stuff up, their celebration was not complete without partaking in our traditional patriotic movie time! 

I first knew my oldest would be an actress when at 4 years old, she berated me consistently for not being able to recite all of the lines correctly from certain scenes of The Wizard of Oz and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

My second oldest was a sickly toddler. She had sky-high fevers. We would have to cool her down with cold wet rags. It was pretty awful for her, but she was always, without fail, calmed and comforted by one movie—Dumbo. The song Dumbo’s mom sings to comfort him become my baby’s nighttime lullaby.

My third daughter wasn't sickly, but she cried for the first 2 years of her life. Not colicky, just stubborn and serious. Her calming comfort came in the video of the Broadway musical Cats. We’re still not sure if she was terrified or mesmerized at Macavity's red eyes. But, hey, she quit crying for an hour, so…

Looking back, I can’t believe I let my little boy watch Lord of the Rings at 5 years old. That’s pretty violent stuff for a little guy. His dad actually let him miss a day of kindergarten to go see Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. Yep, that’s the one where Anakin kills all the younglings and then his wife. It was quite a graduation from his first favorite—Toy Story. And by favorite I mean that by age three, he embodied Buzz Lightyear and had a collection of action figures to rival Disneyland.

Even today, as my oldest introduces her toddler to Hollywood, we hold our movie traditions dear. Independence Day can’t happen without a viewing of 1776. Halloween can’t pass without Hocus Pocus. Christmas is decorated with every holiday clay animation film ever made. In fact, not too many dinner table conversations pass without someone quoting Galaxy Quest or The Sword and the Stone or SpongeBob or Indiana Jones or Pirates of the Caribbean, or even (to my deep disappointment) Anchor Man.

So maybe the ubiquitous media isn't all bad. Still, I do very often wish they’d get their faces out of their phones so they can actually experience life, or at least long enough to watch a good movie.

Here's a short movie for you. The clip shows what is probably her 500th viewing a favorite movie. We take our cinema seriously. BTW--we're beautiful criers, aren't we? 

Watch This

Brainiac, Smarty Pants, or Class Weirdy?

It only takes about five minutes in the presence of my nephew for me to know that I am not smarter than a 6th grader. Of course, I felt the same when he was 7, only I was not smarter than a 2nd grader. I'm not smarter than his little sister either. I often marvel at his mother and how she's able to stay sane raising not only 1, but 2 children with a genius IQ.

Then there's my other sister who held a Smarty Farty Party for her kids last year. All of them had straight A's! Great! Not only are they are highly achieving brainiacs, but they host a mean party, too!

Nothing like a little family bragging to make a Roaring Mom feel...adequately average.

Don't get me wrong. Although we're not brainiacs, we do have our strong points. After all, the FrankandCarmen were valuable members of their Scholar's Bowl team. They always knew the correct answer to questions like Who sang the song "Hey, Jude"? or What's the only animated musical to win an Oscar for Best Picture? Apparently, Pop Culture is our thing.

I still remember the day Sophie came home from school quite disturbed. "Is it bad," she asked, "when you make an obscure movie reference and the only kid who gets it is the class weirdy?" Then her sibling answered, "I thought you were the class weirdy."

At least we know our place. Well, some of us do. We're still working on Sophie.

So, in honor of my brilliantly average-but-stuffed-to the brim-with-useless-knowledge-brained kids, here's a Roaring Moms Useless Knowledge Pop Culture Quiz for all you brainiacs out there. Go ahead, give it a try. You, too, could be a class weirdy and you just don't know it! It takes a perfect score to be a Class Weirdy. Otherwise, you're just a regular brainiac. Sorry, but what's the fun in that?

1. What is Princess Leia's birthplace?
2. Who is Miss Piggy's true love?
3. What was Johnny Depp's first role?
4. The number 300 from the movie of the same name stands for what?
5. Who says, "You are a sad, strange little man..."
6. What color is Mace Windu's lightsabre?
7. What is Drake and Josh's sister's favorite nickname for them?
8. What's the most wonderful thing about Tigger?
9. What happened to Max on the night he wore his wolf suit?
10. Why does the Jayhawk fly backwards?
11. Who wears number 1 on the Women's USA soccer team?
12. Which one of the Golden Girls is from St. Olaf?
13. What was Nanny Fran's previous occupation?
14. How many Lego pieces is in the Millennium Falcon set?
15. Whose motto is "Never Give Up! Never Surrender!"?
16. When does a wizard arrive?
17. What's the name of Ron's Weasley's rat?
18. In what years did KU win the NCAA Basketball championship?
19. What is the secret ingredient in the Krabby Patty Formula?
20. Oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where...is my hairbrush?

'Twas the Night Before the First Day of School

My adult daughter calls from 2 states away needing a copy of her birth certificate yesterday! Apparently, in Chicago, you can't be employed without a proof of birth. (Interesting that Illinois is Obama's former political play yard, but that's another blog.) So I'm sifting and sorting through 20 yrs of immunization cards, report cards, baptismal certificates, and soccer photos desperate to locate the one stinking piece of paper that refuses to show itself!

The phone rings again and Sophie needs that one notebook with the scholarship info in it that she told me to store for her 5 months ago. And she needs it now, please. Could I just get that for her?

Just then the Frankencarmen bursts through the door. In harmony they yell, "Mom, where's my rosary?" and "Mom, where's my PE clothes?" And I yell back, "I lose my keys five times a day, every day and misplace my purse on a regular basis. How the hell do I know where your crap is?!"

But not really. Instead, I reach for the brand new bottle of Tums that was on the coffee table five minutes ago, I swear. And once I find that, I'm tracking down my sanity before searching for anything else. I think I'm gonna need it.

It Was a Dud!

I refuse to spend one penny on stuff to blow up! Call me an Independence Day Scrooge, but I just won't do it. It makes absolutely no sense to spend money on something that has the potential to blow my child's hand off, turns my alien beast dog into a crazed barking machine, and raises my blood pressure. So this year I set out to have a Quiet Independence Day.

It started out as just the most lovely day. Our neighborhood hosted its annual parade. It was a fun little five minutes. The parade is filled with big kids on riding lawn mowers, small kids on bicycles, toddlers in wagons and puppies on leashes. Everything is decked out in patriotic ribbons, banners, and balloons. The highlight of the parade--Popsicles!! They are distributed at the end to all the participants, which makes the paraders ride even faster, so, yeah, the parade lasts about 5 minutes. I missed it one year because I went into the garage to find a lawn chair. By the time I emerged, the only things I saw on the street outside my house were few overlooked Tootsie Rolls thrown from a John Deer and some Shih Tzu droppings.

So far, so good. I had smiled through the first few minutes of my Quiet Independence Day! Then I watched some war movies, enjoyed the televised musical 1776 and...that's it.

Huh. Wow. I had set out to have a quiet celebration and I had succeeded. It was a Roaring Mom first! Not much of what I set out to do ever goes as planned, especially celebrations! Immediately I thought of Sophie's 10th birthday party at the park that had ended up with little girls covered in sticker burrs, being chased by bees. Then there was Frank's party with the Pirates of the Caribbean treasure chest pinata. It was pouring down rain, so the chest was placed on the family room for and all the little "pirates" took turns pounding it with their plastic swords. There was the time I burned my fingertips off cooking a Christmas ham and the Easter we found a few of last year's eggs in the back yard. And those were just the tip of the iceberg disasters!

This year had gone just as planned and you know what...it was boring! Where was the excitement, the noise, the celebration? Without fireworks, July 4th was just another insignificant, boring, lazy day! As a proud American, I failed! Our forefathers deserve more! America deserves more! I deserve more! By sitting on my butt and refusing to participate, my July 4th was a far worse disaster than a soggy pinata or bumble bee-infested birthday cake.

Fireworks don't make America great, but our traditions do. Wrecked plans make memories and quiet is dull. Never again will I miss out on the Crash! Bam! Boom! (or even the 5 minute parade) of celebrating our independence and our great nation! In fact, our Independence should be celebrated every day. It's true that freedom isn't free. Independence isn't accidental. So light a firework, fly a flag, raise a glass...vote! Even if it raises your blood pressure!

How did you spend your Independence Day? I hope you made a great big, loud, messy memory!

From last year's parade when I wasn't sitting on my butt doing nothing.

You Know What Sucks?

It's one of those phrases often spoken in our house. Actually, it's often projected, spat or yelled in disgust, frustration, and annoyance. "You know what sucks?" And because we are a brood of smart alecs, someone always answers, "Yeah, a vampire." "A vacuum?" "Your face?!" (Aren't we lovely?) I've recently, however, discovered a  better answer, a real answer. It's answer I will probably never admit to my kids because it's a little too real.

What sucks is when you realize that your philosophy for daily living is completely flawed.

For decades now, my philosophy has been to never be the reason another person feels bad. I've lectured this message to my kids many times. It's been a couple of years now that I've understood the flaw in that belief. It's too much responsibility. It has only been recently that I've truly understood the consequences of parenting through this philosophy. Athough I DON'T want to be the reason someone else feels bad, I can't take on the responsibility of never ever doing anything that will result in disappointment for someone else. I also can't take away any and all possibility of hardship or stress for my kids so that they never have to experience it. That's what we want to do, isn't it? We want to make it all okay, so they never experience heartbreak, failure, loss, When we do that, however, we set up ourselves and our children for a whole lot of what sucks--namely, real life consequences.

I distinctly remember my senior year when I had once again taken on way more than I could handle. I was in charge of a whole lot of Homecoming stuff that HAD to be completed by Friday before kickoff. I remember literally shaking and crying my way through the school day because I knew it would never all get done. I rushed home after school to find that my mom had been very busy that day. She had taken care of everything. I cried with relief and was able to enjoy my Homecoming! That is such a strong memory for me. My mom put out my fire without my even having to ask. She just knew. She created relief, joy, contentment for me. For two decades I'm been trying to recreate that feeling from the other side of the parent/child relationship. That moment of relief was so strong that I completely forgot about all the other life lessons my Mom taught me.

I forgot about the "grounded one day for every minute you're late" lesson. I forgot about the" anything that needs to be said can be said in a 15 minute phone conversation" lesson. And the related "it can also be said on the family phone in front of the parents" lesson. I forgot about the "if you didn't have time to do homework, I guess you have too much social life" lesson. I forgot about the "any boy who wants to spend time with you must want to spend time with the family too" lesson. I forgot about th e"later you get home Saturday, the earlier Church starts on Sunday" lesson. I certainly forgot about the" only clothes that make it the laundry room get washed" lesson as well as the "I cooked the meal, you do the dishes" lesson. I even forgot about the" you want the pet, feed the pet" lesson.

So you know what really sucks? When you realize that all the things you said you'd never do when you had kids of your own, you really should have done all along. I guess the consolation is that since it took 40 years for me to realize that my mom actually did know what she was doing, maybe it will take that long for my kids to realize that I don't! I think I've got them fooled, for the most part.

Or  maybe I'm wrong about that, too. If so, that would really suck!

*#@%!

Have you heard of the latest TV controversy? Little Asian girl with two gay dad parents speaks bleeped-out F-word!

I'm not kidding. That's the issue they are up in arms over now. Seriously. No, seriously.

So you must know that I am NOT a fan of childhood cursing. In fact, I fought diligently against the occurrence of it in my own home. I fought diligently...and lost. In fact, I'm still losing. Thanks to Kate.

Kate discovered the cruse word early. She also discovered the effect it had on her poor, saintly mother's virgin ears. Nothing could derail a good nag like Kate's well-timed cursing. Of course, it only derailed me onto a separate but equally emotional anti-curse word nag. For some reason, which I have yet to uncover, the anti-curse word tirade didn't bother Kate. In fact, it humored her. She found my consternation hilarious. And so did her younger siblings. None of them dared ever utter the mother-of-all-curse words, but Kate would more than utter. She would proudly proclaim. And they would giggle. Then, when they were a little older, they would laugh outright. Once they all started laughing outright, it was all over. Their belly laughs are more contagious than the stomach flu. No matter how I tried to resist, I would laugh, too.

I completely understand the mixed message I was sending. Believe me, I truly tried to refrain. But she's so damn funny! I mean...She's so stinking funny!

I had them convinced that although their stand-up comic sister might indulge in profanity for a laugh, Mom was above that. I'm pretty sure I had them convinced that not only did I not stoop to that level for laughter, I didn't go there for any reason and neither should they. A stubbed toe resulted in a bellowed, "Sugar!" A frustrated moment called for a teeth-clenched "Fudgesicles!"

Then it happened.

I was driving down Kellogg and talking to the Quiet and Calculating one on the phone. I was in the middle lane with big ol' trucks barreling down on either side of me. On the road in front of me was...something. I can't even remember now, but it was big and dangerous looking and there was no way around it. I prepared for impact, gripped the wheel with the one free hand and (in the words of my Grandma Nina, rest her soul) hollered, "Shit!"

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Just like that.

A few seconds later, I had driven right over whatever obstacle had so inopportunely scared the shit out of me. I was mortified and immediately began apologizing all over myself that my baby girl had to hear such language from her mother and did she forgive me and that was so wrong of me and...wait. What was that sound coming through the phone? Yep, this time the contagious belly laugh was all for me.

It's so true that they get it from us, isn't it? They get our good looks, our sense of humor, and sometimes even our bad habits. In no way do I condone toddler cursing. Teen cursing isn't so great, either. But of all the truly bad crap on TV, this might not be the issue to cry over. My guess is that her fathers will be as mortified as I was and try in numerous comical ways to place blame and then fix the problem--just like real life parents.


You know I remember when the big issue with Modern Family would not have been the fact that the little Asian girl cursed, but that her two gay dads were...well, two gay dads. Thank goodness the viewing public got over that condescention. I'm pretty sure--if we all work really f*%#ing hard--we can get past this issue, too.

My First Best Friend

                                                                            
My first best friend died last week. Our lives had drifted apart years ago. So, I was surprised at the inundating wave of emotions that overtook me on hearing the news. A hundred visions of two innocent girls, giggling and singing and dreaming flooded my heart. Memories of honest, young friendship before the interference of peer pressure and cliques and gossip and boys washed over me. I let the idea of the scarcity of it all, the inevitable fading of it sink in. And suddenly I didn't want it to fade. I wanted a way to hold onto that part of myself, that part of my friend.

I searched old photo albums for visual reminders of that beautiful time. There they were-- a handful of birthday party pictures, a First Communion photograph, a school portrait with her handwritten note on the back. I studied every detail of these treasures and began to understand the importance of a First Best Friend.

A First Best Friendship may be one of the most important places where our formation of spirit begins and grows. Without the pressure of societal expectations, we learn acceptance and sharing and forgiveness and compassion in a way that imprints our souls.

At her funeral, I saw dozens of images of the woman My First Best Friend had become. I stared at the collages of family events, sorority sisters, and high school activities. At the ceremony, I listened to the amazing life she'd lived after college. I learned how she had created an exciting career that lead her to fun places where she impacted the lives of who knows how many people.

And I began to feel cheated.

My First Best Friend, who had been by my side at every single birthday party until I turned 12 and my family moved away, who had pretended to be Charlie's Angels with me, who had worn matching First Communion gowns with me, who had shared an early girlhood dream of becoming famous singers with me had blessed my life for such a very short time. Most everyone else in attendance there had experienced her joy for a lifetime.

Sitting at the back of that same church the where the two of us had learned the Hail Mary and Our Father and tasted our first Eucharist, I looked at all the sad faces. I recognized a few other childhood friends whose families had stayed in our small hometown. These were the girls who shared with my First Best Friend the experiences that take us from girl to woman. They cheered for the same football team and maybe even dated the same quarterback. They shared a first Prom and possibly a first After-Prom Kegger. They experienced boy-craziness and basketball tournaments. They walked across the same graduation stage.

I saw the grief of her family who had shared a lifetime of Christmases and family vacations. I recognized her older sister whom My First Best Friend has admired even as a young girl. I saw her brother whom she'd held a ferocious protecting love for, even when we were kids.

And I began to feel selfish.

Who was I to grieve? I couldn't really say I missed having her in my life. I hadn't seen her for decades. These people shared a lifetime with her. I was intruding on their celebration of her life and mourning of her death. It was not my place to cry at her absence. It was not my place to comfort her parents. And yet my heart still ached. Later, at the cemetery, this most unexpected mix of emotions still tumbled around inside me while I approached her parents. Her father hugged me like a long lost daughter and her mother thanked me over and over again for coming.

And I began to feel blessed.

God places  a few exceptional people in this world. One of them was My First Best Friend. She imprinted her life on mine at a time and an age when our unadulterated souls are most open to the lessons of the love of friendship. I distinctly remember, even at so young an age, wanting to be a better person when I was in her presence. Now, knowing the woman she became and the friend she was to so many, I want to be a better person, still. When God places exceptional people like Sharla Kae in my life, no matter how short the time, how can I not feel blessed?

Opera Lunch

The following should be read in a very high, vibrating, operatic voice:

"Please come and eat your lunch!
I've made a meal you'll love a bunch.
Hot Dogs and Mac and Cheese!
Wash your hands, first please!"

Ok, so I'm no Andrew Lloyd Weber. Heck, I'm not even a Dr. Seuss! But, apparently, I am the original (and possibly the one and only) Opera Lunch Mom.

Opera Lunch was invented when my youngest 2 were still in diapers. It was born out of a moment of sheer desperation. Here's what happened:

You know how they whine because they are hungry and you, being the Roaring Mom you are, won't allow them to have a snack because you actually have lunch planned that day and you are determined to stick to the schedule because some Super-Anal Mom made you feel guilty last week about the fact the her entire life is condensed neatly into a day timer, even down to when Little Susie sits on the pot? You know those times? Well, this was one of those times. So I bear the bickering and complaining, and I stick to the schedule. As planned, I fix the lunch that's on the menu exactly at the time that I am supposed to. I set the table and distribute the portions precisely. Then, I walk calmly to the play room and invite the precious, darlings to head to the bathroom to wash hands because lunch is served. But, once again, I must be speaking Swahili, because no one moves. No one even acknowledges my presence.

So, I try the deep breathing, the counting to ten, the Love and Logic questions. "Would you like to eat your lunch or would you like to go hungry?" Only I know that I could never let them go hungry, because...because...well, because that wasn't part of the plan. I was actually on time and organized and prepared today and, dang it, they are going to sit at the table I prepared and eat the lunch I cooked for them.

I feel the frustration waxing and my patience waning and I wonder if Little Susie's mom ever speaks Swahili and then I remember that's a big NO, because the entire family (even the newborn) takes French lessons Wednesdays at 10:00! I want to yell. I want to throw something. I want to take away every toy that is sucking their attention from the bountiful feast I so lovingly heated in the microwave!

Then, like an epiphany from on high, Opera Lunch is created. I sing, with all the volume and vibrato I can muster, that lunch awaits them in the kitchen. They giggle. I belt Verse 2! They belly laugh and follow me to the kitchen. Then, to my amazement, one of them belts out, "Can I have some ketchup pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" And so goes the entire meal! And several more for the rest of the summer.

Opera Lunch mutated many times that summer. Sometimes it was the Getting Ready for Bed Opera. Sometimes it was the Wash the Dishes Opera. We even had a Get Your Hiney Out of Bed Opera.

Someone asked me the other day why 2 of my 4 kids enjoyed performing so much. I told them it was because they had such a dork for a mom. Then I explained Opera Lunch. The guy rolled his eyes and said, "That's weird." And it probably is. But it's also much better than a summer of memories of a frustrated, guilt-ridden  Yelling Mom trying desperately to succeed as Super-Anal Mom when she just isn't. She's Opera Lunch Mom. And, even though her kids are teens, she still speaks Swahili. And she didn't even have to go to class to learn it.

Take that, Super-Anal Mom!

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Today's Topic:

Things that make my family smile, laugh, giggle, chortle, and grin.

Veggie Tales (Even though we've outgrown them years ago.)
Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog
Opera Lunch (Not Lunch at the Opera, but singing opera while eating lunch! Try it.)
Chocolate (except for Sophie, but we laugh at how she doesn't like it so that's a double)
Ribs (The kind you eat and the kind you tickle!)
Painting Pumpkins at Auntie M's!
Eating Mud (Only Sophie and she was 3, but still)
Corny Jokes
Musical Theatre
Pizza
Bert and Ernie
Jeff Dunham
Bon Jovi (Okay, that's just me)
"Climbin' in Yo Window, Snatchin' Yo People Up..." (Please tell me you know what that means.)
Yoda
Han Solo (Me, again)
Princess Leia in that bikini chained to Jabba (Yeah, that's Frank)
Pirates of the Caribbean
Really Cool Shoes
Really Cool Shoes on Sale (even bigger smile)
Winning board games (Carmen: "I'm not cheating, I'm winning!)
Spongebob Squarepants
Fake Accents,especially when they fail (That's Kate, my comic acting major)
Snowball Fights
Oscar, the Stupid Alien Beast disguised as our pet dog
Random, obscure movie quotes
Kate's really inappropriate language (She has a way with words!)
Legos!
My Homemade Spaghetti and Meatballs (The only thing I can cook)


What makes your family smile? Please add your comments to this blog so we can smile with you.

While you're smiling, please take a minute to click on the blue butterfly to the left and vote for me! And, please, invite your friends and family to vote, too. I'm in a contest to become the next Good Mood Blogger! I need about 100 votes each day to make it to the next round of competition. It's a great opportunity for me and getting it would really make my family smile, laugh, giggle, chortle, and grin. Thank you so much for your support!

My Favorite Breast Cancer Survivor

When the Quiet and Calculating one was a baby, I stopped singing for church services. My older kids went to Catholic school, which meant daily mass. On Fridays, all grades attended together and I helped out my songleading. But when my third daughter was born, that came to a stop. As did everything else in my life that required me to be more than 10 feet away from her.

You know when the baby is brand new, sweet and cuddly, soft and huggy, and all your friends and neighbors offer to babysit so you can take a nap or clean your house or take the other kids to a park or go out with your husband? And you know how you never take them up on it because you realize they don't really mean it anyway? Well, I took them up on it. I had no choice. With this baby, we went through "sitters" faster than we went through diapers.

She was a crier! She cried for the neighbors who so lovingly offered to keep her one night. At the end of the evening, the wife said, "She might be coming down with something. She was a little fussy." The husband added, in a very matter of fact tone, "She screamed for two hours." She cried for Grandma. Her dad and I had to get doggy bags before our food even made it to the table on the one and only time Grandma tried "sitting" with the baby. She even cried for the "Super Sitter" who had babysat all the cousins for years. And we're talking dozens of cousins! She'd never met a baby who didn't worship her. Until Quiet and Calculating came along.

So when the school asked when I was coming back to help sing, I explained to them it was impossible. The baby wouldn't allow it. That's when my new best friend, Sally Cannata, stepped forward and offered to hold her at church so I could sing. I'm not sure if it was the chance to have someone else hold her for even one hour that got me back to church or  the inability to say no, but I gave it a try. And you know what happened? My baby LOVED Sally. Loved her. Didn't make a peep. In fact, she may have actually giggled a time or two.

I am soooooo blessed that Sally loved my baby back because Sally became my go-to girl. She watched my baby so I could go to the dentist or get a haircut. She watched her while I volunteered in my children's classroom or attended their extra curricular events. Once, when I had Strep Throat, she even watched her just so I could rest. And when I had out-of-town engagements, Sally watched all 3 of my girls for 2 or 3 days at a time! And when we added a son to our family, she took him in, too. And Sally had 3 kids of her own.

My baby girl and Sally developed a special bond. My daughter called her "My Nata" and still refers to her that way today. My children still remember the good times in Sally's care. They always came home with fabulous crafts, and tummies full of home baked cookies, as well as stories full of laughter. Her love for my children is woven into the fabric of our lives.

Sally is a true friend. How many of those are we lucky enough to have in this life? I'm not talking about the ones who can be counted on to be there when the going's good. I'm talking about the ones who truly give from the heart. The ones with a heart so big that the giving is endless.

Before I knew Sally, she had survived breast cancer. She was only 38 when she was diagnosed. I didn't know her then, but I can imagine how she battled the disease. I've never seen her face a hardship with anything other than strength, grace, and humor. No wonder my crier was no threat to her. Sometimes, when I witness the calm determination and the witty humor and the big heart of my baby girl (who's now almost 13) I have to believe when Sally loved my daughter, she instilled in her these great gifts.

I don't know why my baby girl was so fussy with everyone else. But when Sally came along, I think my daughter recognized the heart of a great warrior and the smile of a compassionate friend. She recognized someone a lot like the young woman she would grow up to be.

Thank you, Sally, for sharing yourself with my family. You have truly blessed our lives.

If you have a favorite Breast Cancer Survivor, please share her name here so we can all add her to our prayers of gratitude.

Botched Birthday

It was the worst birthday party ever.

Of course, because that's the way my sitcom of a life goes, the disaster occurred at the birthday party of my one child who plans everything in excruciating detail--four months in advance. With multiple lists. And week by week schedules of tasks to be completed.

Sophie chose her favorite part of the park for the celebration. She even coerced her siblings into making signs to guide the mothers around to the party place. Since her birthday is in September, outdoor parties for her were not uncommon. The year of her 9th birthday, however, it was uncommonly hot. And, of course, she chose the one playground area with extremely limited tree coverage. Here's how it went down:

The first activity on the agenda was free play while the parents set up the picnic table and games. The guests were very excited when they arrived and played for about 15 minutes before discovering why this particular playground had been the last one in the park not claimed by anyone else that day. And no, it wasn't the excruciating heat with no shade relief. Instead, it was the way the cockle burrs had completely taken over the entire playground area. After 15 minutes of free play, the girls ran over all in a tizzy over the stickers sticking in their socks and on their shoe strings. They started picking them off, which escalated the tizzy to a torrent of shrieks as the sticker picking pricked their digits.

Attempting to stay on track with Sophie's time schedule, we ushered the guests to the picnic table where pie tins of whipped cream awaited them. Inside each tin was a piece of bubble gum. The ideas was to dive face first into the whipped cream and find the bubble gum. The first one to blow a bubble wins the game.

Ready, Set, Go! The girls dive in! And so do the swarm of bumble bees who apparently found the party game too sweet to resist. The girls run...across the prickly stickers...to the bathrooms to wash off the stickiness. The parents dispose of the pie tins and grab the pinata in a last ditch effort to save the party. Everyone loves a good pinata.

Back come the guests, through the prickly stickers. The pounding of the pinata proceeds. Yes! No one pokes an eye out. Everyone gets a turn. The last girls busts it open and the candy flies.

Ok, push pause for just a second. A little note about Sophie...she doesn't like chocolate. Another genetic mutation, I'm sure. We love her anyway. Although she had given me a specific list of what she wanted in the pinata, I decided that just because Sophie doesn't like chocolate, doesn't mean the guests should be deprived. I had filled that sucker full with miniature chocolate bars. And a few fruit snacks for the birthday girl. Ok, resume...

As the flying candy hit the prickly sticker covered ground, it landed with a splat. After all, this day set the record high temperature for September. The guests opted out of the melted chocolate finger pricking pick up game.

So the parents plucked more stickers from socks and shoelaces. Sophie opened her presents. And the guests got the heck out of there.

Still, I don't remember one crying kid or or any drama queen huffing or puffing. Amid the bloody finger tips and bumble bee swarms and wasted chocolate, there was laughter and friendship. We still laugh about that birthday, especially when things aren't going quite as we've planned. Which, if you've read even a few Roaring Mom entries, you know is most of the time.

We don't remember what candy was inside any other pinata we've ever busted open. We don't remember the exact location of many a park party. We don't recall all the silly games we convinced our friends to dive into over the years. But we remember all of that and more from the Botched Birthday. We remember the smiles and the fun. We remember that it was a Happy Birthday. Probably one of the best birthday parties ever.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful girls! And many, many more!