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She could have totally kicked my ass….

I am not really sure why I feel absolutely compelled to write this post – right now. 

But I do.

So I will.

Maybe today one of my readers needs to hear this story – I am not sure – but I am going trust my gut and share.

This isn’t particularly easy for me – but I am going for it.

If you know me, you might not imagine that I was bullied in high school. I am pretty confident (okay, most of the time) and I am not afraid to stand my ground (pretty much ever). I’m not gorgeous or particularly hideous. In those days, I fit pretty much right smack dab into the middle of just about everything. Not too tall. Not too short. Not too fat. Certainly not too skinny. Not too geeky. Certainly not too cool.

In high school, I had plenty of friends and I had dates to just about every function – most of the time I had a boyfriend. I made good grades but wasn’t a total nerd. I owned at least one pair of Tiger shoes and a pair of Guess jeans. Had me a pair of Gloria Vanderbilts too. And at least 3 shirts donning that Lacoste gator. So I wasn’t necessarily setting trends but I wasn’t a fashion abomination. Continuously falling right smack in the middle.

Because I was President of the Student Government and an officer in several other clubs, I also had fantastic relationships with quite a few teachers – okay, maybe I was more nerdy than I realized. But, the point is – I didn’t ever have to walk down the hall alone – I wasn’t invisible to teachers. I knew lots of people and got along with most of them.

Except one girl.

I won’t share her real name – but she did not like me – not one little bit. (I guess I will call her Tasha – because that’s not really her name.)

Tasha hated me.

H.a.t.e.d. M.e.

I mean really hated me. Really, really.

Honestly, I didn’t really care so much if she hated me. Her impression of me wasn’t that important to me.

Remember – I was a pretty confident kid – I completely understood that her opinion of me did not define me. Just because she called me a bitch (or worse) every. single. time. she saw me walk down the hallway did not mean I was a bitch or worse. That was clear to me.

However, she could have totally kicked my ass. I was pretty afraid that one day she would realize her words didn’t work to hurt me and that she would turn to sticks and stones to try and break my bones.

It was painfully obvious to me that the only way to survive a fight with Tasha was to never get in a fight with Tasha.

She was in my face. A lot.

And I was scared of her. A lot.

But I would just walk down a different hallway. I didn’t come back at her with words and certainly never with actions.

My worst experience with her was one night at a party at the lake.

She found out I was there and came looking for me. Running up the hill with her friends, screaming, “Where is sheeee?”

Thank God I was in the bathroom with the door locked. (Teach your children to lock the bathroom door at a party.)

She pounded on the thin wooden door for what seemed like 15 minutes, daring me to come out.

Then begging me to come out.

There I stayed – behind that locked door – probably shaking – trying to guess what my best option was. Thinking what was the worst that could happen if I came out.

That was easy. She could have totally kicked my ass.

Totally.

So I figured my best plan was to leave. Quickly.

Apparently, Tasha didn’t like that little life-preserving decision of mine. Maybe she was tired of me turning away from her. I don’t really know.

But, she positioned herself in front of me – and in front of everyone else, she threw her drink on me. Right down the front of my shirt. The funny thing was I had borrowed that cute white sweater from a friend of mine. Who was also a friend of hers.

Of course, it was a red punch drink of one sort or another.

My theory remained in tact – the surest way to not get beaten up was to not get in a fight.

I headed to my car, ever grateful that I still had my keys with me.

Tasha headed to her car. If I remember right, it was a jeep. I could be wrong on that. But I think it was.

Two girls in my class drove jeeps – the homecoming queen and Tasha. Funny little Southern irony there.

Anyjeep.

I drove on the dark hilly road along that lake scared out of my mind. Not knowing where I was going. No cell phone. No GPS. Just sheer adrenaline and prayer. Lots of prayers.

Tasha followed me very closely. And it was my distinct impression that several times she tried to run me off the road.

Yes, you’re right. She was mean as hell.

Somehow, I made it out of the woods in one piece, without wrecking my car and without getting in a fight.

That night I went to bed in that red-stained sweater, still shaking. I never told one adult what happened. In fact, I never really talked about it with my friends – even those who were there.

Tasha’s need to spew her hate at me seemed to quiet down after that night. Maybe she scared herself too. Who knows but I enjoyed a little respite.

She didn’t say much more to me until we were rehearsing for graduation. I was asked to give the prayer for the graduating class.

Tasha was my motivation.

My prayer appeared focused on the global picture of war and hate but it was meant for her.

Stop hating. Stop scaring. Now, I was begging her.

She pretended to shoot me as I walked down the stairs from the stage.

Finally, I said something.

“Oh, I think you got me this time.”

I must have looked ridiculous clutching my chest and pretending to be shot. But I finally felt it. Enough already.

Several months later, a dear friend of mine invited me to join her in New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl. She went to Auburn and they were playing Alabama (my favorite team).

My only reservation in going was that I knew Tasha had moved to New Orleans. Yes, I was still worried enough about her that I almost didn’t go.

The friend who had invited me reassured me – it’s a huge town, thousands of people are going to be there to see the game, you’ll never see her. What are the chances?

You can probably guess what the chances were – 100%.

We were walking down the street and, towards us, came Tasha.

My heart tightened and I had to catch my breath.

She walked right up to me and gave me the biggest, hardest hug.

WTF?

“I thought you hated me,” was all I could muster.

“Oh, that was high school,” she said and laughed.

Now we are facebook friends and we have joked about how much she hated me. Now she’ll know just how much she scared me, too. I couldn’t bring myself to laugh about that.

To be fair to Tasha, she has since shared with me that she thought I was mean to her friend – I thought Tasha hated me because of a boy who called me when he was “going with” her. Tasha said that she was defending her friend and was furious when her friend stopped being mad at me. I guess Tasha just couldn’t let go. To be fair to me, I don’t ever remember not liking this other friend or being mean to her. If I was, I am sorry for that.

As I said, I am not sure why I am supposed to share this story but I feel that I am.

Maybe there are some important things here. I will share what I think they might be…

  • Being nice is always the best option.
  • If someone comes to you with a bulling story, please do not tell them that they simply need to toughen up. Help them. It is really hard to share these things – if they thought they could handle it on their own, they would have.
  • There are books that can help you talk to kids about bullying. If you aren’t sure where to start, look here at Dinner A Love Story.
  • If your child is a bully – it’s not cool – he’s not tough, stop him now. Or her. (Boys aren’t the only bullies.)
  • If you are modeling bullying behavior for your child, stop it now. You are not cool and you are not tough. But I think you know that.
  • If you are bullying your own children, you might be creating bullies. Get help so you can stop the cycle. And get them help too.
  • Scaring someone is not entertainment. Buy a movie ticket.
  • It’s not always obvious who will be bullied. Even those who appear strong can be victims because weakness is in the eye of the beholder. And the beholder can be a vulture waiting to strike when no one is looking.
  • Those who are bullied will not always tell that they are being bullied.
  • Even if they have multiple safety nets.
  • If you are being bullied, tell someone. Someone you trust, especially if you are scared.
  • Red drink stains will come out of a white sweater with 409 and it’s good to lock the bathroom door at a party.

Swim Parent 101………

If your child has ever been involved in anything competitive (including learning to tie his shoes), you have run into the “my child ties his shoes better than your child” parent. It is exhausting. Swim parents are no exception. So I humbly offer some guidelines for those parents who will be sitting with other parents waiting for hours for their children to swim one and a half minutes more beautifully than any other children has ever swum before.

  • When attending a swim meet at an indoor pool, forgo the perfume/cologne. It does not mix well with the chlorine laden air. In fact, let’s just make this a life rule – if you are going to be around other people and you will not be able to spread your arms out straight to create some space between bodies, perfume is a no go.
  • Do use deodorant. Always. Every time.
  • Don’t forget to pack snacks. Snacks make a swim meet better.
  • Either buy a meet sheet or figure it out on your own. They are usually just a couple of dollars. Don’t keep asking for “just a peek” at the parent’s sheet next to you.
  • Walk outside to talk on your phone. Turn down your ipod.
  • If you say to your child, “you must get a 37.06 in this race” and your child’s response is “I just don’t know what you mean by that,” reconsider swimming as the sport of choice for your kid. Or at least temporarily suspend your hopes of Olympic Gold. If your child is younger than 8 and you are quoting must-meet times, check yourself. You are already an out-of-control swim parent.
  • Do not talk to the parent next to you when her child is swimming. Especially with a running commentary on his technique/speed/cuteness of suit.
  • Do not offer that parent advice on how his kid could improve his technique/dives/turns after watching him swim. Even if you have the best idea ever. No wait… especially if you have the best idea ever. Just say, boy that was a nice swim. Period. Done.
  • You really cannot predict height or wing span – even if the doctor “guesses” what the height of your child might be. Just let your kid swim the race at the meet you are attending and worry about how great they are “going” to be when they are sixteen when they are actually sixteen. And if you are using the term wing span in reference to your own child’s fabulousness, settle down. Have a snack – it is better to use your mouth for nourishment purposes at this point.
  • When you stand up in the stands and wave your arms wildly in a kicking motion, you can be pretty sure that your child’s thought bubble is not saying, “oh yippee, look at my mom being so super supportive and giving me last minute pointers. Thank God she reminded me to kick. I might have forgotten that at a swim meet I am supposed to kick.” Your child is actually thinking, “oh dear heavens, please sit down.”
  • If you are extremely out of shape, you lose credibility in the athletic world – no matter how great you might have been once. It is not fair, but it is very true.
  • Once your child dives in with a swim cap on over his ears and begins to swim with his head mostly under water, he will not hear you screaming. No matter how loud you scream. Yes, this is also unfortunately true for backstroke. But you can cause hearing loss or at least headache damage for the poor parent sitting next to you.
  • Sending a piercing whistling sound through the air every time your child’s head pops out of the water during breaststroke should be deemed a crime punishable by death.
  • Parents are generally not allowed on deck. Get over it. Of course, if you really want to be on deck, grab a stopwatch and volunteer to time. Every parent has felt the pang of watching her child walk through those big glass doors alone. We give our kids a cell phone to keep with them so they can reach us if they need something. Walkie talkies work too. And before we had cell  phones, we used our kids DS game – if you have two, they can talk to each other. But seriously, just consider volunteering. You will probably even get free food and all the bathroom breaks you need.
  • No matter how many different ways you can think of to praise your child, the parent next to you is still going to think her kid is better. Even if scientific evidence and swim times point to the contrary.
  • If your kid has a bad swim, don’t make excuses. It’s hard to get your best time – really hard. And humans make mistakes. I have never seen a kid intentionally screw up a flip turn or a dive or swim his slowest in a race. Not ever. So, when they get out of the water just love them for getting in the water in the first place. Let the coaches correct their technique. That is why you pay them. Too many kids are brought to tears by their parents opinion of a race.
  • and the Golden Rule of Swim Parent 101 – don’t ever, under any circumstances, ever quote another child’s time to his/her parent. Just be busy with your own child’s time and leave other children’s times on the time sheet where they belong.

Of course, all of these are offered humbly because I have been the victim of my own wisdom more than once. 😉

Behaving Badly………..

That might sound like quite the mischievous title especially on Valentine’s Day but alas, this is a rant, not an expose. So brace yourself.

I recently volunteered at a swim meet where probably 300 kids (14 years old and younger) were trying to qualify for the Junior Olympics. They were crunched in crowded spaces and waiting for long periods of time in between their races in very hot spaces with a (big ole fat) hint of chlorine lingering in the room. They were being coached by coaches and being screamed at for by parents. It was (very) loud and (very) hot and (very) crowded. And that environment lasted for 6 full hours.

That sounds like a recipe for kids behaving badly doesn’t it? But, no. The kids were actually very well behaved – except for a little bit of running here and there, which is totally normal. The kids –  they were actually pretty marvelous. It was their flippin’ parents. Holy arse bad example batman.

I had the dubious honor of being a marshal. I raised my own hand to do it – can’t blame anyone but myself. However, say it with me – n.e.v.e.r. a.g.a.i.n.

Just in case you are not familiar with the high distinction of marshal duties at a Junior Olympic qualifying meet, let me give you a little peek into my day.

Have you ever seen the National Geographic special where a human being inadvertently comes in between a wild animal madre and her cub while holding an open can of corned beef hash? Well then, you are starting to get the idea of how my day played out. And, yes, I mean that special where the bear swats the head off said human, eats the nose, and gives the remaining parts to the cubs to play soccer with.

As marshal, you have get to stand by the only entrance to the pool donning a bright orange vest that does not at all match your earrings in a very hot room with a (big ole fat) hint of chlorine lingering and tell parents (who already know they are not allowed on deck) that they truly are not allowed on deck – not kidding. But for some reason they feel that they should be allowed on deck – even though no other parent is allowed on deck – just them. They want to “talk” to their children who are sure to be future Olympic champions – if only they can drop 850 seconds in their 50 free or put one of their 5 electronic devices down long enough to remember to warm-up for their races.

Just in case that wasn’t crystal clear – and yes, one parent asked me three times if he was being “crystal clear” (but don’t worry, I really don’t hold any residual bitterness 😉 ) – there is a lot of  pressure at these meets for children to be amazing – and that pressure comes from parents – not coaches. So parents are “needed” on deck – their children “require” their assistance. It is surprising how many swimmers were apparently incapable of determining on their own when they were in fact hungry and finding themselves a snack in their backpacks loaded up with enough food to sustain a not so small country for a week.

I bit a hole in my tongue more than once and showed great restraint in not asking a number of obvious questions like – why are you paying a coach when you yourself are so clearly overqualified or I’m sorry, when were you crowned king or really, 14-year-old Johnny cannot pack his own backpack and meet you over there – I mean, I know it’s a whole ten feet away, but, really?

Not letting parents on deck is the general practice at swim meets – it is what normally happens. It is printed on the meet announcements. Coaches remind their parents beforehand. It is not a surprise. You should not even need a marshal. Thank God we had two.

The irony in all of this is that parents are given ample opportunity to volunteer and be on deck in a number of capacities. The meet officials usually end up practically begging for additional volunteers at the beginning of every meet. You even get free food and drinks when you volunteer and you are right on deck, in the middle of it all.

But not these guys.

Parents lied (multiple times) about being coaches or timers. Parents told us to leave them alone. They followed behind us continuing conversations that were really already over.  They raised their voices – a lot. They ignored – a lot. Parents broke the rules and were extremely rude. They set horrible, horrible examples for their children. And they were being so super nasty to v.o.l.u.n.t.e.e.r.s. Those overpaid souls with way too many zeros in their paychecks – and unfortunately no other numerals.

I wished they would have stopped for just a minute and noticed the looks on the faces of their children as they were ranting and raving. Their kids really were not all that impressed. They unfortunately recognize bullying behavior when they see it. It probably was not their first glance of their parents acting like arses and sadly, it surely won’t be the last.

These jerks parents got up from their comfy seats, stopped to chat with friends (well, that is assuming they have some), stretched their legs, checked their smart phones, got a drink of water, perhaps went to the bathroom, and then dumped a ration of hatefulness on the people who were volunteering their time – not sitting down – not chatting with friends. And not even getting to see their own kids swim. Yep, I missed four of my own kids races because obnoxious parents were giving me what for. So instead of cheering for my kids I was being berated. Yeah, that was a whole lot of fun.

Someone even erased the word “no” on the “No parents allowed on pool deck” sign that the pool facility put up. Oh yea, and the “l” in pool. (I have to admit, that made me chuckle.)

No one was singled out. Everyone was held to the same expectation. Follow the rules. The rules that are in place at every single meet you attend and the rules that your coaches reminded you of before the meet and the rules that 75 % of the parents abide by without insulting anyone.

It was actually shameful behavior and quite honestly the worst offenders were 99% men. I hope they got the venom out of their systems so Valentine’s Day can be good for their significant others. I was so, so thankful that they were all going home with someone else. And I was thankful hubby was not there – but then again, if he had been there, he could have worn the vest. It would have looked so much better with his eyes.

So, when you approach a volunteer at an event. Be a kindler, gentler parent. Remember, if they aren’t doing what they are doing – someone else (read you) will have to step up.

And if you are reading this and are mad because you feel a connection with the offenders, shame on you! You are clearly at the wrong blog.

And teachers and coaches, there is no way on God’s green earth that you are getting paid enough. Thank you for what you do!

Time to Write………

We have been home for 2 months now and it has been great. But I have gotten some grief from my readers about not writing enough anymore – and no, they are not all related to me and no, money did not exchange hands. It’s just now that I am once again doing all the shopping, cleaning, cooking, laundry, driving, etc, I have not found/made the time to write.

Today is the perfect example of why I am short on time. My son had plans to head out to a sleep away camp this morning. He needed to meet the camp bus at 9:30am packed and ready to go – and apparently healthy. Oh. Yeah that would be good.

Healthy. I will have to remember that next time I am packing socks and snacks and bug spray.

Luckily, we were smart enough to pack last night. And don’t kid yourself into thinking that packing was super fun. Apparently, what a mom thinks a 13 year old boy needs on a 5-day trek into the wilderness and what that young man thinks he will need are two very different things – even if they both speak English and are reading from the same sheet. He thought it would all fit in a backpack because he didn’t want to be the only one with a suitcase. Really? I did not realize that teenagers have become suitcase phobic. I still have so much to learn. But okay, try it. Knock yourself out.

Famous last words: “Mom, this isn’t all going to fit – I need a bigger bag. Maybe even a suitcase.”

Really? That is simply shocking. I so did not see that coming. 😉

So we transferred everything from the backpack with so much potential to the more realistically sized suitcase. And it even zipped up. But when we tried to put a second bathing suit in, we realized the zipper was actually broken on the suitcase. We were both tired so we decided to address the great zipper incident in the a.m. He wanted to wake up at 7:30am so we were going to have p.l.e.n.t.y. o’ t.i.m.e.

Or so I thought. He woke up this morning and says, “Mom, my ear really hurts. I am pretty sure I have an ear infection or swimmers ear.”

Me: That’s great honey. Are you sure? Because you have to be on a bus in an hour and a half. And if you miss the bus – well, that means I am spending the day in the car. The entire day. In the car.

And, by the by, I know good and damn well he is sure because he has never told me this and been wrong. Arrrgggh. However, I did have the clarity of gratitude to be very, very thankful that he is old enough to tell me where it hurts and maybe even why it hurts. I do not (for even one second) miss the days of trying to translate tears and screams in to one of six possible problem categories – hungry, my sister took my truck, tired, dirty diaper, sick, and/or absolutely undeterminable and therefore unsolvable. I was also very thankful that he actually told me about it, even though he might have understood that it could have totally meant that he might not get to go on this five-day, fun-in -the-sun, week-without-parents and/or siblings, eat-all-the-junk-food-you-want, stay-up-way-too-late, no-summer-homework extravaganza.

Well, at least I thought he understood that until I had a mommy realization moment. I thanked him for telling me and not just pretending to be okay even though it really could mean that he might not be able to go at all or that I might end up driving him the f.o.u.r. and a h.a.l.f. hours to camp and then back again (another four and a half hours) – and he looked at me with absolute disbelief that him not getting on that bus in merely an hour and half was at all a possibility. He clearly had complete confidence that I could make this all happen quickly and magically. That I am surely capable of diagnosing then healing an ear infection while finding the chapstick and simultaneously growing enough money on a tree so that he could buy unlimited snacks and milkshakes and possibly even an extra camp t-shirt. That is when I fully understood that it isn’t quite yet time to put my super hero mommy cape away. At least not yet. Even at 13, I am still a rock star. Yes, that pretty much made it all worth it.

The rest of the very long story short is that we have a fantabulous doctor who squeezed us in and diagnosed my little Bear with – guess what – an ear infection. Our wonderful, wonderful nurse faxed the prescription to the pharmacy and I diligently obeyed all traffic guidelines (which is important because my drivers license happens to be in my husband’s wallet that just happens to be in New York City – oh yes, that means I am single parenting at the moment – even better, right) and then we rolled in safely to the Giant Pharmacy. Where the pharmacist knew nothing of our prescription. Perfecto. But I had the hard copy – yeah me still earning that super hero cape – and begged for a quick fill of our prescription. We had just enough time to obey all traffic guidelines once again and rush drive carefully home and change out the problem suitcase for a new suitcase with a functioning zipper so that Bear’s underwear wouldn’t fall out all over the ground in front of the very cute 8th grade girls on the bus. (And by the by, parents of 8th grade girls – could you buy your daughters longer shorts? Not necessarily the girls on this bus but just in general. That would be great. Thanks.)

In the end, Bear even had time to take a quick and very hot last civilized shower before camp. Then it was right back to the pharmacy to get both of his prescriptions and a doughnut – any mom with a super hero cape certainly knows that antibiotics can upset an empty tummy and a doughnut has been scientifically proven to be a comfort food. And yes, I got myself one too – I earned it after all.

We made it to the bus stop with exactly two minutes to spare. That is where Bear decided he did not exactly need me anymore and I got a shoulder bump and a quick hug goodbye. Oh yeah, and a “mom, I’m fine.” My cape dropped a little with that one. But I perked up when I saw the plethora of suitcases under the bus. Who knew that other teenagers might actually use real luggage to get their camp belongings from one place to another? All is truly right with the world.

And, yes, the bus was at least a half an hour late leaving. And no, I don’t think 10am is too early to start drinking. 😉

P.S. My dear blog buddy Loco tagged me as one of his favorite women bloggers in Asia – that was awesome too. Thanks Loco!

ToRN BeTWeeN TWo DauGHTeRs……………

If you have more than one child, more than one parent, more than one boss, more than one friend, more than one sibling, more than one pet, more than one plant, more than one pair of earrings – let’s just say that, if you are breathing, there has to have been at least one time in your life when you felt torn about who to choose.

Especially as a parent, this kind of choice can rip you apart. It’s super – duper – extraordinarily tough. Friday, I had just such a choice. Yippee Skippee.

Flower had colonial day at school (a big deal where all the kids/teachers/parents don colonial garb and have an old-fashioned day). Angel woke up not feeling 100 percent. Number one hubby is not even on the continent – yeah,  that equals a big fat no help there.

Here is the gist of the initial conversation:

Flower: are you coming
Angel: are you staying
Me: …………….
Number One Hubby (via phone with honest-to-goodness sympathy):
sometimes you just can’t get a break, can you?
What are going to do?
Me: …………………

I realize that some situations just will not solve themselves.

First things first – it all started at 6:45am – I need to have myself dressed all colonial-like and all my chilrins in the school by 8am to help set up. There is a lot to do in 75 minutes. The clock starts ……… now – I am off to assess the situation and make adult-like, parental decisions. It’s also way too early for this kind of thoughtful action.

Angel had no fever – but a pretty hacky cough. You know the kind that you simply cannot fake. She also went to bed later than normal the night before- so throw some really tired grumpiness into that mix. Just what the mix needed. Great. She got glass of water, some cough medicine, a blanket, another blanket, and the tv turned on – her pick this time.

Bear had a typed assignment due – you guessed it – the same day as colonial day. Okay – he is in 6th grade – his projects are all supposed to be typed – but he has not been given a typing class. Guess who needed to type it? Let’s say it together now – Moi? I know he could do it himself – but it would take him longer to type one paragraph than it would for him to solve pi. Ain’t gonna happen. And really, not necessary. He wrote it in time for me to type it up the night before, but I went to bed early – being exhausted and all.

Next, Flower’s lunch needed to be authentic for colonial day. So, she was hoping for banana bread – something I could have also done the night before – but remember, I was exhausted – went to bed early – brilliant. That was proving to be a really good decision. So, I needed to make banana bread. And wrap everything in paper towels tied with ribbons. Apparently aluminum foil, juice boxes, saran wrap, and individually wrapped snacks are fairly recent inventions. Really, is that true? Those poor women. How did they manage without uncrustables? Spreading that peanut butter all the way the to the edge of the bread is exhausting work.

Number one hubby likes to talk to the kids on Skype on the computer every morning. They love it too. This particular morning my computer was celebrating colonial day too. Apparently, there were no microphones in the days of colonial. He could not hear a thing. Crap. The colonists probably just yelled to each other really loudly from across the colony. But the better half of my colony is now in India – yelling was not going to work. And I did not have enough string, empty cans, or (any) time to make an old-fashioned tin can telephone.

Meanwhile, Flower, Angel, and Bear are asking me what I am going to do – over and over and over and over and over again. Did you get that? They KEPT asking. Thanks guys, that was really helpful. Bear was coming up with some really good – completely impossible solutions. Which was very sweet of him – since he normally could give a rat’s arse what Angel is doing. Thanks honey, hugs and kisses.

What would you do? Flower was in tears because she wants to me to be at colonial day. I know there will be days when she doesn’t want me anywhere near her – so I certainly do not want to miss out on this little – I love my mommy – moment.

Angel was in tears because she wanted to stay home – with me. But,Angel had no fever and had stopped coughing – well at least for the most part.

I figured I was going to be at the school. If Angel needed me, I would be right there.

Colonial Day was great. Lots of fun! I am glad that I could participate. Very glad. Even if I did have to wear this. (I look pregnant in the picture – I can assure you that is not the case – the apron was really long and I had to wear it really high up. The poofs are in just the right place. This is what we do for our kids.)

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Angel survived another day in first grade. Well, it turned out to be just half a day. The guilt got the best of me – immediately after the parent volunteering part of colonial day was over, I went to Angel’s class and brought her home. Her teacher said she seemed fine  – she did not say it but I could tell she was surprised I was there. I did not have it in me to explain that I was the one who was not fine. I was torn between two daughters and I did not want either daughter to feel less important than the other. So, I wanted to take her home and let her feel the mommy love – even if she was no longer sick.