“OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD” was the frantic Bathtub Litany of HB on Monday night, followed almost immediately by, “MOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!! MOMMM-MMEEEE COME QUICK…LIKE FAST!”

HB didn’t know I had been in the upstairs hallway before he had finished uttering the last syllable on the word ‘God’ in the very first sentence.
Peeking my head in the door—with my hand over my eyes because HB likes his privacy for his Very Important Private Parts—I ask, “What’s wrong, baby? Are you OK?”

“Oh, I’m fine…but…ummm…something is very, very, really, really wrong with Slickster. An’na don’t think it’s a trick dis time, Mom.”

Slickster da Trickster is HB’s hamster. HB gave him, well her, that name because three days after we brought Slickster home, she had babies. That I promptly returned with Mama Hamster, to the pet store. It was there that we found out that Slickster wasn’t your everyday, grey-ish/tannish hamster. Oh no…HB had picked out—with his father’s help of course–a Roborovski Hamster.

Yeah…me too.

They need a special cage, an aquarium is best because they are the smallest and the “trickiest” of all hamsters…but…they are the most social and lovable.
So, Slickster came back home with us, she was just a baby herself and not old enough to take care of her litter anyway.

HB renamed her Slickster the Trickster, because she had “fooled us all, Mom! She’s a GIRL! An’ her had BABIES!! LOTS OF DEM!!!” and because Slickster had a way of always getting out of her cage….all the time. I’m talking at least 20 times a day, and you try catching a hamster with a cat and a dog chasing it too.

HB and Slickster were inseparable, good Lord! HB loved that hamster! I had to buy a second smaller glass enclosure just so Slickster could sleep in the same bed as HB, and to this day I still don’t know how that damn wheel didn’t keep him up all night, because I sure as hell couldn’t sleep.

Fast forward six-months to Monday night and the Bathtub Litany of HB.

There in the bathtub, is HB and he has Slickster tied loosely with The Thirteen-Year Old’s velvet hair ribbons, to something black and flat and oddly familiar…
Oh boy, I thought to myself, this is gonna go over real well when she finds out.

“HB,” I began, “What is Slickster tied to?”
“Your phone.” HB simply stated before continuing. “But that ain’t da problem, Ma.”
“Oh, you better believe that’s ‘The Problem‘, young man.” I replied.
“Oh, and you better believe dat it isn’t, young mommy.” He countered.
I just blinked. Power struggles at 6:45pm with HB were not something I wanted to get into right now…I was starting to feel like crap, my allergies had just started to kick in and the medicine was not working—again.

“OK”, I answered back, “why don’t you tell me what is ‘The Problem‘, then?”
“LOOK.” HB said as he held Slickster and my dripping, sopping, T-Moblie G1 cell phone towards me.
I took one look at Slickster and knew that Slickster had gone to that Great Glass Aquarium in the Sky.
The poor thing had defecated all over my phone—and I could just imagine my call to T-Mobile Warranty Service.
“Hello, yes…umm..does my warranty cover hamster poop and pee? How about hamster blood?”

I glanced over at HB, and my heart broke in a million pieces. He was looking at me and his eyes were saying “fix her Mommy.”

“C’mon HB, time to get out of the tub baby. Go put your PJ’s on & meet me in Dining Room.” I told him before I left the bathroom, dead hamster and dripping cell phone in hand.

The cat and dog followed my every step, cannibals I swear! Once in the Kitchen, I dried off Slickster, put my phone on the window sill with a weary sigh, and went to find a small, plain cardboard box.
HB came downstairs just as I was putting the box on the table with some markers, glue, glitter, stickers, and tape.

Eying the art supplies suspiciously, HB asked, “Do I have one of those girly do-it-or-die-a-rite-now projects?”
Snorting, “You mean ‘diorama’, HB?”
“Yeah…them”
“No baby…” I sighed before continuing, “I thought we could make a really nice box to put Slickster in for when we take her to the park on Saturday and bury her.”
“Can’t we just flush her? Like we did with the gold fish?”
I wasn’t prepared for that one.
“WHAT??” I said, just a tad too loudly.
What kind of kid had I raised? Oh dear GOD! Here I am, trying to be Polly Perfect Parent, getting out the markers & crap, trying to make a positive from a negative, and my son wants to flush his hamster, who by the way, he adored for six months straight, down the toilet!!?!?!?!!!!

“Relax, Mom. Ya got that look again.” HB interrupted my forty-seventh nervous breakdown since becoming a single mom.
“What ‘look’ HB?” I asked
“Dat look ya get when I say something ya don’ like.” he answered simply.
Yeah…I just blinked….again.
Such wisdom for a six-year old. Still, I just had to press the issue of a non-burial of Slickster.

“Why don’t you want to bury Slickster, HB? Are you upset inside and a little sad? Are you afraid you might cry and someone might make fun of you?” Lately The Hex, had taken to poking fun at HB and SB for crying. I told The Hex he was an idiot. HB had only been walking this earth for six years and SB for nine in November, neither is a long time to be alive. They are both realively new at using their brains, and still look how much they have managed to accomplish but also have much  to learn.
The Hex didn’t get it…and he probably never will, but that is his hang-up not mine or our boys.

“It’s not dat, ma” HB began, “why I gotta put her in a fancy box for? Can Slickster see it? Nope. It’s not gonna make me feel any better to make it either.”
“OK, HB…what do you wanna do?” I asked.
“Well…” he began, “I wanna make something since you pulled all that crap out, but can we make a fancy box to put all of Slickster’s stuff in? Yanno, so that nobody touches it? And if I get sad sometimes maybe and miss hearing her wheel, I can go and open the box and spin da wheel and feel better?”

I swallowed back my tears as I nodded my head and softly said, “Yeah, sure HB…we can do that. But what do you wanna do with Slickster?”

HB was quiet for a good ten minutes, with his head down as he looked at his hands in his lap before he raised his head and began.

“Do you think it hurt? Yanno, what I did?”
“No baby. It didn’t hurt.”
“Are you sure, Mommy?”
“Yeah baby, I’m sure.”
“Do you think Slickster liked me?”
“I think Slickster loved you, HB.”
HB’s eyes got a little brighter and tears began to form in the corners, before he answered me.
“You do?”
“Yeah, baby. I sure do.”
“Good, ‘cos I really, really, loved that hamster, Mom.”
“I know baby.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I only wanted to give her a baff ‘cos she was starting to stink, and I put her on your phone so she wouldn’t drown. Why did she die, Mommy? Why? I took real good care of her. I didn’t even tie her tight at all! I didn’t even use rubber bands or glue!” HB’s tears started to flow, and  turn to sobs, as I pulled him on my lap and pressed my lips to his hair and held him tight.

“Oh honey…Slickster died because she was having so much fun, her little, teeny, tiny, hamster heart just could not take any more fun.”
“Really, Mom?”
“Really baby.”
“Can I kiss her good-bye?”
Now I was crying, damnit!
“Yeah, baby…you sure can.”
I brought Slickster over to HB, wrapped in a little white towel, and he kissed her on the top of her head and whispered, “I love you, Slickster, give ‘em hell in Heaven. Tell Great-Grandma I said hi.”

HB handed Slickster back to me, and I put her in the small box and took her to the SPCA the following morning.

HB and I drew all over a huge cardboard box that I put all of Slickster’s things in, and they are all down in the basement….waiting for whenever HB needs to “hear that wheel someday.”

Ahhh…it has been a while, hasn’t it? I have so much to share and I thought a good way to do that would be through The Chronicles of HB, because according to HB everything revolves around him.
Or so he thinks. Besides, who am I to squash the dreams of a budding Diplocrat? Seriously, what kind of mother would that make me? I would never get my own Lifetime Movie then!

We started the Official Back to School Meltdown with our annual trip to the Lancaster Outlets.
Even I have the common sense to take a great bargain and run with it to save my life, and when you have four kids who refuse to wear anything but Gap® and Ralph Lauren® (oh hush…I am well aware they have been spoiled, but they, and all children for that matter, deserve to be once in a while) a Mom’s gotta do, what a Mom’s gotta do.

This Mom made out like a Bandit! Not only did I manage to outfit all four of them—NaNa & The Thirteen-Year Old from The Gap®, HB & SB from Ralph Lauren Kids®—for the entire school year, I even had enough left over to hit the Coach® Factory Store for myself. Heaven, pure and true.
There was only one thing missing that would have made our trip one of total bliss and satisfaction.
Sorry EB…not talking about you honey, but it still would have been nice to run over, I mean run into you, wait…I meant..never mind…you know what I mean.

What would have made it absolutely perfect, would have been if that Amish tramp had not been working and I was allowed to purchase a Shoo-Fly pie… sigh…maybe next trip…

The First Day of School started with the usual fireworks, teenage crisis, and the usual ‘woe is me!’ theatrics that are par for the course in our home. The ‘woe is me!’ part? Yeah…that’s usually from me, and it’s more of an inner ‘woe is me!’ than an outer one.

Finally, all four were gone…and the silence was deafening. I could not stand it. After an entire summer of noise, music and mayhem, I could not stand the un-noise. My ears were actually ringing from the void.
I kept checking and re-checking the phone and my cell phones, because I could not believe that by 2pm, no one from school had called me yet. What the hell was wrong over there? Is the school under siege?
“Oh my God!” I said to Angus, “HB HAS TAKEN OVER!!!”
Angus just kept eye-balling me, Cocoa Bear had long since walked away from my neurotic butt.

At 3pm, I am on our front steps waiting for The Arrival.
They had decided they wanted to walk home from school, “All by ourselves this year, Mom. We aren’t babies anymore yanno.” is what I was told by NaNa and HB.
I wanted to scream, “Oh yes! Oh yes you are babies!” but I didn’t. I need to let them grow and begin to do things for themselves little by little, no matter how much I hate it.

I could see in HB’s face from a block away, that the first day back was not a good one.

“How was school guys?” I asked all of them.
“GUYS?!?!?” NaNa screeched, “Huuuh-LOOOOW! I am not a ‘guy’ Mom.”
I just sighed. I am really starting to detest all ten-almost-eleven-year-old girls in South Philly.
“Hrrump” The Thirteen Year Old grunted in NaNa’s direction, before she brushed past me & went up the stairs to her bedroom.
“Hi Mommy!” said SB, as he gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “It was good, I saw everybody that I didn’t go to Camp with, and that was downashore.”
‘Downashore’ is a Philly thing—it’s our way of saying Down the Shore when in all reality, the New Jersey Coastline and Beaches are actually geographically up from us, not down…
HB was shuffling his feet and looking at me sideways.
“OK, HB. Hit me wit’ it…what happened today?” I asked.
As if on cue, his bottom lip instantly formed a perfect little pout, as he began.
“Well…” he paused for dramatic effect, NaNa had taught him well over the summer.
“It started out good, but then it got real bad really, really fast, and I only was trying to be nice and I ended up with duh-tennashun and I had to tell like thirty-seven million people in my school what I said and I really didn’t have to do all that Mom and shouldn’t have that duh-tennashun Mom.” HB finished with a giant rush of air.

I just shook my head a little, trying to clear it before I asked, “OK HB…are you telling me that on the very FIRST day of school you already have Detention? How is this possible? You’re only in First Grade, for God’s sake!”

Eyes dead locked with mine, “Yes, that’s what I’m sayin’. An’ its possible cuz Ms. U’s teacher friends are idiots that can’t take a comp-ya-ment, but boy do they love to give ‘em! And I know I’m in First Grade! Im’ma Very Important Guy, yanno!”

“Excuse me, but just who do you think you are talking to like that? There is no yelling at The Mommy. Not in my house. You wanna try that again, and this time, try it with the details HB. Oh, and the facts would be nice too.” I stated simply, because with HB you just cannot allow him to railroad you, at all. He has that wicked charm combined with those innocent good looks that are going to get him and me in a lot of trouble before he is sixteen if I don’t teach him now, how to be respectful of everyone.

“Fine.” Came his clipped reply, before he continued, “I was in class, an’ Ms U. had those Student Teachers in from I don’t know where Mom, but they was saying how cute I was and I didn’t want to be rude, so I com-ya-mented them back. An..I got duh-tennashun for it.”

“OK, first of all it’s ‘dee-ten-shun’ and ‘comp-la-men-ted’ HB, and..”
“Yeah OK” he interrupted
“Do not interrupt me, when I am speaking, young man. Do you understand that?” I asked him.
“Yes, Mother.” HB quipped and added, “but I am a Very Important Guy, yanno. Just wanna be clear on that.”
“Fine, duly noted. HB is a Very Important Guy. Now, what I need you to tell me is, what exactly did you say to the Student Teachers?”
“Well, they said I was really, really cute, an’ I said that I was a pretty popular kid around there, an’ then they said that I was adorable, so I wanted to be nice an’ say a compla..compya..say something nice back, so I said they would both do for a ride around the house.”

I. was. speechless.
Completely, totally, one-hundred percent, speechless.

‘So I said they would both do for a ride around the house’ kept repeating over and over in my mind and all at once I wanted to laugh.
Loud.
But I couldn’t, even though it was funny as hell, it wasn’t funny coming from a six-year old.
I couldn’t even explain to him why it wasn’t the ‘right’ thing to say, when he had heard his Great-Uncle Seamus–God rest and keep him–say it a million times before and it had always been met with smiles and appreciative laughter.

Taking a deep breath, I began, “HB, that is something only grown-ups get to say to each other. When you are a grown-up, you can say it. Until then you can’t. Period. Next time someone says you are cute, or adorable, just smile and say ‘Thank you, very, very much. You just made my day.’ and that is all you are to say, young man. Understood?”
HB nodded his head.
I then asked why he thought he was a ‘Very Important Guy’.
His reply?
“Are you kiddin’ me, mom? I had to tell everyone what I said! People kept coming inna the classroom an’ asking me to repeat it, over and over. They only do that stuff if you are a Very Important Guy, yanno.”

Sigh…another valuable lesson twisted and lost on today’s youth…I have my work cut out for me with this kid I think to myself as I watched him wrestle with Angus, and a small smile appears on my face as I remember all my kids as tiny babies and secretly yearn for those days once again.

Until I remember that they eventually learn to speak…

The times in my life where I am emotional, because I feel overwhelmed by things and circumstances beyond my control, are few and far between.
Trust me. I’ve been called cold, callous and uncaring more than once in my almost forty-one years.
I’ve always been The Other Girl, never That Girl

On this one day, March 30th, of every year since I was 21, I don’t want to be The Other Girl.
I’ve always been the The Other Girl.
The girl who is strong, the girl who is brave, the girl who is not afraid of any man, woman or child, the one you can go to when you are hurting.
The Other Girl…
The girl who doesn’t need anyone, the girl who can go it alone, the girl that never needs to be held.
The Other Girl…
The girl who never loses it, the girl who always is in control, the girl who never cries.

On March 30th, of every year since I was 21, I desperately want to be That Girl.
The girl who is stronger than me, the girl who is braver than me, the girl who knows that there is nothing wrong with being afraid once in a while. The girl who hurts and needs to feel the warmth and comfort that only the arms of a man can provide.
That Girl…
The girl who needs people, the girl who can’t do it all by herself, the girl who needs to be held.
That Girl…
The girl who isn’t afraid to lose it, the girl who breaks down, the girl who just doesn’t cry, she sobs.

But I can’t be…and I don’t think I ever will…again.

I was That Girl once…but on March 30th when I was 21, I stopped being That Girl at 7:35pm.

It wasn’t until several years later that I became The Other Girl.

I moved, remarried, had more children and became not The Other Girl, not just yet, but a Different Girl

This Different Girl was in some ways, a lot like That Girl…
She cried, she loved, she had the comfort that every girl needs…or so she thought.
Until the first time March 30th rolled around for the Different Girl…
The comfort she had, was not the big fluffy Blanket she thought it was when she first wrapped herself in it…she finally saw it for what it really was.
A thin, cheap, threadbare, used Sheet…an excuse…an illusion to warmth, because it never was capable of giving it in the first place…and had no business selling itself in such fancy and misleading packaging.
The Different Girl did find another Blanket in which to wrap herself…four times thicker than the sheet, four times more comforting, four times stronger with four times the love that was in the sheet. This Blanket was worthy of the fancy package, it delivered everything it was represented too.
And The Different Girl loved this Blanket, more than any other.

After this realization, The Different Girl became The Other Girl…yet there were parts of The Different Girl inside, reserved for her Four-Ply Blanket.

But still…I wish…for just once, just once a year…I could be That Girl again.

I’ve come close, but no cigar…

I guess sometimes, some of us are destined to be The Other Girl…

Maybe because “somebody”, “somewhere” knows they can be The Other Girl…

Maybe because The Other Girl is exactly what The Other Guy needs.

Maybe because somewhere, somewhere deep inside of The Other Girl and The Other Guy…are The Different Girl andThat Girl and inside the The Other Guy are The Different Guy and That Guy…

And maybe, just maybe…they all will finally have That Blanket that they all want…but more importantly…need.

I think I’m having a ‘Mid-Life Crisis’!
Wait…back up a minute…I can’t be! I’m only forty! If forty is the ‘middle’ of my life, then is eighty my end? Oh hell no…I plan on finding a way to live forever. I am that nosy. OK, that would mean that age twenty was the acme of my life, right?
Someone really screwed my Deck of Life Cards, then.

It’s no secret that when women face any type of emotional crisis, we are much better at dealing with it than men are.

I feel no need to rush out and bang as many  20-something strippers named Tiffy, Chanel, Tami–with an “I”– or Cookie,  buy a candy-apple red ‘69 Corvette, and go traipsing about the globe like a jet-setter. I’m more, inward looking, more focused on the feelings and emotions of my kids and myself.

Every last one of you know, from reading all my previous blogs, the love I have for my children. It goes beyond any type of measurable amount. Unfathomable doesn’t even begin to describe the amount.
Yet…I’m beginning to ask myself, “When is it gonna be Mommy’s turn?” and I’m feeling incredibly guilty for it.

A few friends have said that I must “wait until they are all grown, than you get to play. It sucks, Lin, but that’s how it goes when you throw your husband out.” is their response, and I can’t help but feel as if I am being chided for divorcing an abusive, adulterous, spendthrift. What the hell? Oh, I guess I was supposed to continue in a loveless and unhappy home with a man who treated the kids like gold, but me like garbage, and spent every dime, of mine, he got his hands on.
Uh-huh.
That ain’t happening. Not in this lifetime, Sunshine.

So, if I take the Wait Until They Are Grown scenario, that means in the year 2021, at the ripe old age of 53…I am allowed to live, and play and find love again?

Are you shittin’ me?
Seriously, are you?

I understand that my job is very demanding and it isn’t very glamorous, and that I can’t bring home “fun stuff, like Krista’s mom does, Mom! She brings her all the new clothes that come in to Macy’s before they go on the racks!” Na-Na informs me, with ever increasing regularity.
Hmmm…oh! I know, howsabout I bring home…’Tom’! (not his real name…don’t ask)
‘Tom’ is F-U-N!
‘Tom’ likes to blow things up and set them on fire! The best part about ‘Tom’, is he enjoys talking about the things he has set ablaze, and sometimes, if he thinks you’re not looking, but he secretly wishes you were, he’ll masturbate right there in the Eval room!
You’re welcome, ya know…for keeping ‘Tom’ exactly where he is, and others like him, for as long as I possibly can.
Anytime you think your job couldn’t possibly get any worse—trade with me, for about two hours.
That is all you will need to appreciate the job you do have, trust me. Sadly, Ken Kesey really did paint a pretty accurate portrait, and I have met my fair share of Nurse Ratched’s and, believe me, their actions are often overlooked. It’s them and the psychiatrists with the God Complex that we can do without.

**Sigh**
Guess Na-Na will just have to settle for pharmacy brand pens…

Back to me, and my MLC…I was recently offered a really good opportunity to further advance my career—but at the expense of uprooting my kids to another state.
It would be a great chance for me to meet new people in my field and surrounding branches, and gee, I’unno…maybe I’d actually get to climax with someone else in the room for the first time since General Washington slept here.

Yet, everytime I begin to broach the subject with those closest to me, all I hear is “The Kids, Linda. You have to think of them first. Are you really being fair to them? Is dragging them two states away in their best interest right now? Stop being so selfish and thinking about your needs, and think about theirs.”

Well, shit. I do think about their needs, every minute of every day of my life—I always have.
I heard the same crap before, when I left their father, but it was because I had finally decided that what was in the “best interest” of my kids, was to have a Mommy who was happy. All the time, and not just when their father wasn’t home.

It absolutely rips me apart on the inside when I am called away to go tend to one of the Daffy-Dils from God’s Special Garden, and I am gone, sometimes days at a time; with no sleep–hence my insomnia and uhhh…all those re-re APP invites I send out at like, 3am…sorry about that. I have curbed my fixation on those “What dos Your Heart Say” quizzes whose results are written like a third grader in need of some serious Grammar tutoring.

I’m still having trouble deciding if this job change would be a good thing, even though it would mean a straight-up 40-60 hour work week, no more “SURPRISE! they got out!” in the middle of the night phone calls, and I am feeling increasingly guilty with each passing day. I have until August to make a decision, and by that time, I will be full blown bat-shit crazy.

I think.
I don’t know…what do you think? Am I wrong for wanting more? Am I somehow putting my needs before my kids? What’s it all about, Alfie?

I met someone!
And he is single!!
And he is a year older than me!!!
And he has a JOB!!!!
And…he doesn’t live with his mother!!!!!

**SIGH**

Yep, you guessed it…it was too good to be true.
Well, I have my suspicions, after you read my tale, let me know what you think.

I will not divulge his real name, so…why don’t we just call him…Duck (if it walks like it, and talks like it, etc)

Duck and I were very, very, casual friends. We contacted each other a few times a month via text or e-mail, nothing more.

Then, right before my most hated Holiday of all, Valentine’s Day, Duck started to contact me again.
This time, on a more regular basis. It was still the same as before, text and e-mail, but meh, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Any of you that have read the ‘Chronicles of HB’ series, know that I would bring way too much into a relationship, and not very many guys are fond of what they deem baggage.
Although…we did exchange, uhhh, ‘delicate ‘ pictures with each other, his were much more ‘delicately revealing ‘ than mine.

We chatted via IM’s and text about meeting up and pondered setting a date, trying to sync our busy schedules and everything.
Then…like an Early Easter Miracle…I had to go to New York on business!!
Thank you, Vodka! There is a God!

I will admit, I was a tad apprehensive, I wanted everything to be perfect…right down to the most minute detail.
OK, OK, so I’m a little anal…but can ya blame me?
I might actually get the chance to orgasm, with another person in the room! That hasn’t happened in a long, long time.
No. I do not have an extra appendage or third nipple. I’m just picky. Extremely picky about who I choose to let into my life.

So, it is now a few days before my trip, and Duck has become a little distant. He says it is because he is working such long hours and is exhausted when he gets home and is too busy during work to e-mail or text.
OK, I say to him and myself, that is something I can relate to.

It is now two days before my trip and I must book my room reservation. I call Duck and get his voice mail, after the BEEP I say that I need to speak (not text or e-mail) to him, so that we can setup a time, a place and all that jazz.
No phone call back. No text or e-mail either.

Hmmmmmmm…I’m thinking to much again, I think to myself.

The day before I leave, I send him a text that reads “no f–ky f–ky UNLESS you CALL me”
Again I get nothing…until almost 10pm that night.

By that time, I had already went into full blown Panic Mode, and sent yet another voice mail, I felt I needed to explain myself somehow.
I had already envisioned myself, in a Court Room, and having a lawyer ask me, “So Dr. LaLa, in your professional opinion—”
WHAM!
Here comes a loudly cried, “OBJECTION!” and my ‘delicate ‘ pictures are now spread out,  upon a Judge’s bench.
For all the professional world to see…my reputation and my career I can see swirling down the toilet…
I think I think too much…

Duck’s text wasn’t very reassuring either. It said “You’re a little nuts. But that’s a good thing ; ) I never keep anyone’s pic they send me, just habit.”

Well gee, Duck…thanks. But why didn’t you call and tell me this yourself? Are you too tired? How is it, that a man who can text me all that, simply can not find the strength to punch in 10-digits at the end of the day?

The Day has arrived, and I have a funny feeling that something is just not right.

Duck and I text sporadically during the day, and lo! and behold! Duck can’t meet me on Friday…because he will be working until 9pm. But he wants to know about the B&B I had reserved.
I text him, saying I can stay over, but he has to let me know something.
Duck let me know something…three hours later…and it was yet another work related excuse.
I go and cancel my reservation, and yes, I lost 100% of my deposit. No biggie…I will not be making the same mistake again.

No word from Duck until the following day around 5pm. He is tired he texts, he has been working to long he texts.
“Awww…you need a masage?” text I.
“yes…ALL OVER” Duck texts in return.
I never replied.

I may have a few things wrong with me, but hebetude is not one of them.

Duck is either:

• married
• living with someone
• wasn’t really intending on going through with it after all.

What do you think???

You know, Frank wrote that we were a ‘special class‘ and that we deserved a page of our own on Facebook.

Frank is right. We were special, we were different, and we certainly questioned authority.

There are a myriad of other pages and Groups for our beloved AKHS on Facebook, but none of them have that certain ‘it‘ that our class of 1986 did.

I go to these Groups and read some of the Wall Postings, and immediately Noel Coward springs to mind,
“…one great stampede of lips directed at the nearest derriere.”

Our Class were the non-conformists. We dared to question everything and everyone. We said what we wanted, and we paid the price for it. I think I was among the few that had been suspended at least three times, every year, in all four years.

We never ‘settled‘ for the answers given us, we asked the ‘why’s‘ and what ‘for’s‘, early on, the nickname Saint Thomas was given to me during one year in Religion Class.

Among our class of ‘bad kids’ came Graduates, who are Doctors, and Lawyers, NASA Engineers, Mathematicians, and Scientists. We have individuals that are within the top names of Fashion & Design among New York’s elite, we have Career Marines, Army, and Navy, both Enlisted and Officer. We have Business Owners and CPA’s, and we even have a few Educators.

How’s that for a class that always seemed to be in trouble for something or other?

We are a Class of Successes, not a Class of Failures, as few thought we would undoubtedly end-up as career criminals.

We still are unafraid, we still remember our four years at AKHS, but we remember the whole, not just the pretty parts.

Remember, all you that have graduated after us, and those who still continue to,

“Cherish your visions; cherish your ideals; cherish the music that stirs in your heart,
the beauty that forms in your mind, the loveliness that drapes your purest thoughts,
for out of them will grow delightful conditions, all heavenly environment;
of these if you but remain true to them,
your world will at last be built.”
~~~ James Allen

This was originally posted over on another web site, so a few of you may have read this before. I have finally gotten our Cause ‘Carlos’s Friends’ off the ground and running. This story is for everyone who hasn’t read it before or for those who wish to read it again.

From myself, Carlos, and all of our family, thank you, so very, very much.

This is the story of myself and my son. Our struggle to understand a strange new language, and a new way of living.

After a relatively easy pregnancy and delivery, both uncomplicated, I gave birth to a beautiful 9 pound 10 ounce baby boy. My first son, and third child, we named him Carlos.

Carlos was a very happy baby. He always smiled, and laughed. He loved when you would read or sing to him. He would follow you everywhere with his eyes. Carlos did everything early, in terms of milestones. Sitting up on his own, rolling over, crawling, walking, even talking and potty training, were all done much earlier than his older sisters.

When Carlos was about 26 months old, I noticed a change in him. He began to revert back to ‘jargon’ or ‘baby babble’ and he would become increasingly frustrated whenever there was a slight change in venue.
For example, we always took the same route home from the grocery store, and if one day we took a different route home, he would become uncontrollable & sob hysterically. Try driving with a screaming 2 year old, AND his older sisters all telling you, “Mom! Mom! MOM!!MOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!! Carlos is SCREAMING!!!”
Carlos also had begun to bang his head, have horrible temper tantrums while sleeping, and began to exhibit symptoms of OCD–he was fascinated with UNO Cards. He would line them up, in numerical order AND in order of color ALPHABETICALLY! I thought that not only being able to count from 1 to 9 and being able to alphabetize colors before he could even read was phenominal.

It’s no secret that I have a background in psychology, so while all of these things may have seemed harmless to others, I knew that was not the case.

I knew, my beautiful Sunshine Boy, as we had come to call him, was exhibiting signs of Autism.
I immediately made all the ‘right’ appointments. Carlos had his MRI’s, his EEG’s, his appointments with Early Intervention.
We were able to begin to combat this baffling disease early–when Carlos was only 29-30 months old. He entered the Ken-Crest South School until he was ready for Kindergarten. Ken-Crest is a wonderful place for children with disabilities. Carlos learned to talk again, and I was perfectly fine with knowing that, while my son may never run to me with outstretched arms and wild abandon that other three-year olds do, at that moment in our journey, just to hear him say ‘Mom’ and see his smile were enough for me.

Carlos stayed at Ken-Crest until he was ready to enter a ‘regular’ Kindergarten class. He had been evaluated, and it was decided that the School district would ‘mainstream’ him, with his TSS. His birthday falls after the cut-off date for enrollment, so he started when he had just turned six.

His Kindergarten teacher was, in my opinion, an Angel sent from Heaven. She helped my son and I can honestly say, she loved my son. She understood him, and she helped him in more ways than any teacher could.

I am proud to say, that Carlos was the FIRST child in the history of the School District to be awarded First Honors in Kindergarten, and he has been awarded the same while in First Grade as well.

Carlos is now in Second and doing equally well, except for some problems with reading. While Carlos is reading at a Third Grade level, as is par for the course with most children diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, his comprehension skills are lacking.

Many people knock Philadelphia and Pennsylvania for being a crime filled city full of derelicts, and corrupt City Officials. While some of this may be true, it certainly isn’t all of it. Living in Pennsylvania does have it’s advantages.

Our Governor, Ed Rendell, is one of the strongest advocates and lobbyists for Children with Special Needs. Even though I may not always see eye-to-eye on a lot of his political issues, I will continue to support Governor Rendell in his efforts.

Carlos and I continue on Our Journey of Learning. He is currently enrolled in a Martial Arts School where he is doing very well, and he enjoys it. He has a purity of both heart and mind that I have yet to meet in anyone that doesn’t have the Gift of Autism.

Yes, I see Autism as a gift, not as a curse or as something to be ashamed of.
Autism has taught me that things really are cut and dry, in almost all situations, there can be no ‘middle ground’.
Autism has taught me to appreciate and celebrate the smallest of things, and not to wait for something ‘bigger’ to throw a party.

God gave me the greatest gift of all, my Sunshine Boy, and Autsim & Asperger’s only made that gift all the better.

With Thanksgiving over, and the trek to and from the Armpit of The World, otherwise known to me as Newark Intl. Airport to drop off my sister (they changed the name, now it’s Newark Liberty Airport, but what they have freed us all from, still remains a mystery) I had shopping on the brain!

Now, I love…wait, scratch that…I adore shopping. However, I am a Rapid Fire Shopper. I know exactly what I want before I go in, and I don’t play games. I will step on your feet, pull your hair, or gently ‘bump’ you out of the way to get my item before you do.

However, I don’t ‘do’ Black Friday. I never have. Even before the blessed gift of Online Shopping. Too many people, and way too many nut jobs all grouped together in the Toy Aisle.

So, like I’ve done every year since it began, I shopped Cyber Monday.

Before embarking on my Quest for Savings, I asked the kids what they wanted from Santa.

“OK you guys.” I began, “What do you want from Santa this year?”
“I want cars, lots and lots of cars. Oh! And I want the remote control kind too.” HB declared.
HB usually asks for cars every year, so I wasn’t surprised.
Then, he hit me with, “Cuppala more things, I want a WebKinz, and I want that Frog thing that helps ya read.”
Screeching laughter from Na-Na as she said, “A WebKinz, HB?!?!? Oh my GAWD! Those are for GIRLS!. Why do you want a WebKinz?”
HB looked at her from the side of his eyes and blinked as he answered, “So I can use the ‘puter an’ play games wif my girlfriends. AN has one, and so does BG, and MN, and even a few of the BOYS have them Na-Na. So, you can go scratch yer butt in da corner for all I care.”

The Twelve Year Old howled with laughter, and SB giggled, then he asked,
“Can I have some cars, too? Not too many, maybe like 10 or 15? And some books about football, and some games?”
“Sure hon–” I began, before HB interrupted with,
“Oh! I want books too! And games!”
“OK, HB. I got it, can you let everyone else get a turn and–” once again, interrupted, this time by Na-Na
“God HB! Why can’t you just be quiet? You always have to open your mouth and interrupt everybody!”
“Kinda like what you just did, IHOF?” he retorted.
Before WWIII broke out, I shut them both up, by saying Santa wouldn’t bring anything if they kept fighting.

Then, the Bomb went off.

“SANTA ISN’T EVEN REAL, MOM! SO STOP LYING!” Na-Na huffed with her 10-year old superiority.

Everyone was quiet for a minute, then a chorus of, “Be quiets” and “YES HE IS!!” began to fill my Living Room.

I stopped the noise with The Mommy Look, and continued.

“Twelve Year Old, what do you want?” I asked.
“Linkin Park CD, Three Days Grace CD, the Twilight books, and the new Vampire Knight books.” she rattled off with much ease, I could tell she had been anticipating this question.
“No clothes? No boots?” I asked.
“Well, how about you get me these boots from Vans, and like, a pair of jeans, and 2 shirts. Then, gimme a Gift Card to wherever, I don’t care, so I can buy my own clothes.”
“Fair enough.” I answered, adding, “You don’t have a particular store in mind?”
“Gimme a few days, ‘K?”
“OK.” Turning to Na-Na who was shooting daggers at me with her eyes, because I had dared to make her go last, I asked her the same thing.
“Dereon Jeans, 2 pair. Apple Bottom Jeans, 2 pair. You can find them in my size at Macy’s. I know, because I went there with Daddy. OK, I want a sweater dress with a pair of matching leggings and coordinating leather boots. I also need boots for school. I want 3 sweaters, and 4 shirts, 2 button down shirts, some Yoga Pants, anything but white, or green, purple would be fantastic if you can find it. Ummm, yea, I want some books too.”
Dumbfounded, I asked, “Is that all?”
“OH! All that stuff you can find at either Neiman’s or Nordstrom.”
I just sat there. I don’t even think I blinked, I may have twitched, though.

After dinner and ‘bafs’, I was finishing up some work on the computer, when HB walked over to me.
“Mommy?” he asked, very quietly, which is so unlike him.
“What is it baby?” I answered.
“Ya know that stuff Na-Na was sayin’ ’bout Santa?” he took a deep breath and continued, “It’s not true, is it?”
The look in his eyes almost killed me.
How he managed to hold that much hope in something he had never really saw, except for the Mall Santa’s etc, was astounding to me. What was also amazing, was the faith he had in me, to tell him the truth.

I thought for a minute, then sighed as I pulled him onto my lap.

“OK, HB” I began, “Here is the truth. Yes, there really is a Santa Claus. But, Mommy has to send him money for your toys and when you turn 10-years old, or you start eating at IHOF, whichever comes first, Santa stops coming, and then Mommy buys your presents for you.”
I gave him a few minutes to digest that information.

HB reached up, wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me tight.
“Thanks Mommy.” he whispered. “I knew she was wrong. I guess we’ll wait an’ see what happens when I’m 10, huh? Coz I won’t be eatin’ at IHOF. EVER.” Then, he gave me a kiss goodnight and off to bed he went.

But not before stopping at the doorway of Na-Na’s room and saying, “You. I am done wif you. Santa does come here for me, an’ SB. Don’t you try an’ ruin my Chrissmas, Na-Na, just coz you eat at IHOF.”

I braced myself for yet another Prize Fight between those two.
But…
Lo! and Behold!
It was a Christmas Miracle come early!
Na-Na said, “I’m sorry, HB. You’re right, there really is a Santa Claus. C’mere.”
And she kissed & hugged him goodnight.

Hello everyone! I apologize for being away for so long, but things have been a tad busy around here, ‘Tis the Season and all.

My little sister, Amy, came to visit us over the Thanksgiving Holiday. Needless to say all the kids, The 12 Year Old included, were extremely excited.

Amy is a fantastic Aunt to them, the kind that always gives the right present and always knows just what to do.
My sister adores children. Television Children to be more precise. the first instance of arguing, or turmoil, sends her straight to the toilet to vomit. I’m glad my kids have stopped calling her ‘Aunt Chicken‘, though that was all my fault to begin with.
The last Holiday Visit, Amy’s hair was short, very, very short. When she woke up in the morning, it was sticking up in the back just like a, well, a chicken’s butt.
I forgot which one of my kids asked for what, but I told them, “Ask Aunt Chicken to get it, she’s in the kitchen.”
The name Aunt Chicken stuck for about two years.

“When’s Aunt May-me gettin’ here?” HB asked for four hundred forty-seventh time in a week.
“On the twenty-first, HB.” I answered with a sigh. Oh be quiet! You would sigh too if you had been hearing it as much as I had been.
HB continued his concentration of a SpongeBob cartoon when Na-Na came bounding down the stairs, to ask,
“Mom. When is Aunt May-me coming?”
“The twenny-first, Na-Na. Now shush! SpongeBob is on!” Well, that took care of that.
Until dinnertime.
Same barrage of questions. When is Aunt May-me coming? When is the twenty-first?
And then, The Countdown Began.

The day my sister arrived, to say she was exhausted would be putting it mildly. Amy lives in Berlin and works for Sony EU.
She adores Europe, and I am slightly jealous. I would love to be free of kids, and in Europe. For all of fifteen minutes.
Then I would be bored to tears. Sure, I would have friends, but c’mon, who could ever top my four kids?

The night before Thanksgiving I prepared all my side dishes, the sweet potatoes (which make me gag), the god-awful time honored classic, Green Bean Casserole, the Baked Mashed Potatoes with cream cheese and sour cream, that could probably double for Spackle in a pinch.

For weeks, HB had been pestering me about pumpkin pie, and apple pie.
The last time I tried to make an apple pie, I put the adults into a diabetic sugar coma, and the kids were on a sugar high for 18 hours straight. I caved, and a Bakery apple pie was bought, along with a sweet potato pie.
I made my pumpkin pie, let it cool and called HB into the kitchen.

“HB! The pumpkin pie is done.”
“YAY! Gimme da first piece! Wif LOTS of whipped cream!”
HB had already eaten 2 whole tubs of Cool-Whip himself, so I let him try the pie alone first.
“MMMMMMM….Punk’in pie! My favorite!”
“Here, HB. Taste the pie first, and then tell me how big of a piece you want.”
I wish I had gotten it on video. Not sure where or from whom he had heard about pumpkin pie, but it definitely was not what he was expecting.
He gagged. Twice.
“YUCK! What the hell? Are you trying to kill me? That stuff is nas-tee!”
“HB! Don’t say ‘hell’ and no, I’m not trying to kill you. You“, I reminded him, “where the one going on and on about pumpkin pie for days now.”
“Yea, well if I knew it was gonnna taste like crap, I wouldda told ya to give it to Angus.”

I just blinked, and racked my brain for some ingredient that I may have missed. Because, not to toot my own horn, but my pumpkin pies rock!
“I’m calling Gramma ‘n tellin her what you tried to do. Let’s see if you get anything for Crissmas, MOMMY!”
I just blinked again.

Amy came into the kitchen, “Lynn, are you OK?” then, seeing the look on my exhausted face, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you just taste this?” I asked as I handed her a forkful of pumpkin pie.
“Oh my God!” my heart skipped a beat—damn—I had forgotten something!
“This is delicious! How do you make it so good?” I wanted to scream from the rooftops, the awesomeness of my pumpkin pie!
“This is just as good as Grandma’s was.”
I choked up a bit, because her and I had been to visit our Grandparents and Great-Grandparents graves two days before and to put Christmas Wreaths on them.

I cleaned up the kitchen, went to sleep much to late because my Mom had sent me a huge box of books, and I was reading until 3am.
The alarm rang at 5am, and it was time to prep the turkey, put in my signature cranberry, sausage & sage stuffing, and start the dough for the dinner rolls.

Dinner came and went, with a few minor glitches, those glitches involving HB and Na-Na, IHOF and what Na-Na deems ‘deplorable table manners‘.
Hmmm, Na-Na is getting a C+ in English this semester, by uses ‘deplorable‘ in a sentence correctly?
I’m going to have to look into that one.

Thanksgiving left us all with full bellies, hearts, and very, very thankful that Aunt May-me had come to visit us for a week.
And I didn’t have to offer her a Valium even once!

***Part II will include taking Amy to the Airport, My Adventures on Cyber Monday, and everything else so far.***

It was late Saturday afternoon, SB and The Twelve Year Old were spending time with their Dad, who had agreed to watch them for me so I could embark on a trek worthy of Jesus—The Hooters on Scooters Pub Crawl sponsored by the Ladies Auxiliary Club of the Riverfront NYA. It was an event to remember. On our twenty-four (give or take a few blocks) block trek, we hit nine pubs, count ‘em, nine pubs—starting at 8:00pm and ending at 11:30pm. Most, if not all, of us are Irish, cast iron livers are ingrained in our DNA. So the two beers at each bar, accompanied by shots were a night to remember…in pictures.

We started at the Club and I had a ‘few‘. A few for me is about five…in an hour. Then we began the Crawl. Some courageous gals were actually on Scooters. I was not that brave. I can barely walk when I am ossified, can you imagine me on a Scooter?

I’ll get to the Crawl later on, in a different blog, when I can find my camera, right now, I want to talk about the Wisdom of HB and his Electoral Picks.

Their father is a Teamster, and Sen. Obama has the backing of The Teamsters Union, so we received a flyer in the mail on Saturday, heralding the cry of “Vote For Obama!”

HB loves to get the mail, and read who each piece is for, and when he saw that, he said, “Ugh. I hate him.”
“Hate who, HB?”
“Obama.”
“Why, HB?”
I never discuss politics with my kids, they are too young, I think, to worry about all that right now. Hell, being a kid is hard enough without worrying about Our Country going into the toilet.
HB’s reply, ” ‘Coz he sucks.”
“Well, what about McCain, HB?”
“Oh, he sucks, too.”
“What?!?! Why do they suck, HB?”
” ‘Coz they get on my nerves, Mommy.”
“What do you mean, ‘they get on your nerves‘ ?”
Holy Moses with a staff! He’s only five!
“Their commercials. They get on my nerves. All they say is ‘Obama did this bad stuff’ and ‘McCain did that bad stuff’. No body is saying the good stuff. No body’s saying what they want us to do to get the good stuff from ‘em. They make no sense Mom.”

For once, Na-Na was speechless, and so was I.

Has the campaign actually reached the minds of Kindergarten children, and are they actually seeing something we aren’t?

I asked, “OK, HB, if you could pick who would be President, who would it be?”
Without batting an eye or looking up from his new ‘Skippyjon Jones‘ book, he replied, “Santa Claus.”
“SANTA CLAUS????” screeched Na-Na
Ahhhh…I knew she wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
With a sideways glance, he simply said, “IHOF, again?”
“Be quiet!” she seethed. At least it’s better than her standard ‘Shut UP HB’.
With a sigh, HB explained, “Look, all ya gotta do to make Santa happy is keep your toys in the toy box, make your bed, not hit SB, try not to cut Na-Na’s hair when she’s sleeping….”
“WHAT??? YOU TRIED TO CUT MY HAIR??”
“Na-Na, please, let him finish.”
“See? There she goes again. Yap, yap, yappity, yap. Go take a nap, Na-Na.”
“Finish what you were saying, HB.” I tried to diffuse the bomb that was about to go off between the two of them.
“Well, if you do the stuff that Santa wants, he brings you the stuff you want. Simple. Santa Claus for President.”
I was silent for a minute. HB looked up from his book, and said,
“The End.”

Sometimes, I yearn for the clarity of a five-year old.