Sea Monkey Massacre

This weekend, we are moving into our new house.

Needless to say, our current residence looks like the aftermath of a hurricane.

While everyone else was loading the truck, Cortlen decided that it was just as good of time as any to open up one of his Christmas presents: a plastic tank full of sea monkeys.

"Not now," I told him when he asked me to help him fill the plastic aquarium full of water.

"We can mess with the sea monkeys tomorrow," I promised. "Definitely not today."

My son is s good listener and I could have predicted what happened next.

A few minutes later, Cortlen emerged from the bathroom wringing his hands in anguish.

The water came out of the faucet faster than expected and flushed all the sea monkey embryos down the drain.

"I killed them all!" he cried.

I tried to be sympathetic, but it was hard. On Christmas morning, Kellen tripped over a box and dropped his aquarium on my living room rug. Three thousand sea monkeys lost their lives in the accident.

"You're happy!" Cortlen wailed. "Stop smiling!" he screamed.

That was almost twelve hours ago.

If you've ever had sea monkeys at your house, you know why I'm still smiling.

Happy New Year!

The Open House

Like most neighborhoods in central Florida, mine is comprised of a mix of young families and retirees.

I've heard mixed reviews about the snowbirds; they have a reputation for sitting on their front lawns with radar guns and clocking your speed as you drive down the street.

All of the ones that I have met so far, however, remind me of my grandma...which is a good thing.

Today a group of painters came to my new house to fix a couple holes in the drywall and remove a 12 x 12 foot map of the world that the previous owners had super glued to a bedroom wall.

By lunchtime, the poor guys were pulling their hair out. Four hours had past and they had only removed Australia.

I told them I would buy them lunch. I left the garage doors open when I left.

When I got back to the house a half hour later, several senior citizens were standing on my driveway. They waved as I pulled up.

"You've got a lot of work to do in there," one whistled.

"Why are you taking that map down?" asked another. "Don't you like maps?"

"I like the tile in your kitchen," said a third.

I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

"I feel violated," I told my husband when he came home from work.

"You like going through other people's houses too," he pointed out.

"I didn't invite them!" I cried. In my mind, there is a big difference between a realtor's open house and trespassing.

"Welcome to Florida," he replied.

Why Do Bad Houses Happen to Good People?

If walls could talk, I'm pretty sure I would not want to hear what mine have to say.

As I was dragging a garbage bag full of dead banzai trees (another treasure left behind) to the curb this morning, I was approached by a woman walking a dog.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," the woman said with a smile.

I smiled back.

"I heard you were left with a mess," she said.

I gestured to the garage, which was brimming with treasures.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked.

"Like what?" I wanted to know. I wondered if the woman knew about the plastic fruit and perhaps wanted to buy it.

"Never mind," the woman said and shook her head.

I shrugged my shoulders and heaved the garbage bag into a trash can.

The woman couldn't take it any longer.

"The people who used to live here were swingers!" she blurted out. The woman looked visibly relieved after the announcement, like she had just passed a kidney stone.

I shook my head in disbelief. This couldn't be true. Things like this didn't really happen in the suburbs, especially one so close to the Magic Kingdom.

"They used to have parties all the time!" the woman continued. I put my fingers in my ears.

Two minutes later, I was curled in the fetal position in the hallway closet. My husband didn't answer his phone the first ten times that I called. When he did pick up, he was slightly annoyed.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting," he hissed.

"Why do bad things happen to good people?" I asked.

It's been twenty-four hours and my husband hasn't stopped laughing.

I've decided to hire an exorcist.

I apologize that I haven't posted in awhile.

We closed on our new house and had Christmas, out of town visitors, and the stomach flu....all at the same time. Needless to say, things have been nuts.

The house was in pre-foreclosure (short sale) when we bought it. When the previous owners moved out of the property last winter, they left behind a significant number of personal belongings ranging from the bizarre (a collection of plastic fruit; three huge Roman columns made of styrofoam; a wine rack that had been converted into a bathroom vanity); to the mundane (cans of refried beans, bottles of half-used shampoo); to the sad (the back side of the one of the kids' bedroom doors was decorated with family pictures). This morning, I cleaned out one of the closets and found a shoebox filled with unopened bills.

While we are excited to have the house, of course, the past few days have been a constant reminder that our family is the beneficiary of another family's misfortune. From what we can tell based on the documents left behind, the previous owners had a small business that went belly up when the economy tanked. Maybe there was more to it than that; we don't know. Like us, they have four small kids.

Ugh.

Packing up someone else's life is a completely surreal experience. I don't know how I feel about it all yet.

Christmas Mail

This morning I went to the post office to mail a couple last minute gifts. Everything went fine, except for the fact that somehow I managed to get my dad's Christmas gift stuck in the mail bin.



After waiting in a ridiculously long line, I notified the woman at the front counter of my predicament. She told me that what happened to me "happens all the time" and that someone would "try" to get the package out later that afternoon.

"If another customer doesn't figure out a way to get to it first," she told me with a hysterical laugh.

I too, would have found the situation very funny had I not already lost the will to live. By that point, Cameron had already taken his shoes and socks off for the seventh time and was trying to mountain climb up my leg.

The woman standing in line behind me had also already tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that my son was barefoot and that the ground was filthy.

Needless to say, I decided that my dad would survive without receiving a gift this year.

After all, it's the thought that counts.

Christmas Giveaway!!!

I have something very special to give away this week!!!!!

It is incredibly awesome and something that every family would love to have in their home for the holiday season.

I'm not going to tell you what it is (surprises are rad), but I will give you two clues:

1. It's a gift that keeps on giving. I got it on Friday night, in the middle of Ikea, and still have it!!!!!

2. You won't be able to keep it to yourself! This gift is not for the stingy. No matter how hard you try to keep it all to yourself, it will be nearly impossible not to share it with somebody.

I love a good giveaway and this one is, I'm sure you'll all agree, pretty awesome!!!!

Sadly, this prize can only be claimed in person...but don't despair! If you don't live in Florida but have a friend traveling to Orlando over the holiday break, enter on her behalf!!! This gift is perfect for families on vacations. Someone gave it to us once while we were on a three-day road trip and it was the best.

Contest starts NOW and ends 12/24 at midnight EST.

Good luck!

Gingerbread Houses

None of the gingerbread houses that I have made in years past ever made it to Christmas....due to structural problems.

This year, I used a glue gun to apply all of the roof shingles and windows and doors etc..


"I think the kids got to it," my husband said slowly.

I am now regretting my ingenuity.

The Invisible Fence

Last week, the family who lives across the street got a dog.

Today, a man came and installed an invisible fence around their yard. The concept is genius: every time the dog crosses the line, it gets a little bit electrocuted.

I want an invisible fence for my bedroom.

Ever since my daughter discovered hair spray, mine is always missing. All of the pencils in my desk have broken tips. My printer paper is constantly being turned into paper airplanes. One of my sons runs off with my toothpaste on a daily basis. The other one can't stay off of my toilet.

"There are two other toilets in this house!" I yelled through the bathroom door this morning. "Why are you always on that one?"

The straw that broke the camel's back was when I tried to wrap Christmas presents this afternoon but couldn't find any tape.

"I bought three rolls at the store yesterday!" I cried. "I put them right here!" I said, pointing at my desk.

Three seven year-olds stared at me nervously and asked if they could go take a long walk off a short pier.

I found the empty tape dispensers in my daughter's closet, along with half of my stash of wrapping paper. Instead of doing their homework, my kids wrapped up half of their personal belongings for the fun of it.


I wanted to stick my fingers in the nearest electrical outlet.

Once I calmed down, I made them put the "presents" under the tree and told them that they couldn't open them until Christmas morning.

"You brought this upon yourselves," I lectured.

"I wrapped up all my underwear," Cortlen announced after I stopped talking.

One of us was visibly distraught by this news. The other giggled and ran out the front door.

Please tell me that it gets better.

Shabby Apple Dress & Ring Giveaway Winners!!!

Yowzers! You guys rock. I wish I had 800 dresses to give away, but thank you so much for entering.

The Shabby Apple Dress goes to Gwen from Texas who wrote:

"That dress is so beautiful & classic. The ring is so fun too!"


And the gorgeous ring goes to Mommy McD who wrote:

"Are you going to have another give away where you offer those long legs so us short people don't have to do any hemming. Because that dress is amazeballs.
As is the jewelry."

Congrats ladies! Shoot me an email at themeanestmom@gmail.com ASAP and we'll get your stuff shipped out to you.

Our Rad Vacation

This weekend, my husband and I took our older kids on a short cruise to the Bahamas. We specifically left Cameron at home so we could do some fun activities together as a family.

I shouldn't have bothered.

All my kids wanted to do the whole time was watch television in their cabin.

"We didn't come here to watch T.V.," I told them. "Let's go check out the buffet or something."

I had to poke them with sticks to see if they were still alive.

"Do you guys want to go swimming in the pool?" asked my husband.

All eyes remained fixed on the television screen until my husband leaned over and turned it off.

"Hey!" they grumbled in unison. "I was watching that!"

My husband ticked off the options on his fingers. "How about ping pong?" he asked. "Or shuffleboard or basketball? At 3 o'clock, we can learn how to fold towels into the shape of animals."

There was panic and desperation in my husband's voice. For a brief moment, he thought that he had flushed several hundred dollars down the toilet. Then, out of nowhere, hope rose out of the abyss of darkness.

"I can think of something that I would like to do," volunteered Camber.

"Yes?" we asked, hands clasped in eager anticipation. By that point, both of us had cabin fever so bad that we would have agreed to sing a karaoke duet at one of the ship's bars, if that's what it took.

"We could order room service," she said with a delighted sigh.

"I officially hate myself," hissed my husband as we dragged our children, kicking and screaming, up to the pool deck.

"We're going swimming now," my husband said through gritted teeth. One by one, the children were dropped into the water.

"She's trying to kill us!" Cortlen told a fellow swimmer, pointing in my direction.

"We're having fun together as a family," I corrected.

The swimmer looked embarrassed for us.

"Why are we doing this to ourselves?" my husband asked me a few minutes later. We were sitting in deck chairs, recovering from all of the fun. Our offspring were huddled in mass in the hot tub, plotting against us.

Ten minutes later, we were back in the dungeon.

"I might not make it through this," my husband announced, moments after Camber poked her head through the door to our adjoining rooms. She had just gotten off the phone with the cruise ship operator.

"I ordered everything!" she announced, referring to the room service menu.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Christmas Shopping: Part 2

For the first decade of my marriage, I refused to buy any of my own Christmas presents. Instead, I gave my husband a list and felt slightly unloved as he put off all the shopping until Christmas Eve.

In years 11 and 12, I bought my own presents, but refused to wrap them.

This year, I saved my husband (who breaks into a cold sweat at the sight of the mall) the trouble.

"What did I buy you? he giggled nervously, eying a box with my name on it.

"Something expensive," I replied.

Actually, it's just a blender.

But I like to see him sweat.

*****
Happy Holiday Shopping!

*****
If you haven't entered the Shabby Apple Dress giveaway yet, you'd better hurry up! Time is almost up!

On a related note, I haven't run giveaways for a long time because I had a couple of bad experiences and got kind of cranky about them for awhile. However, working with the truly fantastic ladies at Shabby Apple made me remember how fun they are and why I liked doing them in the first place. If you have something GOOD that you're looking to promote that is not a blanket with arm holes or any of its handmade relatives, I'm ready to hear it! Shoot me an email.

A House!

Six months ago, we made an offer on a short sale property in Orlando. In its current form, the house is kind of an ugly duckling. The previous owners abandoned the property a year ago, so the yard is a mess. The pool was home to at least 2000 tadpoles when we first saw it.

For unexplained reasons, several bathroom vanities have been ripped out...and replaced with wine racks. All of cabinet door pulls in the house are in the shape of grapes.

The previous owners had dogs.

An eight-foot tree limb recently crashed through the screened lanai and fell into the pool, chipping off several pieces of tile.

The owners attempted to take the laundry room wash tub and several pieces of drywall with them when they moved out. Unsuccessfully.

Currently, the house is occupied by an illegal renter who has five flat screen television sets mounted to the living room wall, along with a seven-foot sailfish.

I may or may not have peeked through the windows.

The list goes on.

Despite, or maybe because of all of its problems, my husband and I love neighborhood and the floor plan and kept our fingers crossed that it would work out.

In a few weeks, the house will be ours.

Assuming we can get the illegal renter/squatter to move out.

The Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

The box containing my Christmas tree ornaments is buried somewhere in this delicious treasure hoard:


At my kids' suggestion, I scaled the tower of boxes in our garage in search of the Holy Grail.

I did find a pile of mouse droppings, but no Christmas box.

"We're going to have to have a Charlie Brown Christmas tree this year," I told them, throwing up my hands in defeat.

"What's that?" they wanted to know.

The story about the degenerate tree and homemade ornaments raised everyone out of the depths of depression.

My vision of making ornaments with my children included a warm fire, Christmas carols, and a group hug.

I spent half of the appointed hour locked in the bathroom counting to ten.

No one told me that when you include the price of pain and suffering, it costs more to make ornaments than to buy them.

"Is it going to kill you to attach your paper chain to your sister's? Really? Is it?"

"She isn't copying you, and if she is, who cares?"

"If you tell your brother that his ornament is ugly one more time, I'm not going to let you make the next one."

"If you can't share the paint, I'm going to take it all away!"

It was not one of my better moments.

"Mom's in a bad mood," my daughter announced when my husband came home from work. She shrugged her shoulders and looked confused.

A few minutes later, our cat pulled the popcorn garland off the tree and dragged it up the stairs.

I was in the bathroom counting to 100 when my husband threw it away. Or else I would have taken a picture.


*****
Have you entered the Shabby Apple Dress and Ring Giveaway yet? If not, get going!

Shabby Apple Dress and Jewelry Giveaway!

Wanna win a Shabby Apple dress or ring? I'm giving both away over HERE.

The Home Improvement Center Christmas Tree

Our current living quarters are tight. Very tight.

This year, my husband proposed that we get a Christmas tree that is proportionate to our town home's square footage. "Like one that fits on the top of a table," he said.

While he was at work, I took the kids to a local home improvement super center and purchased half a forest.

"Do you want me to trim off the bottom?" asked the sixteen year-old tree salesman.

I eyed the man-child suspiciously. "It's free," he assured me.

When we arrived home, I noticed that in the process of trimming the bottom of the tree, the man-child also managed to split the tree trunk nearly in half.


I thought about taking the tree back to the store, but then I found some duct tape and wood glue.

"Is that what you're supposed to do?" Cortlen asked me nervously as I bound the trunk with sticky bandages.

"It's what smart people do," I answered confidently.

My husband noticed the deformities right away. "That tree isn't going to make it until Christmas," he predicted.

That was Friday. At least 1/3 of the pine needles have already fallen off. Is that a bad sign?

Do You Know What?

On Saturday night, I went to the grocery store. Before I left the house, I asked if anyone wanted to go with me.

My husband and Cortlen ignored me (they were watching a football game). Camber came into the room with a brush, a bottle of hair spray, and two packages of glittery hair clips.

"I would go, but I have things to do," she explained, jabbing a clip into my husband's scalp.

I didn't really want to take Kellen because he looked like a homeless person, but by the time I found my keys, he was already in the car.

The drive to the grocery store took exactly three minutes...plenty of time, I learned, to have a conversation about just everything in the entire planet.

Kellen: "Do you know what? I wouldn't go walking in the woods right now. You wouldn't be able to see a panther because it's so dark. Isn't that crazy?"

Me: "Why are we talking about panthers?"

Kellen: "Do you know what else mom? Do you know what? A boy in my class got sent to the principal's office last week. Did you know that?"

Me: "I wasn't aware."

Kellen: "Do you know what isn't a smart idea? Shaving off half of your mustache and leaving the other half still on your face!"

(ten seconds later)

"Do you know what? I ate something out of the trashcan today when you weren't looking. I feel bad about that. Do you know why? Because eating out of the trashcan is disgusting and I lied."

Me: "I'm still thinking about panthers."

Kellen: "Do you know what?"

Me: "Please try not to say that so much. It's unnecessary."

Kellen: "Ok, Mom. I'll try. Do you know what?"

Me: "Chicken butt."

Kellen: "That wasn't what I was going to say."

Me: "Oh. Sorry."

Kellen: "Do you know what? If you snort a kidney bean up your nose, it might get stuck there or go into your brain and kill you."

After 20 more minutes of this, I started to ask around about kidney beans; namely, where they were in the grocery store and if they carried any large enough for an adult to snort.

Kellen: "Do you know what? If a rabid dog bites you, you have to get three shots in your arm that are as thick as peanut butter. Did you know that?"

The Rip-Off

The scene: an overpriced department store

The purpose for our visit: to purchase a $100 group gift card for a relative who just had a baby

After paying for the item, I put the card in my purse. My kids were quiet until we got outside. And then they let me have it.

"You paid $100 for that?" Camber screeched. "That's a total rip-off!"

"You are not that smart," added Cortlen.

Kellen produced an identical card from his pocket.

"I got one for free," he bragged. "The woman told me that I could have it."

Sometimes I don't think that I'm going to make it to forty.

*****
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The Cheap Santa

My kids can earn up to 5 bucks per week doing household chores, remembering to chew with their mouths closed at the dinner table, and the like.

Camber spends her money the instant that she gets it, usually on things that I abhor.

"It would be great if you didn't buy that tub full of tiny beads," I told her as she plopped the object into my shopping cart this afternoon.



One of my greatest joys in life is picking up thousands of microscope beads off the floor...one by one.

"Christmas is coming soon," I begged. "Maybe Santa will get it for you."

My kids aren't the smartest kids in the universe, but they have enough brain cells to know that the Santa that comes to their house doesn't love them as much as the Santa that comes to their friends' houses.

"Santa would never buy me something like that because hates us," my daughter told me. "All he buys me are books and toys without batteries."

"And the things that are at the bottom of my Christmas list," added Cortlen crossing his arms across his chest. "I'm asking for an I-Touch this year, but I'll bet that I won't get one."

"I would bet that too," I told him. "You have a really hard life."

When we got home from the store, my daughter got out her homework. One of her assignments was to write a story using her spelling words. The title of her story was "Why Santa Hates Me."

Lovely.

The Pull Toy

Some people buy their children pull toys.




Those who don't discover a new use for their electric mixers.

*****
What's the craziest household item that your child has befriended? Cortlen used to make out with the vacuum cleaner when he was three.

Christmas Presents

The biggest problem with living in a small town home is the lack of storage space...especially when the holidays hit. When we lived in Philadelphia, I used to hide all of my kids' Christmas gifts in the basement. This year, the only place that I could think to put them was under a blanket in my closet.


"You've got to be kidding me," my husband said when he saw my good idea.

"They won't even notice it," I insisted.

Just to be safe, I declared my bedroom off limits for the next month to anyone under the age of thirty.

That was all the invitation that my kids needed to rifle through my personal belongings while I was making dinner.

Needless to say, they noticed the peculiar mound in the corner of my closet.

"I'm taking it all back!" I screeched. "Every last bit of it!"

In the middle of my tirade about respecting privacy and listening to parents and staying out of places where you aren't supposed to be and not being a lemming and having the confidence to tell your sister 'no' when she orders you to pull off the blanket, my husband made the fatal error of suggesting that I was partially responsible for the fiasco.

"I told you that that wasn't a good place to hide the presents," he said.

In a fit of rage, I ran upstairs. When I came down, I held up a pair of electric hair clippers that I bought at T.J. Maxx last week for $9.99.

"I'm taking your Christmas gifts back too!" I barked.

I wish that I could say that my husband was devastated by my announcement, but he was not.

I wonder why.

Thanksgiving Turkey Recipe

Don't know how to cook a turkey?

Just ask Kellen.



Happy Thanksgiving!

Folding Clothes

"I'm bored."

Cortlen and Kellen said this to me this afternoon, five minutes after we got home from Blizzard Beach (one of Disney's water parks).

"Good," I replied. "Go fold some clothes." I directed them to the mountain of clean laundry piled on top of my bed.

"No thanks," they answered.

"That wasn't a question, but a request."

Several minutes later, they ran out the door. "We're all done!" they chirped.

I went upstairs to check on the progress. This is what I found:

The Book Club

Since ascending into adulthood, I have been a member of 17 book clubs. Or so it feels.

Unlike most other social events, I find book clubs to be thoroughly enjoyable. On all but two occasions, I have read the assigned book and then neglected to show up for the meeting to discuss it.

"You don't like book clubs," my husband corrected. "You like reading lists."

Last week, I joined my eighteenth book club. The first meeting was in a conference room at the public library. The book club leader began the meeting by asking each of us to make a list of things that we like to read about.

I didn't know what to write first, so I put down "infectious diseases."

"Like the Swine Flu?" the woman asked when she got to my paper.

"And HIV and Cholera and the Black Death," I added.

All of the other lists in the room included mythical creatures.

"Let me guess," my husband said when I got home. "You're not going back."

I don't know what gave him that idea. I think I finally found my home.

Christmas Lists

All this week, my kids have been making drafts of Christmas lists. On Sunday, the final lists are due. Today we held a peer review.

"Pass your list to the person sitting on your right," I ordered.

When Cortlen saw who was going to review his list, he started to cry. Camber cackled and rubbed her hands together in anticipation and excitement.

"Now I want you to circle three things on the list that you think the author would like the most," I told them.

I had no idea where this exercise was going or what purpose it served, but I figured that the same thing that once kept my freshman composition students busy for 50 minutes could keep my kids occupied for five. Ten if I was lucky.

Kellen was a good listener and circled everything on the list in front of him.

Camber wrote the word "butt" on Cortlen's list and had to be excused from the table.

Cortlen was so upset by what his sister did that he stabbed her paper with his pencil and had to be excused from the table as well.

Santa watched the whole spectacle through his magic telescope as he whispered "Merry Christmas" in my ear.

My Daughter's Dinner

I routinely cooked entire meals for my family when I was five years old. At least that is what I tell my children.

I also remember walking to school uphill both ways in the snow. In Los Angeles.

"Everyone is going to learn how to cook," I announced on Monday.

My seven year-old daughter was very interested in the idea of making a meal for our family. However, she was not at all interested in me helping or supervising her in any way, shape, or form.

"Just give me the recipe book and leave me alone!" she screamed.

I called my husband and told him to expect something delicious.

After much deliberation, she decided to make stir-fry using a bag of shrimp and pack of frozen vegetables that she found in the freezer.

I poked my head around the corner. "If you need any help, let me know," I said.

"If you come in here again, I'm not going to feed you," she hissed.

Based upon the looks of the things in the frying pan, I wasn't sure that was such a bad thing.

Five minutes later, dinner was served.

"Everything is still frozen!" Cortlen whined, gnawing a broccoli ice cube. I kicked him under the table.

Unable to find any stir-fry sauce in the pantry, my daughter substituted it for the next best thing: ketchup.

"It looks yummy!" I gagged. Camber sat down at the table and watched us expectantly.

I told her that I wanted to savor the meal as long as possible. I had big hopes that I could defer the actual eating process indefinitely.

"I can't eat this!" Kellen yelled and shoved his plate away. I sent him to his room for being rude. He seemed happy to go.

"That's too bad for Kellen," my daughter said, "But good for you." She dumped the contents of my son's plate onto mine.

I giggled nervously.

"You know who really likes stir-fry?" I said. "Your dad." In an act of selfless generosity, I offered my dinner to my husband when he came home from work.

My husband was very grateful.

Other People's Toilets

Other people's toilets are like cocaine for my kids: they crave them.

Before we even come close to stepping foot into any house that is for sale, we take all of our kids to the bathroom.

Prospective buyers used to use our toilets when we were selling our house in Philadelphia. I thought about duct taping the lids down, but my realtor told me that if I was serious about selling my house, that I should learn to live with certain things, even if those things made me want to vomit.

Despite this precaution, at least one of my children always has a bathroom emergency.

Today it was Kellen. He spent the entire time we were inside the house staring longingly at the powder room commode.

"Nope," my husband said, shaking his head. "You're going to have to hold it."

"We'll stop at a gas station on the way home," I told him.

My son looked at me like I was depriving him of one of life's basic necessities.

"Needs and wants are two different things," I explained.

"One time won't hurt," he begged.

My husband pointed out that that's the same thing that people say about drugs.

Shockingly, when we got to the gas station, my son's urge to urinate was gone.

The Dentist

This afternoon, I took my kids to the dentist.

In Philadephia, my kids liked going to the dentist because the office had bubblegum flavored toothpaste and a prize box filled with fake tattoos.

My insurance company told me that the new dentist specialized in pediatrics, but when we showed up at the office, everyone in the waiting room was over the age of 60.

"We see patients ages five and up," the receptionist clarified.

"Where's the aquarium?" asked Kellen. He looked around for the requisite waiting room fish tank but all he found was a stack of brochures for gum disease.

After a 45 minute wait (which was brutal), all of my kids were brought back and placed in separate chairs in separate rooms. I volunteered to stick around and offer moral support to anyone who needed it, but everyone told me to get lost so I wandered back to the waiting room with Cameron and learned a lot about crowns and bridges. Cameron was super wiggly and started catapulting himself off my lap for fun. Fortunately, I had a lollipop leftover from Halloween in my purse.

A few minutes later, a hygienist poked her head into the room.

"Can I see you for a minute?" she asked.

Kellen was curled into a ball in his dentist chair. His head was in his hands and he was crying hysterically.

"What's the deal?" I asked.

"That lady is attacking my teeth!" he sobbed.

The hygienist explained that the enemy was not her, but plaque.

"Kellen really needs to do a better job of brushing his teeth," the woman lectured.

At that very moment, Cameron pulled the lollipop out of his mouth and stuck it in my face.

"He's trying to share it with me," I said proudly.

The woman looked at me with complete and utter disgust.

Boots

Earlier this week, I bought a pair of winter boots at a store that is an hour away from my house.

I was in a hurry and had my toddler with me and didn't feel like taking off both of my shoes so I only tried on one boot. I left the other one wrapped up in the box.

There are lots of reasons why you should try on both shoes before you make a purchase. This is one of them:

The alarm didn't go off when I left the store.

I just did a "store locator" search online.

The closest store to me is the one where I bought the boots.

Awesome.

The Discount Veterinarian

Last week, our cat got outside and ate something that gave her the runs.

If I had to bet, I'd put my money on the decapitated lizard that was left on our doorstep.

My neighbor gave me the phone number of her veterinarian. When I called the clinic, the receptionist asked if my cat would like an acupuncture treatment or a full body massage along with her antibiotic. I told the woman that I would need some time to wrap my mind around the concept of a pet spa and would have to call her back.

Veterinarian # 2 wasn't taking new patients.
"Really?" I asked the receptionist. "Really?"

I booked an appointment with Veterinarian # 3 but then canceled it after I learned that the office visit fee alone would set me back $90.

"I only paid $15 for the cat in the first place," I grumbled to the receptionist. "I could buy six new cats for that much."

I hung up the phone before the receptionist could trace my call.

"I think that Millie [our cat] might like a massage," said my husband when he got home from work. He told me to take the cat to the expensive vet.

Instead I took her to a low-cost pet clinic located next to a pawn shop and visible from the freeway off-ramp.

The first thing that the veterinarian wanted to do was to weigh our cat. This wasn't for health purposes, he told us, but for billing.

Like a produce vendor, the discount vet charged by the pound.

Before putting the cat on the scale, the man showed me his fee chart. He explained that the amount charged for the office visit isn't determined by the kind of animal on his examining table, but rather, how much that animal weighs.

I glared at my cat. She is the size of a small horse.

"I'm not sure that I'm comfortable with this," I told him.

He shrugged his shoulders and asked me how much I liked the smell of cat diarrhea.

Suddenly, I felt very comfortable.

In the end, the office visit cost me $55 (or 3 1/3 animal shelter cats) plus the cost of two medications.

Not bad, considering.

On our way out of the office, one of my sons snatched a paper pamphlet about heart worms from a display in the lobby. "I had no idea that worms could live inside you," he said admiringly.

The receptionist called after us. "Each pamphlet costs 5 cents!" she cried.

Evidently, everything in the discount vet's office is priced by the pound.

The Learning Experience

I should have bought the washable ones.

The Human Tissue

My children are very affectionate when they are sick.

Everyone in my house has the sniffles, except for our cat, who got outside earlier this week and ate something unsavory. Since Wednesday, she has had explosive diarrhea (my trip to the discount vet is a whole other story).

"I love you so much!" gushed my son yesterday morning.

Tears came to my eyes until I looked down and saw the swath of snot on my blouse. Then I felt like crying for a different reason.

My two year-old, of course, sees me as a large Kleenex. By dinner time, the slime on my shoulders had calcified into sheets of ice.

"There's something on your shirt," my husband pointed out when I sat down.

I smiled as I watched Cameron crawl into his lap.

Two seconds later, my husband was asking for a sponge or a paper towel or a piece of toilet paper or AnYtHiNg!!!! It was pure panic.

The same thing that was on my shirt was now on his :)

The Port-o-Potty

Last week, my landlord sent out an email announcing that the community of town homes in which my family currently lives is going to be painted.

This morning, the painters arrived. They brought with them three large trucks, a cherry picker, and a port-o-potty, all of which they parked next to the mail boxes.

"Don't even ask," I told my kids the minute they laid eyes on the portable toilet.

Here's a question for you:

Less than twenty minutes after I told my kids that they couldn't use the port-o-potty, two out of the three bathrooms in our house mysteriously got locked from the inside. What's doubly strange is that the tool used to pick the locks from the outside also went missing.

Coincidence or divine intervention?

Candy Coma

Much to my husband's horror, I let my kids eat as much Halloween candy as they wanted on Monday.

For dinner, my husband and I ate chicken. My older children put chocolate bars on their plates and ate them with forks and knives.

"I can't watch this," my husband said, excusing himself from the table.

Yesterday, I set a timer for five minutes and told my kids that they could eat candy until the buzzer went off.

The spectacle that ensued bordered on the grotesque.

The carcasses:



This morning, everyone asked if they could play the timer game again. Always happy to oblige, I made a big pot of oatmeal and set the timer on the table.

The contestants' enthusiasm for the game waned considerably after that.

Trick-or-Treat Part II

My favorite part of Halloween is when my kids go to bed after trick-or-treating.

That's when my husband and I go through their candy.

Last night, we had something extra to fight over besides the solitary king-sized Snickers bar.

At one house in our neighborhood, our kids were greeted at the door by a man holding a large wicker basket filled with special treasures.

"Trick-or-Treat!" they yelled.

The man smiled and dropped into each of their plastic pumpkins a ratty stuffed animal. Camber got a teddy bear wearing a red shirt with the words "Merry Christmas" printed across the front; Kellen got a duck with matted fur that quacked when you squeezed its stomach.

Cortlen said "Trick-or-Treat" twice and was rewarded with two gifts: a white bear wearing a purple sweater and a stuffed sheep circa 1970.


"I can't believe that just happened," I told my husband after the man closed the door.

"Someone cleaned out their basement this weekend," my husband replied.

"This is totally awesome!!!!" yelled Cortlen, holding up the white bear.

I wrinkled my nose.

Today, while my kids were at school, the bear and his friends mysteriously disappeared.

What is your favorite time of the day?

Mine are the hours between 5 and 7pm.

Trick-or-Treat

Our church's Halloween party was held last night.

Due to poor planning and a secret death wish, I decided to take my kids to a local super center during rush hour to buy a bag of Halloween candy.

The store was swamped and all of its employees were either on break or operating in slow motion, or both. Our first stop was the bathroom, where we waited seven excruciating minutes for a female employee to do her business...while humming an Usher song.

"I've gotta go real baaaad," Kellen warned, crossing his legs. There was only one stall in the women's restroom and the men's bathroom was closed for maintenance. I started to sweat profusely. Fortunately, the crisis was averted.

Things improved dramatically when I got into the checkout line. There were four people in front of me and things seemed to be moving fairly quickly, despite the fact that the cashier inspected and commented on every object that passed through her price scanner.

"I love that toothpaste!" she squealed. "I didn't know that it came in fruit flavor. I'm going to have go get some after my shift!"

"You use this toilet paper? Do you like it? I'm not satisfied with the kind that I've been using and am looking for a change."

"I go through tampons like crazy too. It's smart to buy so many boxes at one time."

Long before I reached the front of the line, I had decided that I was going to play deaf.

During the checkout process, three of my children stayed glued to my hip, their eyes fixed on the bag of candy.

"Do you think we should test the candy before the party to see if it tastes all right?" my daughter asked.

Cortlen lost interest in the candy as I pulled out my wallet. He wandered a few feet away to a large circular clothing rack positioned next to the store's exit. The rack was overflowing with adult Halloween costumes that I would rather him not see.

My son said that he was just standing next to the rack when it tipped over, spilling hundreds of pregnant nun outfits and plastic boobs onto the ground. Fellow shoppers said that he was less standing next to the rack and more hanging from it.

"Oh. My. Gosh!" I cried in horror.

"You need to watch your children more closely," said the cashier.

"Can I have a piece of candy?" asked my daughter.

"What's this?" asked Cortlen, holding up the garter belt belonging to a "sexy witch" costume.

Mileage Club

Several times a week my seven year-old son almost misses breakfast because he can't find his shoes.

He takes them off in weird places, and usually not at the same time. On Monday, we found his right shoe in the back of the car; its match was under the sofa.

"There is going to come a morning when your luck is going to run out," I prophesied.

Today was that day.

"I can't find my shoes and today is Mileage Club!" he heaved, his eyes wild with panic.

Once a month, all of the students at my kids' elementary school are marched out to the soccer field and are asked to run one mile.

I was buttering toast when the end of the world was announced. "Bummer," I replied.

A frantic search turned into a full blown meltdown as the house failed to yield the desired objects.

There was no point in talking sense into him at that point; all we could do was make the best of what we had...which was a pair of church shoes.


In less than an hour, my son will be running four laps in shorts, a t-shirt, and slip-on penny loafers.

My seven year-old daughter has reached the point where she demands privacy in the bathroom.

Normally I would applaud such independence. On the issue of personal hygiene, however, I am torn.

Based upon the evidence found at the scene (unopened shampoo bottles), I can safely say that she has not washed her hair in over a month.

Based upon the same body of evidence (mounds of empty conditioner bottles), I can say with equal confidence that her scalp is sufficiently moisturized.

"It's kind of like washing your hands without soap," I explained as gently as possible.

My daughter rolled her eyes.

Last week, I kept close tabs of the bottle of conditioner. On Sunday, the bottle was full. By Thursday, it was empty. On the days in between, my daughter's hair stayed permanently wet; it was that greasy.

On Friday, I produced a quarter from my pocket.

"You only need to use this much conditioner every day," I said, pointing to the size of the coin.

My daughter looked at me like I had pushed her over a cliff.

"If I only use that much conditioner then I will have to comb my hair!" she wailed.

The injustices of life are great.

The Missing Cat

"THE CAT RAN AWAY!"

The scream could be heard for miles.

I was cleaning out the litter box when I heard the good news.

Millie is our food aggressive pound cat who earlier this week ate through Kellen's lunch box to get to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"We saw her running down the street!" our daughter cried in a panic as she grabbed my husband's hand and dragged him outside.

I failed to see the urgency in my daughter's request. My husband, who refers to the cat as his second wife, saw things differently.

By the time I got Cameron strapped into the stroller, the rest of my family members were scaling a neighbor's fence.

"What are you doing?" I yelled. As much as I like strangers running through my backyard, I'm sensitive to the fact that not everyone feels the same way.

"I see her tail!" Cortlen explained as he disappeared behind a cement wall.

Several minutes later, my husband and children came out of the neighbor's front door. Evidently Cortlen was mistaken.

Shortly after this embarrassing episode, I lost interest in the search and walked back home. Once inside, I made my way to the kitchen to finish cooking dinner. Inside this room I found my nemesis, lapping up spaghetti sauce out of a saucepan on the stove.

Early Dismissal

Every Wednesday, the public schools in Orlando let out an hour early. In theory, these early dismissal days are awesome because they provide me with the time to do things with my kids that can't be squeezed into regular school days. In practice, things haven't gone quite as planned.

For the past three weeks, I've offered to take my kids to a variety of fun places including the water park, the zoo, the playground, and the movies.

On all three occasions, they've chosen to stay home and pick fights with me and each other instead.

Snack Time
Darling A: "Stop chewing with your mouth open."
B: "I'm not! You stop chewing with your mouth open."
A: "I'm going to kick your chair until you stop chewing with your mouth open."
B: "If you do, then I'm going to kick your chair back."

[insert ugliness]

While attempting to play a game of UNO
Darling C: "He's looking at my cards!"
A: "You were looking at my cards first!"
C: "Was not!"
B: "I never get any wild cards. It's not fair!"
A: "All of you are cheaters!!!!!! I'm not playing anymore."

[insert cards being thrown across the table and stomping off]

While cooking dinner
One of my darlings: "Why do you always make such disgusting food for dinner all the time?"
Me: "Because I like to hear you complain about it."
Different darling: "I'm definitely not eating that."
Me: "No one is going to make you."

After telling them that they need to take showers
Dirtiest Darling: "Why do you always make us take showers?"
Me: "You haven't taken a shower in three days."
DD: "I'm not doing it."
Me: "It's happening."
DD: "I'm not taking my clothes off."
Me: "No one is going to make you. You can take a shower with your clothes on, just make sure to soap up real good."

[insert fully clothed shower]

Me: "How'd that work out for you?"
Formerly Dirty Darling: "Awesome."

[insert new family tradition]

Ten minutes before my husband is due home from work
Darlings: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Putting on my shoes."
Darlings: "Where are you going?"
Me: "Out."
Darlings: "Can we come?"
Me: "Negative."
Darling A: "I knew it. You never take us anywhere fun."

Ziploc Bags

Two year-olds are awesome.

Some have favorite plates and cups. Mine will only eat out of resealable sandwich bags.

Put a spoonful of peas on a plate, and they're likely to end up on the floor. Ladle them lovingly into a clear plastic baggie, and they're a portable treasure. The same goes for the rest of the food groups.

I would have never put up with this with my first three, but there's something about my youngest that inspires me to encourage bad habits.

Tonight my husband caught me scooping lasagna into a baggie.

"You cannot be serious," he said.

I dumped the lasagna back into the pan.

"Sorry dude," I whispered to the man in the high chair.

My husband looked at Cameron. "How does he eat his oatmeal every morning?" he asked nervously.

Ignorance is bliss.

Pumpkin Patch Photos

On Saturday afternoon, my husband and I took the troops to the local pumpkin patch.

My older kids were still in their soccer uniforms and my two year-old was shirtless (thanks to his daily puke).


Despite all of this, I didn't feel inadequate until I started snapping photos.


Something I realized almost instantly: I was the only person on the premises without a camera the size of Siberia.





And a tripod.

The Accident

On Wednesday afternoon, I ran over Kellen's foot with my car.

It's not as bad as it sounds. We were at the DIY car wash and I was moving the car from the vacuum station to the washing stall. I was driving approximately .2 miles per hour when Kellen decided to open the car door and hop out. He found out the hard way that that was a very bad idea.

"You tried to kill me!" he screamed as he hopped up and down on one foot.

Two minutes later, he was jumping all over the place and asking if I would be willing to spray him with the hose.

"You're good?" I asked.

He was fine until we got home. When he saw all of our neighbors, he started to cry and claimed he couldn't walk.

"My mom ran over my foot with her car!" he wailed.

Eight people gave me the stink eye.

The accident escalated to massive proportions the next day at school.

"Kellen told his teacher that you hit him with your car," Cortlen told me. "He also told the lunch ladies."

"Fantastic," I replied.

It's been three days and no calls or surprise visits yet. I hope we're safe.

Parent-Teacher Conferences

I love parent-teacher conferences because in them I learn new and fascinating things about my children...

Like that my daughter is addicted to band-aids and occasionally sticks pencils up her nose.

And that Cortlen fake fights with his friends at lunch and routinely ties his shoelaces together in order to make himself trip and fall.

And that Kellen excuses himself to use the bathroom every ten minutes.

"Tell him to hold it," my husband told the teacher.

"I feel uncomfortable doing that if he has a medical condition," the teacher replied uneasily.

We assured the poor woman that the only thing overactive in our son is his own imagination.

"I am so mad at you!" someone barked when I picked him up from school this afternoon. He slumped in his seat and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sorry to crash the party," I told him.

"I can hold it in all day," bragged my daughter.

As she said this, I noticed that she had band-aids wrapped around all of her fingers.

"You've got you're own issues to worry about," I told her.

"Where are we going?" Cortlen asked as I turned into the mall parking lot.

"I'm buying you a new pair of shoes," I told him. "Velcro."

Bike Fest

The cashiers at Wal-Mart are endless founts of good ideas. Last year, one inspired me to try coloring my own hair using a shower cap with holes poked through the top. On Friday, another one suggested that I take my children to Orlando's annual Bike Fest.

"What does one do at said bike fest?" I asked her.

Before answering, the woman asked me to stop talking in the third person.

"My husband and I go every year," she told me. "You'll love it."

I glanced at my watch. It was 4:30pm and my significant other had already warned me that he had to work late. The thought of entertaining my kids for three hours inside my house was significantly more frightening than the unknown. So we went.

It wasn't until after we got to Bike Fest that I remembered that where there are lots of motorcycles, there are also lots of cigarettes, tattoos, piercings, and men who bear a striking resemblance to Saint Nick.

(this guy was not at Bike Fest, but his twin was)

"Why is Santa drinking beer?" my daughter hissed, pointing to a leather-clad reveler with a gigantic snake tattoo on his bicep.

"All right, time to go," I informed the troops. We lasted exactly 2 minutes and 13 seconds at Bike Fest.

On our way out of the gates, we were stopped by two women wearing Hooters t-shirts and short-shorts. They handed each of us buffalo wings on toothpicks and pointed us in the direction of a tent where we could buy more.

"Those cheerleaders were super nice," said Cortlen as we continued on our way.

"Mmm hmmm," I replied.

House Shopping

When we first moved to Florida, we thought that buying a house would be super easy. Orlando is one of the cities in the U.S. hardest hit by the current housing crisis and there is a lot of inventory on the market.

Unfortunately, all of the houses in which we are interested are owned by people who can't afford to sell them.

In the past four months, we've made offers on five different houses, all of which are in the same very nice, well-maintained, large master-planned community.

House # 1: Short Sale
The owners of this house are both professional chefs, which explains why they ripped out three perfectly good bathroom vanities and replaced them all with wine racks. There are frogs in the pool, the yard is a mess, someone or something peed on the living room carpet, and there are several bad words carved into the drywall in various rooms in the house. Other than that, it was in pretty good shape.

After three months, we heard back from the bank. Their counteroffer was for $65,000 more than any house in the neighborhood has sold for in the past year. The bank wouldn't move and the house is still on the market.

House # 2: conventional sale
The current owners bought the home in 2007 for $200,000 more than the house is currently worth. Ouch. For understandable reasons, the owners are trying to minimize their losses. We negotiated for over a week, but ultimately had to walk away after the owners held firm on a sales price that was $75,000 more than any house in the neighborhood has sold for in the past year. Almost four months later, the house is still for sale. Two weeks ago, the owners increased their chances of selling the house by RAISING their asking price by $15,000.

House # 3: conventional sale
This house is located three doors down from house #2. We signed the contract and felt pretty good about things until the home inspection revealed that the oven and microwave didn't work and four windows wouldn't open. Oh, and there was also a leak in the roof and a massive problem with the pool. And the home appraisal came back significantly lower than our purchase price.

House # 4: same situation as house # 2 except that in addition to an unreasonable asking price, the homeowners also hadn't paid their home owner's dues for five years and, as a result, they have a massive lien against their house.

House # 5: Short Sale through Bank of America
Need I say more? It's been almost four months, and we've heard zippo.

House # 6: We looked at this house on Saturday. We liked it and told our agent that we wanted to make an offer. When our realtor contacted the listing agent, she learned that the owners have stopped paying their mortgage and home owner's dues. Rad. The house is currently occupied by renters who own five dogs. Double rad. If we were willing to pay the list price, and close in December 2011 (when the renters' lease expires), then they would consider selling us the house.

Yikes.

This housing market is a mess.

The Magic Medicine Cabinet

Yesterday, I took Cortlen and Kellen to the pediatrician for their seven year-old wellness visits. After checking their heights and weights, the nurse handed the boys two small Dixie cups.

"I need urine samples from both of them," she told me.

The boys looked at the cups, then the nurse, then back at the cups. It took them a moment to put everything together.

[insert celebration dance]

Things got a whole lot better when the nurse showed the boys the magic medicine cabinet.

"After you're done," she told them, "Put your cup in there." The nurse pointed to a cabinet hanging on the wall, one side of which opened to the bathroom, the other to the nurse's station.

The idea of putting a cup filled with urine into the cabinet was exciting enough. The promise that the cup would magically disappear was more than they could stand.

"Can you ask the nurse for seventeen more cups?" Cortlen asked me through the bathroom door.

"Open up," I ordered, pounding on the door.

Eventually, my sons emerged.

"Just so you know, I'm going to have to go to bathroom again in two minutes," Cortlen warned.

"You're not getting any more cups," I warned back.

The nurse bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"The magic cabinet only works one time per day per person," she told them.

"I'll be back on Monday," Cortlen vowed.

"It's Not That Big of a Deal."

I've repeated these words to myself at least 100 times since flashing my father-in-law this morning.

Fifteen hours later, I am still struggling to believe them.

The unfortunate incident occurred at approximately 6:15am this morning. Shortly after turning off the shower, I realized that there weren't any towels in the master bathroom. Although undesirable, it wasn't the end of the world; there was a stack of clean ones ten feet away on top of my dresser. The journey from shower to dresser would have been uneventful if my husband had remembered to close the bedroom door when he went downstairs to feed the kids their breakfasts. Alas, he did not, and at the exact moment that I leaned in to close the open door, my father-in-law happened to walk past it. Our eyes met in total and complete horror. I was 100% naked.

I spent the next ten minutes curled up in the fetal position in the back of my closet.

"This might be my worst nightmare," I told my husband as I rocked back and forth.

He crouched down next to me and apologized. Then he suggested that what happened wasn't that big of a deal.

On this point, we have a difference of opinion.

Two hours later, I had the pleasure of driving my in-laws to the airport. The ride wasn't at all awkward; my mother -in-law counted the number of McDonald's restaurants she saw out the window while my father-in-law busied himself with a map of the Magic Kingdom.

"The next time I come, I want to spend more time in the gift shops," he said to no one in particular.

I can only imagine the conversations that will take place this weekend in California.

Friends/Neighbors/Children of In-laws: "How was Orlando? What did you see?"

Father-in-Law: "More than I bargained for."

Ugh.

High Quality Halloween Costumes for Kids

For the second straight year in a row, my sons have begged me to buy them Optimus Prime Halloween costumes.

I don't have an ethical problem with my children dressing up as gas guzzlers or weapons of mass destruction; I do, however, have a problem spending twenty dollars on what basically amounts to a screen-printed pair of polyester long johns.

"If you want to know the truth, I'm not a big fan of that costume," I told my boys while standing in the middle of the Halloween aisle at a local super center. "Is there any way that I could talk you into picking a costume that isn't see through?"

Through the subsequent conversation, I learned that my chances were very, very slim.

"What if I made you a Transformers costume?" I asked them.

My boys were curious and, justifiably, a little bit suspicious. "What do you mean, make?" they wanted to know.

The minute I mentioned the words "cardboard box," they started to get nervous.

"I don't like that idea at all," Kellen told me flat out.

Cortlen was more open-minded. "If you make me wear a box to school, I'm not celebrating Halloween this year," he announced.

I bought the long underwear, but only because I'm planning an imaginary ski trip (you know, one of the trips you plan but never actually go on) for my family this winter and I figure that the costume eventually will earn its keep.

Breakfast for Dinner

House guests bring out the best in my children. They also make them hungry.

My husband's parents are visiting from California this week. Upon arriving home from the airport, the grandparents were greeted at the door by a pack of hungry wolves with atrocious manners.

"When are we going out to eat?" they asked, licking their lips. It was 10:30 at night.

We had to pry the wolves off their prey.

The next morning, I woke up to find all three of my older children curled up next to their grandparents in bed. The senior citizens were sleeping. The seven year-olds were telling their relatives how much they loved them.

"Do you know what I really like to eat for breakfast?" Kellen whispered. "McDonald's hotcakes!"

At 10:30am, someone under the age of eight suggested that we spend the afternoon at an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet.

"Don't you ever feed them?" my father-in-law asked me and my husband.

"Not exclusively junk food," my husband replied.

"Let's have doughnuts!" said my daughter when my father-in-law asked what she would like to have for dinner.

As I write, dreams are coming true.

Do you see why no one at my house likes me?

We are where we are for a reason

I spent my first three years in Philadelphia wondering why we were there. Other than my husband's job, there was no logical reason: both of our families live in Los Angeles, we're not big fans of cold weather, and we much prefer the suburbs to big cities. When my husband and I were in graduate school, we used to entertain ourselves by making lists of places we could see ourselves living and being happy: Philadelphia wasn't even on the radar. Upon graduation, my husband received job offers from lots of places, many closer to home and with higher pay. Yet none of them felt right. The only job that did feel right was the one in Philadelphia. I wore sweatpants for two months after he accepted the job; I was that supportive.

With the exception of a few awesome neighbors and friends, things never clicked for us in Philly. Within a year, we began actively looking for a way out. For the next several years, we were presented with several opportunities to escape, all of which fell apart for various reasons beyond our control. By year three, my husband and I were frustrated, annoyed, and confused. Why couldn't we get out of there? And then I found myself unexpectedly pregnant with Cameron.

Sometime early in the second trimester of the pregnancy, I contracted Fifth Disease. My older kids got the virus at preschool and passed it onto me. The odds of me passing the virus onto Cameron was very, very, very low but fetal ultrasounds performed twice a week during the pregnancy revealed that Cameron not only had the virus, but that it was making him progressively more sick.

Two years ago today, at 35 weeks gestation, I checked into the hospital at the University of Pennsylvania knowing that there was a distinct possibility that I would be checking out without a baby. I knew this throughout the pregnancy and the uncertainty of the future is what kept me from buying baby clothes and imagining family photographs that contained four children. I went into the hospital uncertain about the details of how it all would end, but also with comfort in the knowledge that angels would be present in the delivery room, either to help heal Cameron, or to comfort me.

I haven't written about Cameron's birth because I don't remember most of it. What I do remember isn't pleasant: doctors--lots of them--and the silence after Cameron emerged.

"Why isn't he crying?" I asked.

I wasn't able to see Cameron until later that night. By that time, the hospital chaplain had already come to talk with me. Cameron had had two blood transfusions and was in a medically-induced coma in the NICU. It wasn't until Cameron defied the odds and turned the corner several days later that I realized that HE was the reason why we were living in Philadelphia.

While I contracted Fifth Disease by chance, I believe that it's no accident that the world's leading Neonatal Infectious Disease Expert is at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. It's also no accident that one of the world's top pediatric hematologists also works at that hospital. Cameron's condition is so rare that there are virtually no precedents for treating it. To put it bluntly, I have no doubt that Cameron would not have survived had he been born anywhere else. The outcome certainly would have been different if I had delivered him at one of the small regional hospitals at any of the places around the country where we had hoped to move.

When I think of Philadelphia now, I am filled with gratitude and humility. The city sucked some of the life out of me, but it gave me in return a son that I wouldn't otherwise have.

The reason why I'm telling you this story now (besides the fact that it's Cameron's second birthday and I'm feeling nostalgic) is that I've received lots of emails in recent months from readers who feel "stuck" and "trapped" in places both geographical and emotional that they don't want to be. I'm hardly a paradigm of positive thinking, but I have learned from experience of the simple truth that we are where we are for a reason.

Sometimes we get the answer to the question "Why am I here?" right away.

Sometimes it takes four years.

photography by silvina b. photography

Either way, it's worth it.