Saturday Night Lights

I'm not going to go into the whole "here's why I haven't been around" meme.  It's tired and played and really you can probably guess why I haven't been around.  Kids, TMOTH, parents, work, blah blah blah.

I know- call the Waaah-mbulance.  That's not what I'm here to write about tonight.  Tonight's all about my boy.

I've written before about the unique set of challenges and joys my oldest kiddo brings.  One of the toughest challenges for him has always been around sports.  Kiddo loves to move (which isn't typical for kids with dypsraxia/ dcd) and he has an abiding love for sports- mostly soccer.  We made a choice this fall to let him try out for a travel team and boy oh boy it was a risk.  This is a team that cuts, that competes, that doesn't freaking mess around.  H knew what the risks were and he tried out.  I aged 10 years waiting for the coach to call. He made it. (Hoooray!)  He practiced his guts out and did his OT/ PT and conditioning with TMOTH (and he whined and complained that he didn't want to do his OT/PT and that TMOTH could take his conditioning and suck it) and he worked his little butt off all season long.

And right now? I'm exhausted and wind burned and just a little too happy about the fact that his team lost tonight.  It's not the loss per se- it's that they lost in the first round of the freaking playoffs.  Playoffs that were played 2 hours from home, under the lights on field turf.  Big boy playoffs.

Most importantly, playoffs where my kiddo didn't stick out as different, where he had a really close kick on goal, where the ran with the other kids and sometimes outpaced them.

After the whistle blew and the parents crossed the field to congratulate the not-quite-victors, lots of the kids on the team were crying or at least visibly upset.  Not H.  H was happy and tired and just...proud.  He was freaking glowing.  He'd taken a risk that even TMOTH and I thought might be too much and he'd succeeded. (Note to you, my friends:  next time I start to tell my kids they can't do something because I think it might be too hard, kindly offer me a nice cold glass of STFU, okay?)

We celebrated with Arby's and Blizzards at the Mall on the way home and we all passed out about 10 minutes after we got in the car (well, except for TMOTH obviously- someone had to drive you know).

I'll admit, as a football coach's kid, I always assumed that someday I'd watch my son play under the lights.  I never realized how much I wanted that- for me and for him- until tonight.

It was seriously badass.

Tough

In the last week I've gone from "My mom is wicked healthy" to "My mom is having chest pains?" to "My mom is having a triple bypass?!". Suffice to say that in the last 24 hours I have experienced more terror, joy, tenderness and frustration than ever before. I've also learned that real badass steps up when things are more awful than I ever imagined possible. I told TMOTH yesterday that I'm not strong enough to be this strong.

Today I learned just how strong I can be. For the record, it sucked ass.

Stop Spinning

http://www.mommaspearls.com/2011/10/out-of-hands.html

The world can get crazy, you know?  Not just the Great Big World, but also the little (but sometimes equally big) worlds we each inhabit.  It's not hard to get overwhelmed when we're trying to spin 10- or 100- plates at once.  Is it any wonder that things fall apart from time to time, leaving us standing, confused and dismayed in a pile of china shards?  I've spent years trying to keep them all spinning at an equal rate- kids, house, PTA, work, garden, vanity- and here's the thing I'm thinking:

Once you know what plates really matter, the rest of them can go to hell.

So instead of spinning all 1,000 plates, I'm going to spin one really well.  My kids and my darling TMOTH are the ones that matter most.  My work is a second, but only insofar as it lets me take care of them.  The rest of it?  I'm not spinning them anymore.  I'm going to sit them gently on the counter where I can get to them if I need them.  I'm going to let them serve me instead of the other way around.

But I'm done with all the spinning.  It makes me nauseous.

Shit Just Got Real

Middle School meet and greet today. (Who thinks *that* sounds even less fun than the "Buy 1 get 1 root-canal and colonoscopy with your Mother in Law" special at the Jiffy Lube?)

There were Lots of 6th graders.  Lots of their moms and dads.  Lots of sibs.  The girls were mostly shrieking and hugging each other.  The boys looked either totally cool or like deer in the headlights.  Or both, depending on the moment.

It was...

Overwhelming.  Awkward.  Stressful.  Overwhelmingly awkward and uber-stressful.

Let me pull something from the A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words file to illustrate my point.  Here's what the inside of my head looked like:

My internal monologue went something like this:

"Oh, this is great!  Look how bright and clean it all is! That teacher seems so nice, but of course he's nice cause all the parents are standing right here.  When it's just him and the kids he'll probably call them names and throw chalk.  Holy Hell what have I done?  My kid will get eaten alive in here!  Must save child.  We'll head for the woods behind the school and subsist on leaf mold and water we filter through my sweater.   That's it!  We'll...oh look!  They have a new auditorium!  Pretty...."

If we (okay, I) survive this whole "parenting through the least favorite years of my own life" thing, I'm totally taking the "Becoming" out of the title of this blog.  I will have achieved Badassity- or I will have become a valium addict.

Pants

I dare you to come up with something more terrifying than the task I have ahead of me today. Daunting, difficult, guaranteed to draw on every reserve strength and tenacity I have within me- this task is not for the faint of heart.

Today, I take an 11-year-old boy to buy pants.

Back-to-school shopping is always a thing, but this year it's tougher. Because there isn't anything that an 11-year-old boy wants to do less than buy. Pants. But I'm not letting go to school in his underwear. So I'm going to take this lovely Saturday, I'm going to put him in the car with his sister and his cousin, I'm going to drive an hour away to Pants Palace (aka Target) and we're not leaving until we. Buy. Pants.

And if that doesn't mean I'm totally badass, I don't know what does.

Climbing Trees

I took my daughter to an amusement park this week.  Not a Six Flags/ Disney/ MegaWorld park, a smaller, local amusement park that she's loved since she was little.  The target audience is the under-7 set, but she begged and begged and I ultimately caved because we had unfinished business up there- specifically, a big old talking tree that we needed to visit.

See, last time we were there (about 2 years ago), we rushed her out of the park at the end of the day for some reason that I can't recall at this point- probably something very adult like Traffic or Bedtime or Mama's just had enough of this place.  Whatever.  In our rushing out, though, it never occurred to us that she really wanted to visit with Grandfather Tree, one of those animatronic trees that tells jokes and stories and says "I love you" and "I'm so glad to see you."  She wanted to see it one more time before we left and honestly, it would have taken 5 additional minutes but I just didn't listen.  I didn't get it until we were gone and she was upset and it hit me:

She's only going to be little for awhile. She's only going to want to see that tree for a little while longer. Soon she'll think it's stupid and lame and she'll want to go to Disney or Six Flags or (for the love of God) the American Girl Doll store.  Why not give her one last chance to stand in front of a talking tree while it says "I'm so glad to see you!  Will you climb up my branches today?"  She can see adolescence from where she's standing and it doesn't look good to her, so who am I to begrudge her a few more minutes of little-kid-hood?

We went.  We rode every single ride.  We ate junk and we took our time and we snuggled and giggled for 8 hours.  And at the end, just as she was noticing that the park wasn't as amazing as she remembered, we spent our last 30 minutes with Grandfather Tree.

It was a really good day.

Fighting weight

As we head into back to school, I can't help but feel like I'm getting ready for a battle. Like I need to set up an army of backpacks, composition books, sharpened pencils, and glue sticks in preparation for the war ahead. It's a never ending struggle between work, homework, activities, and housework. Luckily every year so far we've managed to battle to a stalemate, sliding into summer in a gasping exhausted collapse, leaving the both sides six weeks for recovery. But now – now– it's almost time to head back into the fray. I wish I had a St. Crispin's day speech to share with you, but I don't. Instead, I'm heading back to the gym. I've gotten soft and lazy this summer, on a diet of corn on the cob, tomatoes, ice cream, and beer. Time to get back to my fighting weight. The back-to-school battle is won by those who are most prepared. And this year? I shall prevail.

Vacay

So I'm going on vacation.  It's never actually been my strong suit, the whole "relax" thing.  It's not that I don't like the idea of lying on a beach with a Corona and a book, it's just that once I get there...the monkeys in my brain start chattering and then I start wanting to make plans and decisions and suddenly it's not so much "relaxing" as it is "getting something done," which I think is the exact opposite of vacation.  I think it has to do with either the Protestant work ethic I was raised with or it might be an avoidance technique, but the net result is the same:  non relaxation.  All I can think about is how much I'd like to be at home in my routine, doing the stuff I know how to do, for better or worse, 'cause the stuff you can predict- even if it sucks- is so much better than the stuff you can't- even if it's good.

But TMOTH and the kids insist that we go on vacation so I go 'cause NOT going seems like a recipe for divorce and/or Bad Mama of the Year Award nomination.  Plus, deep down, I'd like to be a person who wants to go on vacation.  Someone who "recreates."  (Is that the verb form of recreation?  'Cause it seems like it should be.)

So this year, I think I'm going to take a different approach.  I'm going to try to do more reflection- on the best parts of the year, on the things that will make me strongest in the year ahead- and less focusing on the stuff I think I should be doing. No thinking about how I should be doing vacation differently (More chasing kids and building fairy houses!  More vegetables and fewer Pringles!) or work or house stuff, or the zillion and 2 projects that need doing...I'm going to think about my books and I'm going to watch my kids play on the beach and I'm going to toast marshmallows every freaking night if I want to.  I'm going to eat ice cream and sleep late and maybe do Yoga where I can see the water even though it means that people will see my 42-year-old Down Dog, which is not pretty by any means.

I'm going to have the most badass Vacay I can put together.  I'm thinking there will be many, many Coronas involved.

Ugly Cry

My oldest graduates today.  Okay, actually, he's graduating from 5th grade which I realize lacks the academic gravitas of, say, a PhD or a certificate from Northern Louisiana Beauty College.  Still, it's a milestone.  For some reason, milestones have been sort of a bitch lately.  I hypothesize that it's either ego ("If he's getting older then I'm getting older!  WHAAAA!") or nostalgia ("Ah, the good old days."), but in either case it's death by 1,000 kleenexes.

I've been choking back tears for about a week, but yesterday when my Grandma when back into the hospital, I gave it up.  I succumbed to the full-on ugly cry.  I cried for a good 45 minutes once I finally gave in and this morning I feel hungover and puffy and...better.

Getting old is a bitch.  Nostalgia sucks.  But jumping in and doing the full range of human emotions?

Pretty badass.

True 'dat

I woke up mad.  Actually, I went to sleep mad and the rotten night's rest I got (thank you hotel patrons who don't to shut. the. f. up. in the hall after midnight) only made it worse.  The "why" of the mad is immaterial but the reality of the situation was this:

I was mad.

Then the...person...who instigated my righteous anger called.  Wanted to talk it out and apologize.  My typical instinct is to let folks off the hook, but today...

No.

The hook was firmly set and I was so not interested in letting anyone off it.

So I spoke my truth.  Respectful but clear.  "Dude, you messed up.  Don't get cranky with me for not falling all over myself to accept your apology."

I've never ever in my life told someone that I needed time before I could accept an apology because I just wasn't sure I wanted to forgive.

You know what?

It felt damn good.

Faith

Sometimes the most badass thing I can do is just...wait, because it takes the strength of 10 linebackers to not *do* anything except watch.  And wait.  And have faith.

Farm Girl

I grew up on a farm.  Well, I sort of grew up on a farm.  I spent enough time on the farm (and made enough mistakes) that I think I qualify as having "grown up" there even if I didn't always officially live there.

But I digress.

One of the things I remember about the farm (besides the food.  Holy Cats, did we eat.) is that it was hard.  Wicked freaking hard work.  I didn't really have to do the big stuff but I watched a lot of people working their assess off day in and day out.  There was always work to be done, and not the kind of work I do- the e-mail, reading, house work, driving, talking kind of work.  This was serious work.  Digging, carrying, dirty, smelly, always too hot or too cold, back-breaking work. Think of your worst back ache ever and multiply it by 100 and then imagine having it every. Single. Day.

Yeah.  That kind of work.

As I got older, I did about 1% of the hard work that the grown ups did, and I came to appreciate one very specific moment in the day.  Usually around 7:45 (because they worked with the light, dinner be damned), there would be some kind of unspoken agreement that It Was Time To Quit.  The folks who'd worked hardest would sit on these giant rocks around this crazy Japanese Elm that everyone hated (they drop sticks like dogs drop poop), but no one hated enough to try to take down, and we'd "enjoy the evening" for a few minutes.  That meant listening to birds (and then peepers as the darkness fell), enjoying the breeze and talking about small things like the snake my grandmother took a hoe to in the front yard and which fences were going to need attention and where those damn locust trees had sprouted again and the new litter of kittens we'd discovered in the front seat of the old truck.  They would tell stories about past snakes or litters or plantings or harvests or whatever, comparing this year- this day- to those that had come before.  I was always aware that I was the fourth generation to sit around those rocks and listen to some variation on those stories and it was like being surrounded by loving ghosts.

The farm is empty now- I wouldn't be surprised if it were sold soon, to cover debts and medical bills- but in my mind, as I sit here after a long-ass, hard-work day (which was still only 10% of the hard work they did), drinking a beer ('cause that was always part of the ritual too) and enjoying the evening, I can't help but go back to those rocks.

So, to all  those hard-working, never-say-die, badass (did I mention my Grandma killed snakes in the yard with a hoe?) folks who all came together in one combination after another to create...me?

Thanks. I'll try to do you proud.

Things That Make Me Stabby

stabby-copy.jpg

I'm in a mood today.  Want to know why?


1.  Effect vs. Affect. Who really gives a rat's ass?  I tell you who- stupid academics.
2.  People who need constant validation.
3.  People who don't understand that their jobs are to give ME constant validation.
4.  My jeans.  Someone has replaced them all with pairs that are a size too small.  Jackasses.
5.  The weather.  Rain is all well and good but damn would it kill us to get just a little sun in between?
6.  My kids' schedules.  (And don't go all "Over- Scheduler! Children need more time to just play!  Last Child In the Woods!" on me.  I. Will. Cut. You.)
7.  Dyspraxia.  I hate it almost as much as mean kids.
8.  Mean kids.  (See?)
9.  Technology.  Not THIS technology. The technology I need for a long ass meeting on Saturday and which I am CERTAIN will fail me.
10.  Long ass meetings on Saturdays.

I'm going to crab about these things all day.  You got a problem with that?

Putting the Words to Bed

Recently someone (okay, my shrink if you have to know) asked me "What I do" when I write.

I sort of thought the verb was, you know, self-explanatory but...she just sat there and waited.  And waited.  Seriously- I think this chick would sit in silence for the whole 50 minutes if I let her.  So I felt like I had to answer.

"I...um...I write.  You know.  I sit at my desk and I throw words on the screen until something sticks."

And she just sat there.  Like she was waiting for more.


Remind me again why I pay for this?

I tried to default to the old "I open up a vein," but she wasn't having it.  Still sat there, like my dog waiting to see if I'm really going to finish that cookie.  So...

Okay.  Here's what happens.  For whatever reason- the blog needs updating, I get a request for a piece, I have an idea that just wot stop nagging- I make the choice to Write.  (This is different from writing, which includes everything from letters to the editor to grocery lists- small, mundane things that take nothing from me) Naively, I start with a sentence or a word and before I know it, there they are- a gaggle of them-  and I have to sort them, one from the other, to see which ones are this piece and which ones are some other piece for some other day.  It's like trying to put toddlers to bed- all the voices and the words and the phrases all clamoring for a spot right next to me.  So I herd them.  One onto this page, another onto a different page, moving them around from place to place on the page, figuring out who can sit with whom and who just won't play nicely no matter how hard I try and who will have to go back into the crib if I really want them to stay put.

There's no place for some of them, which is sad because they really, really want in but...they're not ready yet.  Or maybe they are, but I'm not ready to write the story that they're a part of.  So I nudge them back, tuck them back in, and I go back to sorting the ones that belong here.

I guess it's mostly like trying to run a really, really crazy orphanage.  Or maybe it's like bedtime at the Duggars.  I don't know, but it's exhausting.

So I can't do it every day.  I'm not one of those disciplined 'write for an hour every day no matter what' writers because it's too damn hard.  I wouldn't be functional.  I can't manage all those loud, needy word orphans and also manage my loud, needy family.  It's not about commitment  or discipline or passion.  It's about getting just a little too close to the edge of the dock and finding myself plunging into deep water, floundering to find my way back to the surface before I drown.  I'm over my head but the only way out is through so...I...keep going.  I wrestle and I bitch and I look like I've gone 20 rounds with Buffy and I ask myself why in the hell I ever thought this writing thing was a good idea.  I'm miserable and mean and distracted.  I let dishes and e-mail pile up.  The dog moans from her spot by the door, begging to go out, but she's out of luck.  I'm up to my neck in unruly literary children and I cannot stop until everyone is bedded down or they'll overrun my mind, turning over the furniture in my brain until the mess is too big to clean up and I'm forced to move us all to Australia or Nova Scotia before DCFS comes to take them away.

Then, suddenly, it's done. It's "like silk off a spool," all smooth and pretty and it says just what I want it to say.  The right words in the right spots, creating just the right...everything.  I take a deep breath. They're calm and in their beds and sleeping and I look in on them, angelic in the glow of the post-copy-editing nightlight, and I love them.  I want more of them.  I forget the flailing and the herding and I just want to do it again.

 So, badass or not...that's what I do when I write.  I put all the hyperactive, badly behaved, out of control words to bed.

Dear Insane Clown Posse Lady

Dear Insane Clown Posse lady:

You took over the lobby of the soccer club meeting last week with your rant on how the kids we see hanging around in parks are all devotees of the Insane Clown Possee and how they’re all going to kill us in our beds. I’d like you to know that 1)  I’m pretty sure that everyone in the room under the age of 7 (and boy were there a lot of them) didn’t need to hear your rant, and B) Your call to action isn’t really going to go anyway and 3) Yeah...you’re crazy.

I’ve sort of suspected this for awhile- it’s a small town and I recognize that I’m going to run into you a lot.  That’s okay.  I like to think of you in capital letters- the way I think of Dude Who Wears a Dress Downtown and Isn’t Fooling Anyone or That Mom with the Wig or Scary Nature Lady.  For a long time I’d dubbed you In Charge of Everything Mom- but now I’ve renamed you- Insane Clown Possee Lady. 

So today when I ran into you again in the lobby at the Music Hut (waiting for our kids to come out of choir), I sort of wondered where you’d go with it.  Would you continue on the ICP rant or would you pick up a different thread?  Would it be antibiotics in the milk?  Slutty Halloweed Costumes -you touched on that one briefly last week so maybe you were testing the waters?  Trying out new material ? 

Nope.  You really topped yourself this time.   And you did it in front of my 10 year old.  So let me take just a moment to thank you for teaching my kid about the following words and ideas:

1.     Adultery:  Calling the mother of one of his friends “a slut” by name, as in  “Max’s mom is such slut, which is the only reason she still has that job”- nice touch by the way.  Now not only do I have to define the word for him, but I also have to unpack the idea that successful women are assumed to have slept their way to their success (“But mama, you’re successful, right?  That’s what dad always tells people.  So who did you sleep with?  And why does sleeping with someone matter?”)  and that “sleeping with” is a euphamism for sex (“Do you have to sleep?  I don’t remember that part, Mama.  Where did the sleeping come in again?”)  Add also the words “Whore” and “Manwhore.”

2.     “Pot head” “Doobie” “Druggie” and “Wasted”:  Yes, I know you were trying to share your anger and frustration over what you perceive as a lack of consequences for a public official who made a bad choice.  We, on the other hand, used that whole story as a way to teach about compassion and second chances and about how people are more than their last bad choice.  Now I get to teach all about hypocrisy and bigotry and narrow mindedness.  By the way- that official?  Kind of a hero for my kid.  A big hero.  A person we sort of love and respect.  So yeah...thanks for that.

3.     White Trash:  Talking about one school in town as the “White Trash” school, even when your kid is one of the students there, is not really useful.  Yes, the schools have different populations but your need to define them by the lowest common denominators of race, class and affluence sort of sucks ass.  Actually, not sort of.  It sucks ass. My kid was sort of clueless about his school’s identity as “The Rich School” which it isn’t- we give away coats and meals and subsidize field trips for about half the students through the PTA. 

So...thanks for all of that.  I’ll get a week’s worth of bedtime conversations out of your 20 minute rant (thank God I took him to get his hair cut first.  I hate to think about what would have happened if we’d been there the whole time).  I’m still trying to explain why those clowns are crazy and why they felt the need to form a possee.  And why they’d want to kill us in our beds in the first place.  


So not badass.

Dear Popular Kid

Dear "Popular" Kid-
You think you're too cool for my kid. Your mom probably tells you that, because my kid is a little different and not terribly athletic, that it's okay not to be friendly towards him- that it's okay not to respond when he speaks to you or invites you to hang out on a Saturday.  Maybe it's because my family hasn't lived here for a generation or because we don't belong to the right clubs or maybe it's because I work full time and don't volunteer at school all that much.  Or hell, maybe it's because of the political sticker that was on my old car.  You probably think you have enough friends- that you don't need anymore.  Maybe your mom thinks the same thing- that she doesn't need any more people in her life so there's no payoff in trying to accept a new friend in your world.

But you're both wrong.

'Cause there's no payoff for being mean.  None.  Kindness is the most important thing, always and always.  See, before you got all "too cool," I didn't have an opinion about you.  Not one way or the other- you were just another kid on the playground.  Now, though, I know you.  I know who you are and what kind of person you are and, should you ever need something from me, I'll...

Help you. Of course I'll help you.  Because you may not be kind, but I. Am.

And that makes me way more Badass than you'll ever be.

(But your mom? She can totally suck it.)

Boobs- Pt 2

For the record, during a mammogram, snarling at the person handling your boobs to "Stop shoving me around like a piece of meat," is not a good idea.

Nor is asking her how often people tell her she sucks.

She gets vengeful.

Ouch.

Jesus Bugs

Jesus Bugs (aka water striders) are those little bugs that skim across the tops of ponds and streams.  You've seen them, I'm sure. I sort of love 'cause the idea of Jesus as this little bug, about to get eaten by a fish...I don't know.  I'm pretty sure there's a joke there somewhere.  

Anyway, I've always wanted to be like a water skater- metaphorically speaking. Skimming across the top of life, not making a dent in anyone's life.  Zero impact- except for the positive.  That meant always being agreeable, always smiling, always saying yes, sure, I'd be happy to...

That got me nowhere, but it took me almost 40 years to figure it out.

This week we got some news of the "mixed blessings" variety.  My darling TMOTH needs surgery. It's good news because 1) it's possible to fix this thing we've been dealing with for 2  year and B) it's not what they categorize as "major."  The mixed part comes with the words "Six Weeks of Recovery" and "Two weeks of absolutely no weight on one leg."  We're a busy family- the kids are totally over involved and my work is going crazy (I know-  "Just be happy you have a  job, just be happy you have a job...") and having TMOTH totally out of commission for 6 weeks is going to be, um, tough.

Really tough.

One the one hand, I want to call out the cavalry.  Casserole brigade, please?  someone to schlepp my kid hither and yon?  Yes, thanks! On the other hand, though, my internal Jesus Bug still lurks.  Zero impact, remember?

Put all of those things together and they come out in this weird cocktail of mad and sad and scared which, to the naked eye, look like Cranky.  Grumpy.  Crabby.  MEAN.  That's how I spent yesterday and I think I scared TMOTH and the kids and my folks and the dog.  (I'm most worried about the dog, to tell you the truth, 'cause she's usually pretty fearless.)  But today, in the bright sunshine with a fresh cup of coffee and a fully night's sleep behind me, I'm feeling...better.

Now part of me wants to go around apologizing for my mood yesterday- and I probably should at least check in with folks to let them know it was a passing thing, not my new outlook on life.  But there's this other part of me that looks at the big dent that I left yesterday and say...yeah.  Those were feelings, you know?  Big as they come and damn inconvenient at times, but hey-

it beats getting eaten by a fish, right?

Remember the name...

My friend K asked me a really good question the other day. 


"Why are you so terrified that someone might remember you?"


It's a good question.  Without meaning to, I work very hard to be nondescript- to be on non-memorable- because it's safer.  "Keep your head down and no one will shoot it off," you know?  (Granted, that might be better advice if I lived in a war zone (as opposed to Groovy Land), but I've always taken it as a basically Good Idea.  Well, at least since high school.  I think I was wicked memorable then.  The stakes were lower somehow.


I don't think it's in my best interest to stay hidden in the weeds anymore. I think the badass is about making sure that people always remember me for better or for worse and not being so afraid that they won't like me. Because you because really what's the worst thing that could happen? They remember me? They think I'm fabulous? They think I'm horrible? 


More likely, I won't even be in their heads at half an hour after. I maybe I will. So today, I will strive to be memorable. I will not censor myself. 


I will be afraid to be remembered.

Win

http://tinyurl.com/6lh2k9y

Somedays, I think the most Badass thing I can do is get out of bed, let the dog out, and smile at my family before I've hooked up the coffee i.v.   If I can manage to get through the ensuing 10-14 hours of drop-offs, pick-ups, technology snarls and bad frozen lunches without snarling at strangers, throwing things at my co-workers or bursting into tears at an inappropriate moment, I consider it a win.  If I can do all that and everyone I'm responsible for is still alive when I go to bed, it's a giant win.

A mega-win.

And if, on one of those mega-win days, I also manage to blog something? After months and months of life-and-stress-related non-blogging?  Then I'm freaking QUEEN of the Win.


You'll notice I said nothing at all here about quality.  Quality is the enemy of Win- and Win is the essence of the Badass.

So I'm not Marion Ravenwood

Remember this?



This is what you'd think I'd done last night based on this morning's headache. In reality, I just went to book club and had a glass of wine. Okay, maybe two.

 Though, now that I think about it, maybe it was more like this:

 

Hungover on a Tuesday after two glasses of Chardonnay? SO not badass.