I Missed You And Pictures

I missed a day!!! I wanted to miss today too, but that's how I get into a funk and stop doing anything constructive. I haven't ran in a couple of weeks and it will take an army of drill sergeants to get me in my running shoes tomorrow.

I promised pictures and they are here!! I hope you have enjoyed following me around San Francisco and New York. It's been a fantastic journey that I never want to experience again.

Ever since I was a kid, I couldn't be away from home for more than a couple days without wanting to sob on the front porch and call my mom. I still haven't grown out of it. When we got back from Cali, I had a great day with my kids eating fried foods, shopping at the dollar store and cuddling. I wanted to stay home and cancel our trip to NYC. I  wanted coffee out of my own mugs, to drive my kids to school and to sleep in my own bed. I admit that I wasn't very excited to leave. We had planned these trips months ago and it seemed plausible to be away for a week, home for two days and gone for another six days. On our way to the airport to embark on our NYC trip,  homesickness punched me in the fucking gut and I felt like crying when we left our sleepy faced little monkeys in grandma's car. I wanted to grab the door handle and refuse to go. I was sick of security screenings, sitting next to strangers, restaurant food, tourist prices and staying busy so I could forget how homesick I really was.

We had a fun trip and I am so glad we were there to celebrate with our friends, but it was a lesson learned about two trips in a row. Never again. We are home for six weeks and off on another adventure with the kids at the end of May. While it is a hell of a lot more work to travel with kids, it makes me feel more at home when I wake up to little smiling faces and stomping feet next to my bed. It beats room service any day of the week.

We spent an entire day walking Central Park and I was shocked to find a waterfall in the middle of this huge city. After taking a landscape architecture class last year, it was amazing to see what kind of creative talent it took to create this sanctuary in the middle of chaos. There was a reservoir, a pond, gardens, a castle and beautiful foliage around every turn. This was my favorite day in New York.

My hubby is a huge Yankees fan and has been since he was a little tyke. His dream came true this week when he was able to see a game at Yankee Stadium in NYC. To watch someone you love get giddy about crossing something off their bucket list  is pretty heartwarming. Even for a hard ass like me. It got even sweeter when he realized where our tickets were, row 5 from the field. I don't think there was one minute that entire night that he wasn't smiling.

Having friends who live in the city you visit is a blessing, pure and simple. We spent the afternoon with a friend I had met when I worked at Starbucks and she pointed us in a very sweet direction. There was a little bakery with even littler cupcakes and they came in all sorts of yummy flavors. They were the size of a fucking ping pong ball. Adorable!! We bought a dozen and as you can see they barely lasted long enough for a quick pic. Make friends and tell them to move to cool places so you can come visit and take advantage of their local status. Thanks, Jackie. :)

I would also like to give a shout out to my friends Scott and Brent who were married this weekend in the most beautiful ceremony I have ever attended. I did not get permission to post pics so you will just have to use your imagination. It confirmed what I have believed for most of my life, there is not just one way to love. Their commitment and love for one another is breathtaking. I would like to vote for them to be the poster kids for why gay marriage is marriage and should be legally accepted as such. Love is love, bitches.

Starting Over

                       I appear to be happily on an episode of Locked Up Abroad.

This picture has nothing to do with what I am writing about because that would be way too predictable. It's me in a jail cell at Alcatraz. I love vacation photos and I hope you have been enjoying them as well. If you haven't, then I will stop posting them. Ha!!! No I won't....I do what I want.

Today is kid day. I don't even remember what we started calling it when I sold out and named each day's blog, but who the fuck cares now. Here we are. Without slopping through the murky history of my childhood and parental situation, let's agree that I have a bio dad, a step dad, a mom and a few step moms. I grew up with my mom and step dad and had very little contact with my sperm donor. I always called him my sperm donor growing up because it felt a little less formal. I felt like I needed an evening gown and English accent to say "biological father". Neither of which I ever possessed. My lifestyle growing up was completely different from the lifestyle my sperm donor was living. My mom stayed home, my dad was a cop and we lived in a lower middle class neighborhood where everyone drove shitty, used cars. We camped a lot and rarely ate out at restaurants. My sperm donor, on the other hand, was living what looked like from the outside, the good life. He always drove nice cars, had expensive houses and the few times I saw him, was throwing cash around like it was Monopoly money. He knew very little about my life and I couldn't understand his.

Fast forward twenty-five years and we are reconnecting. He came back into my life a sober man who willingly apologized and seems ready to move forward. I've realized an interesting dichotomy to our relationship, not only do we get to know each other as we are today but he doesn't have a clue as to what my upbringing was like. While we were having dinner recently, I was talking about my mom and how talented she is. I was sharing with my half-sister that my mom had sewn most of our clothes growing up. He looked perplexed and asked "Why did she make your clothes?". Part of me wanted to be a dick and tell him that it was because he never paid child support. I chuckled to myself and told him that we never had a lot of money and that it was the cheapest way for us to have new clothes. I wish I had a photo of his expression, it was complete shock. I don't know what he thought my life was like growing up but I gathered that it wasn't at all like he imagined.

It's a strange place to be in, getting to know someone who gave you 50% of their DNA. How could they not know every last detail about you? My husband is one of the most involved fathers I know and I can't imagine him being out of the loop in his own children's lives. He wouldn't stand for it. It doesn't piss me off anymore that my bio wasn't there for my childhood, it makes me sad for him. The smallest and most beautiful details of my life are a mystery to him. My first bike ride, getting my tonsils out, learning how to drive a stick shift and getting my first apartment. I can't imagine the pain of loving someone and not really knowing them at all. It's a life lesson that is best learned through someone else, so you don't have to live in the sorrow of it yourself.

It's All Fun And Games...Until.

                                                               That's me....age three.




We all have stories about how our parents ruined our lives and how they saved our lives. Hopefully there are more of the saving stories for most of us. As I get older I am more able to understand the sacrifice, love and patience that my parents had to put forth everyday in order for me to become an adult. It wasn't perfect and none of us are. I strive to give my kids the best everyday, but the reality of raising kids is that I will fuck up and they will hate things I did as a parent.
The list of what I hated has shrunk the older and, hopefully, wiser I become. They may seem insignificant or enormous depending on your own experiences. I hated that my biological parents couldn't stay married, that we didn't have money for vacations, that my biological dad wasn't in my life, that I wasn't pretty in high school, that I didn't go to prom, that I had to emotionally take care of my brother and sister, that I was held to a different set of rules, that my dad didn't hug me as a teenager, that my mom didn't stand up for herself, and the casseroles. I hated those fucking casseroles. No one advises you before you get pregnant that you will not only have a baby to care for, but a marriage and yourself.  It took the birth of my own children to give my parents the appreciation they deserved all along.
The things I loved about my childhood greatly outweigh the previous hate list. I loved living in the same house for most of my life, having siblings to play with, celebrating holidays, that my mom worked at home, that we were close to my grandparents, that my mom talked to me, that my dad worked very hard, that my parents stayed married, that we were taught a strong work ethic, that we laughed, that we had pets, and that we lived within our means. It's funny to look at both lists and realize that without one we could not have had the other. My mom stayed home to care for us and that meant less money. My parents stayed married because my mom didn't stand up for herself. Those are the tough decisions you have to make as a parent. Will it ruin your kids forever? Probably not. If your intention is pure and you do the best you can, kids are pretty resilient.
I make mistakes. My kids act out. We cry and wonder how we'll get through. I've slept in my kid's beds all night so they would go to sleep. I've served cereal for dinner and forgotten to make lunch. I've raised my voice. I've hid in the bathroom with my phone for a moment of solitude. I've questioned my husband on his handling of punishment. I've thought about leaving. I've turned the TV on for hours so I could get something done. I've held doors closed and locked myself in my room. No one is perfect. I've also done amazing things that I hope my kids will remember for the rest of their lives. I hope they feel loved, cared for, appreciated and heard. I know I do.

Born This Way

Thursday is all about kids and today you get a little insight into what I was like as a small child. From what I know about Catholics, which isn't a lot, I think I should have been born Catholic. Not only for the joy of attending an all girls school and wearing a short skirt, but because I have always needed to confess my guilt. I have felt an enormous amount of it since the day I was born. As a kid, I could never lie to my parents, my friends or my teachers. I would get a sickening feeling in my stomach when I would even consider doing something that wasn't right. The one thing I didn't feel bad about was beating up my brother and endlessly torturing my sister. In God's eyes and mine, they deserved it. Everything else was off the table. It kept me from having too much fun as a young person and as an adult, I still veer towards the "right" thing to do, not necessarily the fun thing to do.
I did steal something once. It was one of the worst moments in my life and I garnered no excitement or desire for a repeat performance. I was at a grocery store with some friends and we were wandering around with no money and way too much time on our hands. I got to the bulk candy section and spied a giant bin full of jawbreakers the size of my head. They were white with colored speckles had the promise of being everlasting. I needed one. I wandered aimlessly back and forth through the aisles, checking for employees and video cameras. My heart was racing and in my mind, I was creating a plan of attack while also wondering if I could get thrown in jail for candy theft. What would my parents think? How would I ever get a job? Could I survive in prison at the tender age of 13? I was wearing a brown leather coat and as I made my final pass, I quickly stuck my arm in the bin, scooped the jawbreaker in my hand and pulled it into my coat sleeve. I felt like I might lose consciousness as I walked past the registers and out the front doors.
It was awful. I couldn't even enjoy my free candy because I felt so fucking horrible about taking something that wasn't mine. In all my melancholy, I rode home wondering if I could keep this one little secret to myself. I couldn't. I walked into our house projectile vomited the details to my mother within a matter of seconds. I had stolen, I was a horrible child and I had ruined my entire future. She patiently drove me back to the store with my pocket full of change and my heart full of fear. I admitted my misdeed to the manager and paid for my treat. That was the first and last time I stole anything. It holds true that I can't even take an extra sugar packet from Starbucks if I don't immediately need it in my coffee.
This guilt complex kept me from trying hard drugs, going to kegs in the canyon and enjoying the times I skipped out on class. I did sluff in high school but it was so miserable that I should have just gone to class and dealt with the torture of my classmates. I admitted to all the small things that most parents wish their kids would tell them. My mom was forced to hear about underage alcohol consumption, make out sessions with gang members, and my smoking addiction that I was sure flew under the radar for years. I remember her saying "Mandy, you don't need to tell me everything."  But I did. My guilt would kill me and I didn't have a priest or a confessional. Unfortunately for her, I was born this way.