Dedicated to the one I love...

Kent--oh how I love him!

One week from today, on December 18th, my husband will be accomplishing a goal that is 30 years in the making.  When we first starting going out, and he told me of his dream to go back and finish his degree, I could sense the hesitation in his voice.  Between work, kids, working out, friends--something always seemed to get in the way of school.  And I could relate.  Being an adult in college is so much harder than doing it the traditional way because the world as an adult is anything but all about you.

When I decided to go back to school, there were no support structures in place.  I was in the middle of a divorce, the kids were just babies, and I was a mess.  College intimidated me.  The first go around, right after high school, proved to be a life changing event.  Except in the negative.  When I failed, yes failed, out of college I was left having to pay off my scholarship (nothing's free with crappy grades!), lost my passion (basketball), and for the first time felt like a nothing--a nobody--a complete loser.  It took ten years to get my butt back into school.  So there I was--a single mom, living in a crappy apartment, trying to make enough money to pay the bills and feed my kids.  It was hell.  The first time I heard gunshots out in the complex's parking lot I knew I had to do something to get out of that place.  I was scared for my kids, and just scared.

I'll never forget the amazing professors I had--the ones that understood when my sitter fell through and I came to class with a 2 and 3-year-old in tow.  They were always so accommodating--giving them a desk, not minding the crunching of their snacks, and the occasional "Mommy!" in that loud adorable whisper when they needed to show me their assignments.  Sleep--that was a luxury that was granted when the kids were at their dad's.  I was drained.  Completely, utterly, drained.

After getting my associate's and about a year into my bachelor's, I was ready to throw in the towel.  I wouldn't have my undergraduate degree until I was 32.  THIRTY-TWO!  I was feeling down, trying to justify why I should quit.  I remember calling up my mom and telling her, "I'm just so tired!  Besides I won't graduate until I'm 32!"  The next words that left her mouth resided with me from that day forward.  Over the phone she said, "Meredith, you're going to be 32 regardless--so you can be 32 with a degree or 32 without one.  Choice is yours."

From that moment on I never looked back.

This day for my husband means something more than a diploma could ever simply define.  It means perseverance.  It means staying up until all hours reading, taking notes, and typing papers.  It means sometimes putting things you desperately want to do on hold.  It means dedication.  It means doing something for yourself--for your own well being.  It means accomplishment.  It means putting in the hard work and seeking the reward--whether it be financial or personal gain.  It means believing enough in yourself to go and do something you've never been able to do before.  It means trudging on even when you don't want to.

There have been times when he struggled--and even a time when I had to take out my mom's advice to help him through.  The struggle is what makes next weekend so much more than my husband merely just getting a piece of paper.  I couldn't be more proud of Kent than I am of him for seeing his goal through.  So next weekend when he's marching down the Denver Convention Center's aisle, looking sharp in his black gown and cap, I'll be his biggest fan--not only cheering loudly, but wiping a few tears away as well.

Yes, babe!  YOU DID IT!

My Koala

Me--in 1976 (or '77)

There's nothing quite like shopping during the season.  I love the hustle and bustle of all the people trying to find that perfect gift for those they love.  I love the Christmas music blaring through my car stereo--although my kids get sick of 101.1  (they start Christmas music 24 hours a day the day after Thanksgiving--and it gets played until January 1st).  I love the crisp, cold December air and the wispy, white smoke made by that cold air.  There's something comforting about sitting in my family room, lit by the white lights on the Christmas tree and a fire in the fireplace, which is adorned with a stocking for each member of our family.  I could snuggle under a blankie and bask in this glow all day.  I love it.

Today, as my husband and I were doing some last minute shopping, I was reminded of a time when Christmas was about anything BUT the presents.  When I was growing up, there was not a tree every year--and the few times there were, I don't remember any ornaments.  There were no traditions of shopping until dropping or putting out cookies for Santa.  I wasn't ever allowed to believe--perhaps that's why having my children believe was so important to me.

I recall a time, when I was about 9 years old, being in Milwaukee's Grand Avenue Mall.  It was quite the spectacle--complete with an ice skating rink in the middle of the mall.  I was mesmerized, excited by all the lights, the people, the happiness in the air.  And that's when I saw it--in the middle of the mall on a huge display of potbelly bears was a koala potbelly bear.  My eyes lit up and I asked my mom if I could pick it up.  She gave me the nod of assent and I immediately wrapped the koala bear in my arms.  We (my brother, sisters and I) didn't ask for presents.  But this time I couldn't refrain.  This bear was the only thing I wanted in the entire world.

With sadness in my heart, my mom took the bear out of my arms and placed it back on the display.  I remember looking back at the koala, with tears in my eyes, and I dragged myself away from the bears.  I tried to forget about that bear, but she already had found a place in my heart.  Each night when I went to bed, I prayed that the koala would find its way back to me.

On Christmas morning, after going to church, my parents gathered us around to give us our gift.  We each received one gift--so different from the piles that sit beautifully wrapped under my tree today.  There was no tearing of paper--we savored unwrapping our one present and this time was no exception.  I was nervous, knowing that there was no way I was getting that koala.  It was an $8.00 bear--way too expensive of a gift for just one person.  But there was still a small part of me that hoped it'd be there.

When the paper finally came off of my gift, tears began to pour from my eyes.  Never in my life had I been so grateful.  Inside the box was my potbelly koala bear--who would become my Henry's best friend and my 2nd life-long confidante.

33 years later, I still have that potbelly koala bear.  She serves as a reminder of unselfishness.  She takes me back to the days when life was simple.  And while I wasn't allowed to believe in Santa during Christmas, I was allowed to believe in dreams, in hope, in wishing--and my little koala was proof that dreams do come true.

Every year when I go a little nuts over the holidays, I know it's because I want those around me to feel the way I did as a little 9-year-old kid.  That magic that filled my heart, thanks to my parents and that little koala bear.

And the Apple Doesn't Fall Too Far From the Tree...

Me in 1986--so friggin' cool...

I was gently reminded today how the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.  The reminder came from an "anonymous" sender--from one of my Pittsville Peeps.  Ahh...Pittsville.  It's sometimes difficult to remember who I was as a teenager, growing up in a small town of 864.  Although I'm sure for those the Giarrusso clan terrorized those memories aren't as difficult.  Truth be told, my reputation was set in stone by my older siblings--mostly my wild and crazy brother who was never a rule follower.  By the time I made it into high school, there was already a designated spot in detention for the Giarrusso's.  I was doomed before my first day.  There are stories--oh there are stories--but most of which I don't seem to be able to recall.  The stories I remember, the detention time that came my way, was never due to malicious intent--rather, the mischievous side of me (along with a dose of humor) was just being recognized.  With these justifications in place, here's one of those detentions stories that I remember as though it were yesterday.

My partner in crime, Tracey (oh how I love you, girlie!), and I were always up to no good.  We both had 2nd hour off, and were always so bored.  What to do?  What to do?  On this particular day, not only were we bored but we were starving.  The only place to get any food in that place would be the Home Ec room.  There were no fast food restaurants nearby, or vending machines to drop any change into.  Besides, who had the money to spend?  Certainly not me.  I remember stealthily making our way into Mrs. H's classroom.  We were suppressing our laughter the entire time, going from cabinet to cabinet.  Much to our dismay, every single one of the cabinets were locked.  Crap!  Next to the Home Ec room was Mrs. S's classroom--with the sewing machines and all of that.  We were made our way in there trying to find a bobby pin or something of the like to pick the cabinet locks.  Luck was on our side!  Was it a bobby pin?  A pin of some sort?  Who knows--but we found something to pick the lock with.  My brother  had taught me to do so from an early age.  That's a whole other story...

I remember finally opening one of the cabinets up, where standing in all its glory was a HUGE can of blueberry pie mix.  We were young.  We were stupid.  We were hungry.  Our next problem to over come was finding a can opener and two spoons.  With the lord on our side, those finds came rather easy.  I remember sticking the can of blueberry pie mix under my purple Pittsville Panthers sweatshirt--Tracey had the utensils ready to go.  We tip-toed toward the bathroom, locking ourselves in one of the stalls.  Both of us perched our bodies on the toilet's tank, our feet resting comfortably on the toilet seat.  I held the can of blueberry pie mix, as Tracey maneuvered the opener around the lid.  Blueberries never tasted so good!  Spoonful after spoonful went into our mouths--with us too stupid to realize its effects.  I looked over at Trace and burst, again, into laughter.  Her entire mouth was covered in blue!  As was mine.  Our next class was Home Ec--where the teacher would soon be discovering the missing can of blueberry pie mix.

Thinking we still had a chance of not getting caught, we wrapped the container with paper towels and shoved it into Tracey's locker.  No amount of scrubbing would remove the blue stain from our teeth, and lips, and tongues.  The two of us made our way into class, trying not to laugh, with our heads hung low.  Not out of regret mind you.  Oh no.  We didn't want the teacher to see our faces.

The rest is history.  I don't remember getting caught.  I don't remember getting in trouble.  Although I must have.  Looking back at my stack (truth be told it's a huge stack) of detention slips from Pittsville High there is one that says 60 minutes for "Blueberries".

So while, as a parent, the calls from the school DO suck.  Having to punish my daughter DOES suck.   There ARE days when parenting puts me to the breaking point.  Despite all of this, I know that my children are going to become amazing adults--after all, their mom sure has!

And the Hits Keep On Coming...

For the LOVE of GOD!  Seriously.  Yesterday's question was does this shit ever end?  The answer is no, it does not.  Yesterday's dilemma came full circle this morning when my daughter called, upset and crying, to confess her sins...  So after defending her, believing in her, hoping that she would do the right thing by being honest, I discovered that she wasn't being honest at all.  I remained calm, mostly because at this point there's nothing else to really do.  Yelling isn't effective--only seems to shut everyone down.  Not what I wanted.  So I listened to her pouring her heart out, letting me know how the guilt was eating at her and she had to let me know the truth.  I thanked, yes thanked, her for coming clean and let her know two things: 1) she had 30 minutes to find her teacher and fess up (which she immediately did) and 2) there'd be several consequences headed her way and she'd best take them with dignity and understanding.  I felt better--as though perhaps I could put on the good parenting hat for a few moments.  I was happy with the way I handled things--thinking that perhaps she really did learn her lesson and wouldn't ever ditch and lie about it again.

Yeah right.  Since when was anything quite that easy?

I discovered that the girl who ditched with her did come clean with her mother before the teacher was on to their scheme.  I also learned that the girl's mom had texted Marissa--telling her she was glad that at least her daughter wasn't liar and a few other tidbits.  As Marissa told me this, my first gut reaction was to protect her.  How dare another parent do this?  But then I thought about the phrase, "It takes a village to raise a child" and realized that perhaps what I really needed to do was create a village of my own.

I emailed another parent I know in hopes of retrieving this mother's phone number.  Things are so different now with technology--everyone has their own numbers, with a parent's rather difficult to obtain.  Luckily I was able to get it, and called her.

And like the title says, the hits just kept on coming.  After talking to this woman, I discovered that my young, sweet, kind little girl decided to send a text message to her ditching partner--wondering why the f*&! she was blowing her cover.  "Oh really," I said in complete disgust.  I already ate crow this morning when I sent an apologetic email to her teacher and now found myself apologizing to her for my daughter's unappealing text message.  Real nice.  I felt so proud of her.  (Is my sarcasm loud and clear?)

As I relayed my newfound knowledge to my child, I wanted to come unglued.  Had she only confessed earlier because she knew she was about to get caught?  The question was answered before it was even fully developed in my mind.  Disappointment racked my heart.  The consequences would have to be more severe.  She needs to learn.

Her father and I spoke to her, both unhappy with the decisions she has decided to take.  Me on the speaker phone, with the two of them miles away.  And what I learned was being a parent sucks.  Really sucks.  On Saturday my mom told me, "Things can't go smoothly all the time--we can only be thankful for when they do."  At the moment I found this statement so profound that I had her write it down for me.  We were in the car, as I drove her to Marissa's cheer competition, talking about the trials and tribulations of parenting.  I didn't know at the time that I'd need her words tonight.

And while parenting does suck--a lot of the time (those that say it doesn't are lying)--there are those moments, no matter how few and far between they are, there ARE those moments.  The moments when they look at me with eyes so filled with love and appreciation that it takes my breath away.  The moments when I'm tucking them in and they hold on a little longer than usual with their hugs.  The moments when we're laughing so hard that tears pour down my face.  The moments when I wish the day just wouldn't end.

And no matter how few and far between those moments are, they are mine.  And I wouldn't trade them for the world.  I love both of my children more than anything or anyone.  So while the hits may keep on coming, I'm ready for them.  Because no matter what happens, at the end of every day, my kids know all of their parents love them more than anything.  And holding on to that is sometimes all I need.

A great day in San Diego--Marissa and Mom

Will this S*#T ever end?

Seriously.  It's been one of those days...  Let me rephrase--my day was great until I was on my way home.  My phone rang with the familiar 720-886 prefix.  The next four digits that follow just determine the classroom phone number that the call's coming from.  The moment I see those first seven numbers I always cringe just a bit.  Could this be the ONE day that the phone call I'm about to answer is something positive?  Yeah, right...not going to happen.

I work in a building where we, as teachers, are encouraged to make positive phone calls and write positive referrals.  This year alone, I've already made a plethora of phone calls and about 20 or so positive referrals.  This isn't an unknown practice.  I'm waiting for the day to be the recipient of such an honor.  As a matter of fact, the only time this ever happened was when my son was in my school, in the grade I teach, and in my class.  I left myself a message.

So today, as I answer the phone with an upbeat voice with the hopes of hearing something positive about my wonderful children, the bomb drops.  Marissa was getting a referral.  This would be for showing up to biology and then ditching when the class went to the lab.  "What?" I asked in confusion.  Marissa's not the type of kid that ditches class.  Mostly because she has four parents that hold her accountable and she enjoys having a cell phone, iPod, and computer access.  "Yes," the teacher told me and without further ado the conversation was over.

Immediately, of course, I called Marissa's dad.  The two of us are SO tired of the kids' poor behavior.  The nerve!  The gall!  Such bullshit.  Just one week without any type of poor behavior or drama would be greatly appreciated.  Maybe that's what I should ask Santa for...  We decide on the punishment--one month without any electronics at all.  That is her motivation--she loves technology.  As we finish on deciding what the punishment will be, Marissa was approaching his car.  Soon I'm on speaker phone (it's her dad's week) asking Marissa what happened and why on earth would she ditch a class.  "Mom, I was there," she begins, "There was one sub in the classroom who told us we'd be going to the lab where there'd be another sub.  I asked her if I could go to the bathroom and she said yes.  When I got back to the classroom everyone was gone, so I went to the lab.  Mr. Brown (not his real name) was the sub in the lab.  We did a web quest.  I have the homework in my backpack."  Ugh.  I call the teacher back, relate the story back to her--all the time wondering how she'd know the teacher's name, know the assignment, and have the homework if she wasn't really there.

Fortunately the teacher agrees with me and will get the work from Marissa tomorrow--also agreeing not to write her up if she's able to show her the homework to prove she was really there.  Seriously.

So that's what Marissa will do tomorrow.  In the meantime, I'll be waiting by my phone with hopes of one day receiving a positive phone call about my wonderful children.  If only just one of their teachers could see the great, diligent, kind, loving kids that I see in them every day.

The Tooth Collector

From the time I was little my dad "taught" me to hold onto things.  He's been an avid collector of stamps and coins from the time he was little.  The older he got, the more elaborate his collection of things has become.  He's held on to more things than I can even begin to name--things that to most would seem completely ridiculous.  From steins to fishing poles, to hunting and camping gear to guns.  His collection makes him just shy of being a hoarder.  The garage, the shed, and the spare bedrooms are filled with his "crap" as my mother so lovingly calls it.  I, too, have inherited this collecting gene.  I have saved a ton of things throughout my life.  From all of my old journals from middle school to letters I received.  I've saved poems and feathers (remember the ones we stuck in our hair in the 80s--complete with the reefer clip...) and books.  There are a million pictures, newspapers with headlines from the war, and old high school memories.  And then there is my tooth collection.  Yes, you heard that right.  I've saved every tooth that ever popped out of my mouth.  And today I couldn't be more thrilled to discover a co-worker of mine also has a collection of her teeth!  Never in my 41 years has this happened.  My family has made me seem like the odd duck for having my tooth collection--and now, for the first time, there is another odd one that also collects their teeth.  So for that, thank you, Brooke!

Sometimes, the mom is right...

I've learned over the years that a part of being a mom is always being wrong.  My kids seem to ALWAYS know the answers to EVERYTHING.  I often find myself shaking my head, cursing under my breath, and wondering, "Where the HELL did I go wrong?"  This stubbornness, thick-headed annoyance is ever present.  My mother used to call me gabados (spelling is wrong; I don't know how to spell in Italian), while shaking her head, cursing under her breath.  

As a parent, I wonder if this will ever change.  Will my kids awake one day and realize how wrong they've always been?  Is there a certain time in their lives when this miracle will occur?  And then, today, I got my answer--and not necessarily the way I wanted my answer to come.

See we've had a lot of snow as of late.  And yesterday was no exception.  I had to drive my daughter across town to Arvada West for a cheer competition.  I don't know if the weather gurus simply forgot about Friday night's storm, but there was not a clear road to be found.  I was crawling all the way there, as not even the highways were plowed.  It was not fun...  After being on the road for an hour, and after dropping Marissa off at the high school, I made my way to my mom's house.  I'd be picking her up so she could go to the competition.  It was when I turned onto her street when my car began to slide.  Seriously.  After all that driving, this was when I'd crash.  I started to pump my brakes and my car stopped about a foot away from someone's fence.  I backed on out of there and made it safely into my mom's driveway.  As we drove past the tire marks that led right up to the fence, I told my mom they were mine.  I proudly declared how I had to pump the brakes to stop.  To these remarks, she began to scold.  "Don't pump the brakes!  That will make it worse."  I shook my head in disgust--what does she know?  Obviously not a lot or she wouldn't be dishing out this crap advice.  I did avoid the fence, didn't I?  After giving my mom a brief lecture on how to drive in the snow, she dropped the issue.  Whatever.

And then I got home.  And told Kent about what happened.  And he told me how I could ruin my anti-lock brakes by pumping them.  How they could stop functioning.  How the car's braking system is designed to pump the brakes themselves, therefore giving the driver control.  Blah. Blah. Fricken' blah.  Whatever.  And no, I wasn't about to call my mom.

This morning the phone rang, and I saw the familiar faces of my parents pop up on the screen.  Usual Sunday call.  No, not quite.  I answer to my mom's voice, who doesn't say hello or how are you or any kind of courtesy.  No.  I get a "Hold on your father wants to speak to you."  Whatever.

And before my dad can begin his anti-lock braking system lecture, I cut him off with a "I know, Kent already told me."  We wrap up our conversation, and hang up.  There was a chuckle on his end of the line, and annoyance on mine.  So I was wrong, who cares?

Literally 30 seconds after I hang up, the phone rings again.  Same faces appear.  "Hello?" I ask to whom I know immediately is my mom.  "Is there anything you'd like to say because after all I believe I told you about the brakes yesterday?"  "Yes, mother.  You were right."  And those five words seemed to give her some ultimate satisfaction.

And that's when I realized, that I've been her daughter for 41 years.  There's probably been a handful of times when she's heard those words from me.  And with my head shaking, I realized that it's going to be an awfully long time before my kids realize how right I am...