At Least I Know It's Genetic

On Saturday, we had dinner at my parents' house. While my mom doesn't really like food, she does try to cook for at least my dad and me when we eat. That night, we had a beef thing from Trader Joe's and rice that she made. Or sorta made.

For whatever reason, the rice didn't turn out for her "the way it normally does" - or so she claimed. When the buzzer went off, the rice was still semi-hard and plenty of water remained. She turned the stove back on, and eventually served us the mostly cooked and only slightly watery rice.

After dinner, she was clearing the table and nearly slipped on an ice cube. Once she'd set those dishes in the dishwasher, she came back to pick up the escapee.

Oh, this isn't an ice cube! she exclaimed. This is one of the lenses to my glasses. I think.

She pulled her glasses from where they were tucked into her sweater and peered at them. Huh, one of my lenses did fall out. No wonder everything's been so blurry tonight. I knew there had to be a reason I couldn't read the instructions on the rice.

Ahem.

Apparently it truly is genetic. And it only gets worse. Oh the things I have to look forward to!

So What Did *Your* Family Do Yesterday?

Thanksgiving is a funny time. It's when families far and wide come together to celebrate and give thanks, but ... it isn't ever a completely smooth time. There's always someone who drinks too much or someone who picks a fight or says the wrong thing. There's always someone who doesn't acknowledge someone else or another ... special moment.

The same is true for my family, and I'm still chortling inside this morning. My mom hosted Thanksgiving, as no one from my generation has yet been allowed to host a major holiday. We all (and I mean all 22 of us) bring a dish to share, but my mom does the majority of the work. This year, she had two turkeys and a huge ham, in addition to all the other dishes.

I was helping her in the kitchen before the meal when I heard an odd hissing sound and turned around. I saw my mom doing something ... unspeakable to a poor turkey. Once she'd finished her mission, I checked the can myself and simply shook my head.

My uncle wandered into the kitchen a moment later. As he enjoys food - and cooking - as do I, I figured he'd appreciate the humor of it. I picked up the can and showed it to him.

So... guess what my mom is using to baste the turkey this year, I smiled.

No. She isn't - couldn't - be using.... that, he backed away with a concerned look on his face.

Oh, but she is. I just saw her spraying the turkey with it.

He didn't believe me. Honestly, had I not witnessed it myself, I would not have believed it myself. Fortunately, my mom chose that moment to walk back into the kitchen.

My uncle approached her casually. So I hear you're using ... this to baste the turkey this year?

With barely a glance at the can, she replied, Yep, it's working really well. It's so much easier!

My uncle spluttered a moment, but really what can you say in response to that? Oh, I didn't mention what she was using to baste the turkey? That she was spraying on the hot turkey as it continued to cook? Why that would be the imitation butter flavored nonstick cooking spray, of course. Isn't that what you use?

So what fun did you experience at your Thanksgiving celebration?



Current Giveaways:
InchBug Bumpy Orbit Labels here
MASTERMIND and Animal Mastermind Towers board games here
$50 77kids gift certificate here
Little Wonders Company personalized hardcover book here
$25 Build-A-Bear Workshop gift card here

She's Still Got It!

I'm giving away our new favorite book - Is Your Buffalo Ready for Kindergarten here.

I have a new giveaway up for a Monopoly board game here.

***

Today, we spent the majority of the day at the pool. It's amazing to me to watch how the wee ones have become so comfortable in the water, no matter how often we swim. Mister Man is no longer the only one in the family who can swim 25 meters unaided, and I think Little Miss is actually a faster swimmer than him now - though he has better form.

Although we were there for almost the whole day, there were times that not all of us were at the pool at the same time. At one point, my mom, the wee ones, my husband, and I were in the pool near the edge. I was playing "bally-ball" with Little Miss (her version of volleyball with a beach ball) while Mister Man was spraying my mom with water from his noodle.

Since it was such a gorgeous day, we weren't the only ones at the pool. It was crowded with all sorts of other people - and some of them are friendlier than others.

One in particular was rather enjoying a conversation with my mom. The near Speedo'd older man had a gold hoop in one ear and other gold jewelry affectations. He had a tattoo on his wrist and was holding a cup of beer in his hand as he shamelessly flirted with my mom.

My mom, of course, was quite polite to him and one could accuse her of flirting, too. Because that's just how she is. I suppressed a grin, internally enjoying the scene while I once again fetched a ball volleyed a little too far behind me.

My husband swam over to us and said - a little too loudly - Hey, Mister Man, do you suppose that Grandpa will be joining us soon?

Wow, was it amazing how fast the near Speedo'd dude got out of the pool and went elsewhere. My husband and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Awhile later, I asked my mom about him. Mom, did you notice how quickly the guy who was flirting with you got out of the water once Husband mentioned the word "Grandpa?"

What guy who was flirting with me?

Ummm the one who was wearing the almost Speedo and talking to you with the beer in his hand? You know - with the really cool gold hoop earring?

She just looked at me blankly. She had no idea anyone was flirting with her. None whatsoever.

Lucky for her, if anything ever were to happen to my dad, she's still got it. She may not recognize it, but she's got it!

My Motivation Is Renewed

I have a trio of fun giveaways going on right now:

Family calendar giveaway from BusyBodyBook right here.

JumpStart Get Moving Family Fitness game for the Wii right here.

Spinbrush MyWay! (for girls) battery operated toothbrush right here.

***

Today is my husband's fortieth birthday (which ummm this post isn't actually about, but happy birthday to him anyway!), so my parents came over for dinner to celebrate, as they do for all occasions.

While we were sitting on the deck after dinner, Little Miss climbed from her chair into my mother's lap. This isn't too unusual, as she knows that my mom will let her do basically whatever she wants. Again, not out of the norm, my mom reached over to get a spoon of rice to feed her - because why should Little Miss do something for herself if my mom will do it for her?

As my mom reached over, Little Miss poked a finger at my mom's arm swaying in the breeze. Fluffy! she giggled. She grabbed a chunk and swung it back and forth. Look, Grandma, it swings! Can I play with this on the plane?

I'll spare you the photos. And my mom. But yikes!

My mom is not heavy. She is the Donna Reed who is 5'4" and weighed 105 pounds dripping wet. There is a picture of her wearing a bikini on the beach where my sister and I are still tiny. I am maybe two and my sister is barely sitting. And my mom is wearing a bikini. Let's just say I didn't get those genes.

She hasn't exactly gained much weight since that time, but she has what she calls "old lady arms." And Little Miss is fascinated with them. And I mean fascinated.

Call me silly, but I don't want my future - wayyyyyyy in the future - grandchildren to be playing this game with my arms. I am so keeping up on and increasing those arm workouts. Starting tonight.

I'm afraid I'm going to have nightmares about this tonight.

I Am More Than "Mom"

Have a prereader? Enter to win the My First Bob Books Alphabet set here.

Brand new giveaway for a BusyBodyBook is right here.

***

The wee ones look at me, and they see Mom. They see the woman who cooks for them and with them, always ensuring that they drink their milk. They see the woman who does their laundry and helps them clean their rooms. They see the woman who kisses the boo boos and bakes the birthday cake.

But I'm more than that, and I wonder if they know about this. I wonder if they know how much I love horses and how much I miss riding them. I wonder if they understand why I choose the books to read that I do and why I enjoy certain authors while rejecting others. I wonder if they consider how I'm a slightly different person when I'm with my friends and my focus isn't on them.

I doubt they do.

When I look at my mom, I see the same thing. I see the woman who is always there with advice and help. I see the woman who made the spaghetti to put into the refrigerator for lunch. I see the woman who drove me all over kingdom come for various activities.

And I know she got a little lost, too. I was thinking about this the other day while reading a book where the author explored her mother's addressbook after her death and discovered all sorts of mysterious facts about her mom.

To be honest, the author was a little surprised and rocked by some of the relevations she learned about her mom. Her mom was a real person, and that was so hard for her to reconcile with her image of her mom.

And I don't want that. I don't want to have the wee ones see a version of me that I paste on for the world. I want them to know who I am and to feel comfortable growing into their own individuals based on the role model I am. And for me, I don't want to put my life into separate pockets - the mom bucket, the me bucket, and so forth.

When I hear about my mom going to the city with her friends for the day to explore museums and see a play, I'm still surprised. I feel badly that this is something that my mom wasn't able to do as I grew up - or that she didn't share with me when I was growing up. That isn't the relationship I want to have with the wee ones.

And with that in mind, I'm going to heave a huge sigh of relief and take away that guilt. Tomorrow I'm heading to Ravinia to see the B-52s, and I'm going to tell the wee ones what I'm doing and why.

And the next time I have the opportunity to do something fun? Well, so long as it doesn't conflict with something the wee ones are supposed to do, count me in!

We Can't Take Her Anywhere...

Have a prereader? Enter to win the My First Bob Books Alphabet set here.

Giveaway for e.l.f. cosmetics here.

***

Around us, Arlington Park does a family day on Sundays. While I'm not a huge fan of horse racing (or pony rides or petting zoos, for that matter - but those are entirely separate issues), it can be a lot of fun heading to the racetrack on the train and watching the horses.

And oh yeah... my dad and my husband love to bet on who's going to win.

So we all trekked down there, the wee ones, my husband, my parents, and I. With the train schedule, we arrived there slightly before the third race, so we got to see the horses being prepped for the race (where I correctly predicted the favorite wouldn't win, as I could see that he was slightly off in his left hind), which the wee ones thought was just a blast. They now want to know if I can use a hose to give them their baths, too. I'm tempted, let me tell you.

We made it into the concourse where my husband and father placed their bets (me, I'm content to just watch) before heading down to the rail to watch the race. As we were in a crowded public place, my focus was on the wee ones and whose hands each were holding. I had Little Miss, and my dad was with Mister Man.

As we got near the rail, my mom tripped. She missed a step, as those giant yellow lines they paint across them are pretty hard to miss (if you walk with your eyes closed). I grabbed her and kept her from falling all the way, but with Little Miss on one hand, I wasn't as quick as I usually was.

She insisted she was ok, but Mom-the-Martyr was not ok judging by the look on her face. She insisted on watching the race, so we settled her on a bench. I could already see that her foot was swollen, so off I went to find the first aid station and get some ice.

That was the first race I missed. Oddly, they hide the first aid station wayyyyy far away back behind two doors, but I eventually found it and got her an ice pack.

We helped her back up into the concourse where we set her down while we got lunch for everyone, gently lifting her foot into a chair. As the next race neared, she insisted we all go to watch it and that she would be fine walking to it. But she wasn't.

That was the second race I missed, as I helped her hobble down to the first aid station for them to look at it. They immediately wrapped it after determining that they couldn't feel any bones out of place.

My mom remained in that poor chair in the concourse - not even facing one of the monitors so she could see what was going on - for the remainder of the race schedule. She refused to go home and ruin the day for the rest of us, but she was obviously in pain.

Of the remaining five races, we had to leave before the last one, two I missed while doing the family activities with the wee ones (the aforementioned pony rides and petting zoo), and the last one I missed while tracking down assistance to the train station - and yes, they did provide a wheelchair and then car ride to it or we would never have made it). I vaguely remember the racetrack being more fun when I went there with work folk on outings.

The verdict from the orthopedist is that yes, she did sprain it so she's in a soft cast for now. If she's still in pain in two weeks, she's to return to see him for an MRI to sniff out any additional damage. My guess? There's no way she'd admit to further pain and won't go no matter what.

But the next time we go to Arlington? I think we might leave her at home. That or she's going to be assigned to hold someone's hand, just like the wee ones!

My Mama Didn't Teach Me

As a parent now, I recognize that my mom worked hard to teach me the things she felt were important for me to know about life. I do the same with the wee ones, and I can only hope that my lessons will allow them to develop into happy and confident people.

However, some of the things I learned along the way - unintentionally or not - I've since learned aren't the secret to a happy life. I've redefined a few things, and it seems to be working for me.

Without further ado - the top 10 rules I've unlearned:

10) Sitting too close to the tv won't harm my vision. Granted, I'm not one to sit three feet away anyway, but this is no longer something that gives me heart palpitations for fear that I'm causing irrepable damage.

9) It's never too late to say you're sorry. Growing up, we avoided conflict. It was much easier to pretend something didn't happen rather than deal with it and move on. I'm finding it far more effective to deal with the issues and have a clean slate.

7) Planning doesn't solve everything. My mom is the most organized person ever. She is the reason I had my calendar color coded based on activity in college to keep everything straight. But now? Well, when I have plans with eleven women to go to dinner tomorrow night, I expect that several will drop out. The fact that I'm down to six now and may not be able to reduce the reservation by that much? Eh. I'll survive. There's only so much I can control after all.

6) The phrase you can never be too rich or too thin is bunk. I can't tell you how often my mom repeated that to me, and wow, looking at it now is that unhealthy. But hey, I'm not thin and I'm not rich, but I'm pretty darn happy with my life thankyouverymuch.

5) Sometimes, it's ok to sit down. My mom was in perpetual motion. She had bridge or was driving us to or from an activity or was taking a neighbor somewhere and the like. While I do sometimes follow the same route of overcommitting myself, I'm learning to say no and to take some time to relax just for me. And I think that is making me a happier mom and person.

4) You don't have to be the nicest. Back to the theme of saying no, my mom volunteered for everything. She sought out situations to help people - people she knew, friends of friends, and more. She currently drives her 97 year old bridge partner to bridge each week. She got suckered into watching her neighbor's dog almost every weekend for three yearrs although they rarely even said thank you. Me? I'm ok if not everyone likes me. Having the most friends doesn't win you the race in the end. That isn't to say that I'm (purposefully) rude or mean to people, but I set limits. And if people don't like them, deal.

3) Falling down is ok. My mom still freaks when one of the wee ones falls or otherwise gets hurt. She hovers, and it freaks them out. I'm busy trying to foster independence and a sense of competence. My rule right now is "no blood, no foul" and it's working. I think.

2) Sometimes, you need to take a step back ignore the stereotypes. If I did, I wouldn't have sent the wee ones to the excellent preschool I did. I wouldn't have some of the wonderful friends I do now. My mom is way different from her parents, but there are still prejudices she holds that worry me. Just this afternoon she wanted to know if they did background checks on bus drivers - the first time she's asked this in four years of wee ones riding the bus - because I told her that Little Miss had a new bus driver, a younger somewhat heavy-set Hispanic man. Apparently this is grounds for concern. Well, for her anyway. (And yes, everyone who comes into contact with children in district goes through a thorough background check.)

And the number one thing I unlearned from my mom?

Perfect is not the goal. Sometimes good enough really is. Striving for perfection leads to a fear of failure and paralysis. And since you can never accomplish it, there's never the true joy of satisfaction. It isn't that I do thing halfway, but I set a point where I'm satified and can quit.

I can only imagine the things the wee ones will be unlearning from me!

Hopefully it won't have anything to do with giveaways - Biogaia was extended until tomorrow, e.l.f. cosmetics runs until Saturday, and Energizer Smart Charger is open until May 4.

This Is Not A Setup

I haven't been around much this week. It's our school's book fair, and of the thirty total hours we need volunteers (geeky me, yes I calculated it at about 5am this morning), I'm there for fourteen of them. Plus Little Miss had a parent/child activity at school. And Mister Man has his language group. And I had a President's Council meeting today for two plus hours, for which I also provided lunch for twenty-five. Why does everything always happen in the same week?

Shockingly, that isn't the point of the post, as everyone is busy - this isn't exactly earth shattering news. However, because I haven't been home and my husband has been gone because he has conferences at his school, my mom graciously agreed to watch the wee ones after school today and tomorrow, including feeding them dinner and putting them to bed.

I happened to have an hour free between the presidents' council and my shift at the book fair, so I headed home to do some quick cleaning of my disaster of a kitchen (try making four loaves of bread, Irish soda bread, baked potato soup and homemade dressing for a salad in about three hours and see what your kitchen looks like at the end of it!).

As I was putting away some things in the fridge, I noticed that my mom brought dinner for the wee ones. Because apparently she didn't trust me to have food for them. Yep, me who loves to cook and bake has no food in the house for the wee ones to eat. My mother, who I've mentioned previously does not like food and never really cooked when I was growing up, instead made and brought dinner.

This is what I discovered:

I'm pretty sure that I'd mentioned at some point that my mom used to make up a pound of spaghetti and leave it in a Ziploc bag for us to eat when we got hungry. Yep, the tradition is carried on. I wasn't joking when I said my mom did that.

Although I will admit that we didn't get the extra protein from the turkey bacon that she included for the wee ones. This gets placed on a paper towel and stuck in the microwave to cook.

I was mildly jealous that they got that extra treat. Then I noticed something. My mom always made spaghetti for us. The wee ones get special shaped pasta with cool textures. Yep, they're definitely getting spoiled.

Leave Her At Home

It's that season again... garage sales are everywhere. In fact, biking home from the park today after a playdate, Mister Man and I went past a neighbor who appeared to be sorting items for an upcoming garage sale. Generally, I stay far away from them. I really don't need anything, and taking the wee ones is always a dicey proposition.

However, before the playdate today, my mom happened to be with me at Mister Man's t-ball game, and we took her car. As we drove past a garage sale on the street before mine -- so close, yet so far from the friendly confines of my garage -- my mom spotted one and asked if I wanted to stop.

Before I could answer, both the wee ones piped up enthusiastically. I sighed and agreed.

The good news is that the people holding the garage sale apparently don't have children. Phew. I didn't have to do any replacing of objects that absolutely were not coming home with us regardless of the efficacy of the puppy dog eyes thrown my way.

On the other hand, my mom found something she couldn't live without. The glasses she has at her house are an angled blue glass. She's had them for years, and I doubt there's a full set remaining.

These people were selling a similar, albeit narrower, blue angled glass set. In fact, there were eight water glasses and twelve juice glasses. They were asking six dollars for the set.

My mom looked at me and whispered whether I would ask if they'd take five instead of six. Now, keep in mind that my mom is banned from setting foot inside a car showroom after she told the salesman that they should ask more for car X because it had a built in car phone (this was wayyy back in the day). They finally bought my mom's current car after she set off the alarm while sitting in it, and it took a good twenty minutes to find the appropriate set of keys to turn it off. My mom was so embarrassed that she insisted my dad purchase that exact car for the sticker price.

I sighed and said I'd ask. Then I noticed that the wee ones were picking up some random Halloween items, placing them on the bar stools and then spinning the bar stools until the Halloween items went flying off. Needless to say, I took a detour to explain to the wee ones what appropriate garage sale behavior looks like.

When I turned around again, the garage sale lady was placing half the glasses -- ok, technically less than half, since it was only the water glasses -- into a box and handing my mom some change.

I hid my smile of congratulations at my mom's acumen in getting what she wanted -- forgetting for the moment that when we were in China, I was the one who had to wade into the sea of trinket salespeople at each stop our tour bus made to rescue my mom because man can those people smell a sucker at 50 yards.

She walked up to me and proudly showed me the glasses. She had decided that she didn't actually need or want the juice glasses and had bargained for just the water glasses. And instead of paying the full six dollars, she happily announced that when the woman asked what she'd pay for them, she announced she'd give five dollars.

I was afraid to ask. I'm not sure if the five dollars was stuck in her head as a good deal because that's originally what she was going to ask to pay for the entire set of glasses or whether she thought that breaking up the set and leaving only twelve juice glasses meant that she should pay more than half the asking price. Or whether the bats flew out of her belfry and her tongue got tangled up as they escaped via her mouth.

Regardless, I'm so not taking her with me the next time I go to a garage sale.

Just Call Me Mom

When I was growing up, I never understood a lot of the things my mom told me to do. I knew what I was doing and why, and it all made sense to me.

Why did I have to go to bed? I was having fun playing, and I wasn't tired. Pleeeeeease, can't I just stay out for another twenty minutes? Just ten?

And oh, I hated the days the cleaning lady came. Each week when Ginger arrived, that meant I had to clean everything up. I mean seriously, she's a cleaning lady. Why did I have to clean before the cleaning lady came? Are we embarrassed to show our house to her in its natural state?

Seriously.

Umm, sorry, Mom.

I promise I'll never have a Donna Reed bob or wear pearls on a daily basis, but I think I'm stepping into your size seven shoes. Just a little.

I'm a sleep nazi. In fact, my parents don't think the wee ones need sleep now. I'm the one saying they need to go to bed earlier and that yes Little Miss needs a nap in the afternoon. She sleeps every day I'm with her and in charge and only doesn't nap because you told her she doesn't need to nap anymore.

I'm the one who's saying to the wee ones that it's time to stop playing and that no, it's too late tonight to do something else before bed. We need to hurry and get ready for bed. I know you aren't tired, but trust me, it's bedtime.

And the cleaning lady thing? Uhhh, yeah. I've since learned that it's not actually cleaning before the cleaning lady comes. It's straightening. There's a big difference. They can't clean the house if there's piles of stuff everywhere. And I'm the one sighing on Thursday mornings as I see my husband's dirty clothes on a pile in the middle of our bedroom floor.

Yes, I too am overinvolved in the schools. I'm PTO president this year, and I can't figure out how to say no. I'm volunteering to bring foods for the church potluck. I'm the person they turn to at the last minute to get something done.

And I may be sending Mister Man to Catholic school next year. I went to Catholic school until eighth grade, and I never thought I'd send my children there. I am currently setting up an appointment to go visit with a school in the next couple of weeks. Where did that come from?

If it makes you feel better though, I promise I won't completely take over everything you did.

I have no plans to put bags of cooked spaghetti into Ziploc bags in the freezer and leave them there for my wee ones to forage dinner.

I refuse to eat breakfast and lunch of a single bowl of cottage cheese with canned peaches atop it. Yuck.

My wee ones will never believe that the UPS truck is our personal delivery vehicle. Instead, we have neighbors two doors north of us who are taking that job.

And I'll never own a car with the hopes that one day it will be considered an antique so I can get special license plates for it. And I definitely won't ever park it in my garage and then have it somehow roll out of the garage and into a pond where it's totaled due to electrical damage only thirteen years into owning it.

Phew. I feel a little better now.

Sorry, Mom!

I look around at Little Miss sometimes, and I know I'm in for it.

I've known this for years. Literally. At ten months old, she was walking. Ok, running. She would pick up one of Mister Man's favorite toys. Once she'd caught his attention, she'd hold it out to one side. If he ran towards the toy to get it, she'd clutch it to her chest, turn the opposite way, stick her elbows out and run like a star running back with the football who just deked out the defense. Ten months, people.

It hasn't really gotten much better. I describe her as having a lot of personality. She's quite the spitfire. This will definitely get her far in life, but I know I'm in for it. I'm really worried about her teen years. I never snuck out. I never drank in high school. I got straight As. My mom never had to worry about me.

People always say that your children are getting you back for what you did to your parents. Well, I was a good kid, so how is Little Miss retaliation for what I've done to my mom?

I had to think really hard about it.

I think what drives my mom the most nuts is that I want to raise the wee ones differently from how she raised my sister and I. She feels like I'm repudiating everything she does and that I don't like her or respect her. It isn't true in the least, and I feel badly that she feels that way. I've tried to explain it to her, but she tends to be a bit of a martyr. She sees what she wants to see.

She worries that by working I'm not spending enough time with the wee ones. She was the one who really pushed for me to quit my job when the wee ones were younger. She quit her job when my sister was born (15 months after I was) and stayed at home. It drives her nuts that staying at home wasn't enough for me. To be honest, I'd be ok with staying home now, but given the economy, I'm not giving up my paycheck while I have the option!

And my mom goes nuts about sleeping. There wasn't much research done on sleeping when I was a child. Sleep is important and all, but you made do. I, on the other hand, am a firm believer in sleep -- and a lot of it -- when it comes to the wee ones. It's when their brains develop, and I can see a vast difference in their behavior when they have enough sleep versus when they don't. I am constantly asking and telling my mom to let the wee ones sleep more. She doesn't believe they need it, and she hates that I question her "parenting" of my children. My parents just watched the wee ones for five days and not a single nap was taken.

And I think it really drives my mom nuts when I cook. My mom was never really a cook. She doesn't really like food and eats purely as fuel. Growing up, we'd have a gallon sized Ziploc of cooked spaghetti in the fridge that we'd eat for dinner for days on end. I cook. And I enjoy cooking. I tend to do it from scratch because I like it, and my dad I think likes much of my cooking better than the same versions that my mom makes. And yep, it drives her crazy.

As I think more on it, maybe Little Miss is payback from what I'm doing now and will do in the future to my parents -- especially my mom. That or I've really blocked out a lot of my childhood. Nahhhh! It couldn't be that!

So what did you do to torture your parents? What drove them crazy?

Shhh! Don't Tell

Do you ever have the urge to mess with people? Or just to pretend you're someone else? Maybe it's just my twisted personality, but when I'm in a situation where I'm never going to see someone again, sometimes I have fun pretending I'm someone entirely different.

I remember when my mom took me to Regina High School for a visit to see if she was going to send me there. Yes, I went to Catholic school up until 8th grade when I refused to go back to the school I had been going to where I would have to take Spanish from a woman who didn't speak it herself among other indignities.

Before I started junior high though, my mom looked into some schools as options for me. Regina, shockingly an all girls school, was one of those.

For some reason, I pretended my name was Stephanie. I loved the name at the time (and I'm still a fan now). I told everyone I introduced myself to that I was Stephanie. I wrote it on my nametag. I had glorious tales about myself and how I loved to sing in the choir and was really interested in history and all sorts of things that nuns love to hear.

And would never suspect to be false.

All was going well until the principal Sister ummm Someone (like I said -- people I'm never going to see again. Sue me, I don't remember her name) walked up to my mom and started talking to her. I didn't notice the conversation at the time, or I might have intervened.

The sister talked to my mom about her daughter Stephanie and how wonderful she was and how great it would be to have such an addition to the choir at the school and how excited she was to have such a great student coming.

My mom is quite polite. Picture Donna Reed (including the pearls and flip hairdo), and you've envisioned my mom. The poor woman kept trying to tell the sister that she had the wrong family, but to no avail.

The sister finally pointed me out, and it clicked in my mom's head. All I know is that I heard a very shrill "STEPHANIE" in my mom's voice. I froze and turned my head only to get the death look.

My mom politely smiled at the sister, and thanked her for her time. She marched over to me, grabbed me in the meat of my arm with a pincer grasp and dragged me out of the school building, muttering at me through her gritted smile.

Oddly, Regina was never an option going forward. Instead I stayed at my tiny local parish school for another year and then ventured into the public school system. After the tongue lashing I got and punishment so horrible I've blocked it from my mind, you'd think that I'd have learned.

But nope. On airplanes I'll pretend to be an architecture professor from Ohio State. Or at a play, I'm Sara with my husband Bobby. Sometimes, it's just fun to step into other people's shoes. I just make sure that my mom's not around when I do it now!