I'm Graduation-ed Out

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Yep, the wee ones are only in kindergarten and preschool, and I'm already done with graduations. This doesn't bode well for their important milestones in life. Find out why at Chicago Moms Blog, where I'm posting today - sadly for the last time, as they are shutting down their site as of July 1.

That's The Best Excuse Yet

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***

Growing up, my mom wanted my sister and I to play an instrument. She had played the piano to the point of also playing the organ in her local church (that's really good; an organ requires something like six hands and four feet to play).

Fortunately, she didn't start on this kick until I was in elementary school and could sort of show an opinion. Sort of.

So when fourth grade rolled around, which was our first opportunity to play in the band, I decided I was ready to go for it. My mom encouraged me to sign up for the band and to choose an instrument. I debated the trumpet and other instruments. Finally, I decided on the drums.

After all - with the drums, you don't actually have to read music, just bang on them. All was well with the world. Until I actually got my drum set. I think it weighed more than I did. And remember, I was in the fourth grade at the time. I also realized shortly thereafter that while I didn't have to read the notes, I still had to hit the drum in a certain fashion at the exact right time. And that certain fashion got more and more complex.

Fine motor skills? Apparently not always my strong suit. You don't want to see me dance, either.

Fortunately, the band was only a six month commitment, and my mom happily let me return the drums at that point.

But she still wasn't satisfied. She wanted me to learn to play music, just like she did. And having given up on my choice of instrument, I now started taking piano lessons.

Go fig. Reading music isn't actually all that hard. I enjoyed it and breezed through the first couple piano books. Then it got harder, and I had to buckle down and practice. After two plus years, I played ok but I was never going to be great at it. In my mind, I'd sort of learned all I wanted to.


Fortunately, my piano teacher was multi-talented. While my sister continued her piano lessons, I got to start taking flute lessons. Ahh the beautiful flute.

Ummm ewwww. The spit filled flute. Have I mentioned that I don't exactly do puke? Well, spit is also kind of right up there for me. It's giving me the shivers just thinking about cleaning out the inside of a used flute. With the same little rag over and over again.

Needless to say, I realized fairly early on that the flute was just not meant for me. But not liking the spit wasn't something my mom was willing to accept as a reason to quit.

*sigh*

Again, the more I played, the more complex the music got, and the more fingers I had to use on the keys - at the same time. And there, there came the problem.

Yep, freaky-deaky me is double jointed. In both hands. In all fingers. Especially my pinkies. In fact, after having just taken that picture, my pinky - having remembered now what it's like to be in that double jointed position - keeps wanting to go back there and get stuck.

Picture playing the flue. Picture holding your fingers out nearly straight but bent at the tip in anticipation of playing a note. Now picture being double jointed and being unable to complete the bend of a finger to play said note because said finger is locked into a double jointed position.

Yeah... I lasted at the flute for less than six months. My mom relented when she saw that I was unable to play some fairly important notes after the first few minutes of practice. Fortunately, I was a generally good kid, so my mom trusted me when I said I wasn't faking it (I truly wasn't).

Bet you never heard that excuse before, huh?

How Do You Celebrate?

Are you a fan of sweet? Like kettle corn perhaps? Go enter here!

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I'm hanging out over at Chicago Moms Blog again today. While I'm thrilled that the Blackhawks won the Cup (I adopted them after Norm Greed - not a typo - took over my beloved NORTH Stars and have cheered for them ever since), I'm not so thrilled with the way some people have reacted. Check out why.

Tasty Tuesday!

Hey, it's perfect timing - a food giveaway for a food post.  And ohhhh this kette corn is good.  Go enter here!

***

We're still grilling around here - even though it has been sort of cold and rainy. T-ball games were rained out both Saturday and Sunday this weekend, and we got soaked both times. Whee!

But between the raindrops, I still had fun putting together another chicken recipe for the grill. I love "Chinese" food - and I put it in quotes because the stuff we eat in our garden-variety place here is nothing like what I was served anywhere when I was actually in China. The only (ok, one of the) problem(s) with Chinese food is that it isn't always the most healthy.

Take orange chicken, for example. I love orange chicken. It's a perfect sweet and savory combination for me. Making it at home though? I don't want to know what's in it.

So I adapted it for the grill. And really, I think it turned out pretty well. My husband agrees since he ate (literally) a pund of chicken at dinner.

Apparently I'm on a citrus chicken kick. Lemon chicken, lime chicken, lemon chicken kebabs - what's next?

Orange Chicken

Ingredients:
1 c orange juice (yay for orange season with yummy fresh squeezed juice!)
zest of one lemon
juice from one lime (mine was pretty juicy, maybe 1/3 cup)
zest from half a lime
scant 1/4 c balsamic vinegar
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 c honey
4-6 chicken breasts (I had ~2 pounds)

Directions:
Combine the orange and lime juices and zest in a saucepan, along with the honey, vinegar, and garlic. Bring to a boil while stirring regularly. Simmer 15 minutes.

Let the marinade cool completely, then add it to your chicken breasts. Let marinate all day in the fridge.

Pull the chicken from the marinade, but don't discard it. Keep about 3/4 cup to baste the chicken. Boil the remainder until thick and bubbly, and use for a sauce. Grill the chicken breasts about five minutes on each side until the juices run clear, basting with the reserved marinade every few minutes.

Serve with rice and bok choy and enjoy!

And no pictures again? I know. Did I mention that my husband ate an entire pound just himself? I was sort of expecting to be able to use the leftovers for pics. Whoops.

Enjoy this and more with Blessed ith Grace and Tempt My Tummy Tuesday!

Hiding Isn't Helping

One more day to enter for a $25 Wal-Mart gift card here.

I also just put up a brand new giveaway for Angie's Kettle Corn here, with ten winners, so go enter!

***

I've debated posting this for over a month now for a number of reasons. I don't want to get pulled into a debate where I'm definitely not the expert. I want to keep some modicum of privacy for people - even though I'm admittedly a fairly anonymous blog. And I don't get it. I truly don't get it, and I can't wrap my head around it, which is my biggest struggle.

Earlier this week, I read a post by Melissa at Peanut Butter In My Hair, and sensing her frustration, I realized that a lot of that really doesn't matter. I have something I want to share, and it isn't about a debate, it's about people and about things they do that - inadvertently or not - are harmful.

Melissa wrote about Post Partum Depression and her desire that people not minimize it, not pretend like they know how it feels, not push it further into the darkness where it only festers and grows.

On Mother's Day, a woman whose wedding I attended killed herself.

She had a great job that she loved, she'd been in a great community where she was well-respected, and she had an adorable six week old baby girl. The following day, she was to return to work from maternity leave.

On the Thursday before Mother's Day, a colleague had called her to check in. "I don't think I can do this" the woman told her. And her colleague did what we all do, so very often. "Of course you can. We all feel this way sometimes; it's no big deal."

The woman was right. She couldn't do it, and she ended her life.

I can't begin to understand how she felt that way. I can't imagine ever being at the point where suicide is the only way out. I can't imagine ever feeling like leaving behind an innocent child is the right decision - and I'm profoundly grateful for that.

I'm lucky, but there are so many women out there who aren't so lucky, who suffer deeply - sharply - on a daily basis just struggling to make it not through the next day but the next hour and the next minute. While I can't put myself anywhere near the place they're in, I do understand it, and I feel for them. I get that the casual, unintentionally hurtful "it's not that bad" cuts more than they can bear.

This woman didn't always have the easiest life. She had gotten divorced since I attended her wedding, and her baby was an accident with a man she hadn't been dating long enough to decide that they were ready for this next step. But they worked through it, and they were making a go of it.

Does this explain why she fell so deeply into the blackness of depression that she couldn't see a way out, couldn't find someone who understood, lost all hope of ever escaping the darkness where she lived?


While her circumstances may not have been what she envisioned as a little girl growing up with fairy tale romances in her eyes, that wasn't necessarily the precipice that caused her to slide so far into post partum depression. There are plenty of women who do have the fairy tale romance who travel the same path, and plenty of women in circumstances far more dire who rebound with no issues.


Post partum depression doesn't care who you are. It simply finds you and seizes you, and good luck getting it to loosen its grip.


Part of what most scares me about this woman is the reaction of her family. The fact that she committed suicide is not well-known. All they shared was that she died suddenly. They saw her fall as something to be ashamed of, something to sweep under the carpet and pretend away.


It isn't.


The further you push it under the rug, the deeper its hold becomes. This isn't something that shows weakness of character. It isn't a character flaw or failing. This is a serious medical issue. It's valid. It happens.


It breaks my heart to think of that little girl growing up with not so much as a single memory of her mother. And she isn't the only one. Post partum psychosis has a five percent suicide rate. When you think about the number of babies born each year, that figure it staggering - even accounting for the fact that this "only" impacts one to two women per thousand births.


The next time I see a woman with a new baby who is struggling in the grocery store, I'll offer a sympathetic smile or more. When a friend says she's struggling, I'll encourage her to share with me - and to find some help. So many won't find help because of the stigma attached to it, feeling like a failed mother, being mentally ill, or more. There should be no stigma. It happens.


Even though this woman's mom doesn't want to admit it, wants to keep the illusion alive that there are no problems, her daughter is proof. And without getting help, the repercussions are severe. If you've suffered through PPD, hats off to you for not drowning. Your success and your survival are a tremendous feat and not something to hide away.


There's a baby girl out there who someday will wish her mother had been able to do that. And I just hope that other mothers and grandmothers and husband will and can shed some more light on the tragedy that can be avoided for those who need to be encouraged to find the right help.


I'm not an expert, and I don't pretend to be one. My heart just can't take hearing about another little baby like this one.

I'm A Creature Of Habit

There are still a couple more days to enter for a $25 Wal-Mart gift card here. I just put up a brand new giveaway for Angie's Kettle Corn here, with ten winners, I need you to enter!

***

I am a creature of habit, and I know it. I just proved it to myself yet again.

I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "A place for everything and everything in its place." I live it. It brings me comfort. Things belong somewhere, and then I know where they are. I don't have to search endlessly for them, trying to figure out what I did with my keys or my shoes or that homework paper Mister Man needs to turn in.

I get so good at it that sometimes I don't even realize I've done it. I'll freak out because I can't find my phone and call it, only to discover that I put it in my purse where it belongs. It's so instinctive that I don't even notice myself doing it.

So back to my proof.

Earlier this week - Wednesday, in fact - I went to the gym to run. I had two and a half hours to get to the gym, run, pretty myself up, and get to Mister Man's kindergarten graduation (don't get me started). The timing worked out beautifully, and I was happy.

When I arrived at the gym, I dropped Little Miss off at the kids' area and headed to the locker room. I grabbed my running skirt, my shirt, the freshly charged iPod and... no running shoes. Wait. What? Where are my running shoes?

Oh.

Yeah.

Let me back up a moment for you. When I run, I generally run on the treadmill at the gym. Being a non-sweating person (yep, that's me and it's no fun), I do well running where it isn't too hot and where I have a ready access to water. Thus, treadmill. However, on Monday I was scheduled to run but didn't have time until around 7:30 at night. Rather than drive the twenty minutes to the gym, I decided to run in my neighborhood since it had cooled into the low sixties.

Annnnnd when I took my shoes off in the family room when I got home, I left them sitting there. And because I wasn't in the habit of having to put them back into my gym bag, I didn't.

Back to the gym on Wednesday... I glanced down at the heeled black shoes I was planning to wear to Mister Man's graduation, and I debated whether I could pull off heading up to the floor anyway. Mmm no, no, I really can't. Instead I took a shower and spent a little extra time getting ready.

That night, I ran again at home, since June in Chicago is fortunately long sleeve weather half the time. At the end of my run, I carefully put my heart monitor and its accoutrements into one running shoe. My iPod and socks went into the other. I was not going to forget anything. In fact, I even remembered to put my running clothes into the wash since they ummm needed to be washed.

Yesterday, I returned to the gym, so proud of myself that I remembered to repack everything. I opened up my gym back and removed my heart rate monitor and my iPod. I grabbed my running shoes and... ummm where are my running clothes?

My mind raced back to my house where I could picture my clothes still hanging on the drying racks from where I'd done laundry the night before. Because, you know, I'm not in the habit of having to repack my running gear specifically.

I was absolutely not going to not get in another workout because I'd forgotten something. Again. And last night I didn't have the opportunity to run at home later in the day - I had a murder mystery party to get to (and oh, do I make a good saloon girl!). I surveyed my bag - as a Girl Scout, I always have something else packed. I had a pair of yoga pants and two sports br@s.

I sighed and debated whether I was truly desperate enough to wear this ensemble. I thought briefly and then realized that 1pm in a gym is a fairly empty time, which would work to my benefit. And that the fact that I don't know anyone at my gym actually worked to my advantage for once in my life.

Begrudgingly, I pulled on the yoga pants that are designed to have a) a perfect yogi body or b) a long shirt covering through the hip area. I had neither, but that was my own fault. I closed my eyes and pulled on the two sports br@s. And I felt n@ked.

I pulled the pants up until Erkle would have been proud. I pulled the sports br@s down until I had only a couple inches of exposed abdomen. I debated with myself again whether or not I was up to this. And I reminded myself yet again why I do not wear a bikini and probably never will.

But I did good. I sucked in my gut and walked up the stairs to the gym floor, and I did my workout. After the first five minutes, I wasn't constantly conscious of my lack of a running shirt; it only hit me every three or four minutes that I was soooooo exposed.

I concluded my workout in my creature of habit ways and left the gym in the same way I do every day. Shower, moisturizer, pants on, shirt on, return the towels, hair dried, makeup on, shoes on... just like I do every time I go to the gym.

Because I am a creature of habit. And I need it that way.

Oh, and my running clothes? They're currently sitting on the couch next to me. I put away all the laundry today, but my gym bag is in my car. Ten to one I forget to put them in my gym bag for tomorrow. On second thought, maybe I should go put them in my car now.

This Suddenly Became A Busy Summer!

Psssst! I'm still giving away a $25 Wal-Mart gift card here.

***

Mister Man came home from school the other day with a scrapbook from his kindergarten year. It's precious (and I have proof that he grew! Three inches taller from August until May recorded by his teachers. Ha!), and there were so many neat things that he wrote.

Of course, he also wanted to make changes to it. His favorite color is no longer pink. He now prefers purple (that's my boy!). And his favorite tv show is no longer "Beyond Time In Space" (one he invented himself).

But the coolest thing I thought was a wish list for the summer. He wrote down the three things he most wants to do this summer, and lucky him - he's going to get to do them all.

It got me thinking, however. What do *I* want to do this summer?

And since I can't stop myself with three, here are thirty. Shall I check back on my progress later?

30. Get my pile of magazines to read down from their current seven plus inch pile. If that means throwing some out, I'll find the fortitude.
29. Have a date night with my husband.
28. Get an "exclusive" invite to just one party at BlogHer for a brand I'm passionate about (what, you don't think I'm cool enough? Thanks a lot!)
27. Sign myself up for the summer reading club at the library - and read the minimum 12 books.
26. Update all the binders for the nine (yes, NINE) jobs I had on the PTO this year.
25. Pass off said binders to the new PTO members who will be henceforth responsible.
24. Head out to Old West Town and do some gold panning with the wee ones (and friends).
23. Clean up all my old horse tack and bring it to the second hand horse shop (unless one of you is horsey and wants some really nice stuff cheap - Crosby 15 1/2" saddle, show bridles, bits galore, show boots, a tack trunk, etc).
22. *sniff* Get rid of the last of the baby gear - double strollers, wagon, tricycles, etc.
21. Get 100% caught up on my email - defined as fewer than 50 unread emails in my inbox.
20. Fix the basement from our ejector pump fail last weekend - new carpet, drywall, bifold doors, and all.
19. Move the playroom toys into the newly fixed basement - and sort out those that are no longer played with first.
18. Purchase desks and whiteboard paint to create a homework room in the former playroom.
17. Get caught up on all my paperwork filing.
16. Dejunk the office to the point where I can donate the "I can hold anything" entertainment center that does not belong there.
15. Fully weed the landscaping and get new mulch down (this counts as completed even if I hire someone to do it).
14. Rearrange the storage facilities in the garage such that my husband's car will fit.
13. Sign Little Miss up for gymnastics (which technically starts on Monday, I believe. Oops).
12. Complete the C25K training (Week 4 Day 3 tomorrow!) - even if it's after the 5K that I'm signed up for at BlogHer.
11. Create a more regular bedtime that results in a less tired me.
10. Find time to use the massage gift card my husband gave me for Mother's Day.
9. Have at least five organized playdates for each of the wee ones.
8. Find an outlet for my need for a creative and mental challenge now that I've quit work and the wee ones will both be in school full time this fall. (Suggestions?)
7. Sell or donate all the outgrown clothes of the wee ones. (anyone need girl sizes 2-4T or boys' 3-6T?)
6. Buy a new laptop to replace the one I have to turn in for work - and be happy with my choice. (ummm, again - suggestions?)
5. Get my car detailed.
4. Have a physical.
3. Have an island in the kitchen (and an end table in the family room and a desk in the office and a nightstand in my room and a nook in my car) that is not home to clutter.
2. Set realistic deadlines for projects - and ensure I make each of them.

And the number 1 goal I have for this summer?

1. Enjoy my time with the wee ones - and ensuring they're enjoying their summer, as well!

Yikes. I feel like I need to print out this list now and keep it handy. Did I miss anything?

And what about you - what are you up to this summer?