4th of July, gift of Hope

The 4th of July tends to mark the middle of the summer. BBQs, Fireworks and the Baseball All-Star Game are all annual family traditions. This year, we started a new one. Our neighborhood decided to do a kid's 4th of July parade. We got up early and decorated our scooters and trikes with the most sparkly red, white and blue. All the neighbors gathered to watch the kids walk up and down the street waving and screaming "Happy 4th of July." We concluded with freezie pops and more summertime snacks. It was fun and it choked me up a little, but of course the 4th always does.

About ten years ago, our church back in New Mexico, had a small group of parishioners sponsor a very poor orphanage. It was located over the border, in the small town of Anapra, Mexico. It was located about fifteen minutes away from the church. One Sunday after service, our friend invited us to comeback with our truck to help deliver some donated supplies for the orphans. We agreed and loaded up the truck with heavy bags of rice, beans, blankets, bottles of water and a few used toys. It was our first time going.

We caravaned down to the border. The trees and green grass of the upper valley quickly faded to dirty sand with littered filled tumbleweeds, over the border. The road was rough and at times seemed non-existant. We made a right at the chicken coop and a left at a large agave cactus. We entered the neighborhood which was spotted with "houses" made of mud and used particle board. The more "well-off" residents had doors made of scrap metal and roofs made of old burlap onion sacks. Gang graffiti greeted us as we pulled up to the gray cylinder block building.

I walked in and noticed the strong smell of urine and boiled rice. The floor was dirt and the cracks between the cylinder blocks were held together with a mud mixture. It was primitive. There were no windows and the hoards of flies were very aggressive. The American, who lived there, ordered the older boys and church men to unload the trucks. I went out back to escape the smell and the flies.

I was suddenly greeted by many little girls trying to pull my hair. Back then, I was a bleached blond and my hair was much longer and styled taller. I must have looked like an alien to these dark haired little ones. They spoke very little English, but one little girl managed to get me to push her on the swing set. The play set was donated and was very old. The chain links on the swing were rusty and made my sweaty hands smell like dirty pennies.

I pushed the little girl higher and higher, listening to her scream and giggle. I looked forward toward the horizon and saw El Paso and the Rio Grande. The mountains were beautiful as they turned shades of pink with the sunset behind me. I could see cars zooming up and down I-10. The local casino's roof top glittered of gold with the blazing sun. The racetrack below was perfectly manicured and very green.

As I looked across the river, it hit me...everyday this little girl gets up after sleeping on a dirt floor, maybe eats a meal and comes outside to play. She swings and looks out on the United States and wishes she could be there. The American kids have warm shelter, food, love and most importantly hope. I thought about the violent gangs that broke into the orphanage and stole our previous donations. The director had to buy a gun to protect the young girls from rapists. I thought about what it would be like being afraid to sleep at night and not having a mommy and daddy to protect you.

It was getting dark and it was time for us to go. The little girl wrapped her arms around my legs and begged me to take her. It was heart wrenching. She cried and cried as the director told her to go inside and "be good." At the time, I had no children and parenthood wasn't even on the radar yet, but I found myself really wanting to adopt her. I felt guilty as we drove away.

Back on the dirt road and over the border, we went. I looked up at the American flag flying above the government building as we crossed. Right then and there I realized how great it was to be an American...and how blessed my future children would be.

After our little Mexico trip, the next weekend was the 4th of July. As I watched the fireworks that year, I wondered if that little girl could see them too, swinging from that ol' rusty swing. The 4th of July will never be the same for me and I swore to teach my kids to appreciate everything this country offers them...especially...hope.

Old School Summer

The two older kids just finished two weeks of Gymnastics Camp. This week, my daughter will start two weeks of Girl Scout Camp and the boy will do another week of gymnastics camp. The total cost being at least $400, for the month of June, with two more months of summer to go.

As I write the checks and sit in more carpools this summer, my thoughts go to my Dad. My Dad must be rolling in his grave. He would have never spent that kind of money on us for "summer camp." See, summer was a lot different when I was a kid. Growing up in Chicago, there were two seasons...winter and construction. You never went anywhere, except for in the neighborhood. Summer started promptly at Memorial Day and ended exactly on Labor Day. We'd get snow from about Halloween to April. The summer was never wasted, yet never planned...it was simple and most importantly cheap.

I came from a blue collar, town home neighborhood. The houses were stuck together and everyone knew every one's business. There were no such thing as "stay-at-home moms." Every parent worked shift hours, mostly 12 hours a day. The term"Latch-key Kid" didn't make sense, because we all were one. My brother and I were home alone all day in the summer. There were no parents, no rules, no schedules and no camps.

I remember going swimming from 8am-8pm, by myself, at the age of seven. There were no floatees, safety gear or pool noodles. I never wore a lick of sunscreen and always squeezed lemon juice in my hair to make it blonder. Then when the pool closed, I played with the neighborhood kids catching lighting bugs and throwing crab apples at moving cars. Bug spray was for wimps...My legs and arms were full of mosquito bites. I'd scratch them until they bled and showed them off to my friends. I guess, Lyme disease wasn't invented yet. I remember going to bed at 10:00pm and waking up in the same dirty swimsuit I wore the day before. This was my childhood summer...how the hell did I survive?

Now that I am a parent, I think to myself, how did my parents let me do all that? How did I not drown, get skin cancer, get hit by a car, get Lyme disease, or even Malaria?! Were there no pedophiles in the early 80's? Why wasn't I abducted and left for dead by the railroad tracks? I'm sure my parents thought kids weren't worth stealing, or something.

So, here I sit in an air conditioned gym, paying someone to teach my kid a cartwheel, just to come home and watch yet another hour of Sponge Bob. What is wrong with me? Why can't I let my kid do what I did for the summer. I decide to try it...So, I go home and load on the sunscreen, strap on the flotation device, spray on the deep woods bug spray. It takes 20 minutes just to get ready to go swimming for 40minutes. I'm tired, and Sponge bob is on, gotta make dinner.

How I wish I could give my kids an "Old School Summer," but I can't let go...so I'll spend more money and hopefully they'll keep having fun, after all there's only two more months left.

The Dance

Saturday was My 7 year old's Ballet recital. This is an annual event that we have been participating in since she was only three. My main purpose of her being in Ballet was to help her develop and improve of her gross motor skills. Since she was born, her fine motor skills were well ahead of her gross motor skills. Cutting with scissors came easier then skipping rope. Ballet has been a great source of confidence for her. She truly loves her Ballet experience. Her teacher says she is the best in her class and shows a great amount of discipline. I guess all that yelling at her at home, has some sort of benefit.

I'm at the Arts Center, with my daughter early, and we walk around looking at the fundraising tables. I buy her a single rose for good luck and a special present, proceeds going to charity. We go outside and take some pictures against the big Greek looking columns. I have hired a babysitter at home for the boys, so I'm feeling pretty mellow.

It's getting more crowded as people arrive. We decide to go ahead and use the restroom before a line starts to form. As we push the door open, a plume of cheap hairspray drifts into our faces. There are four girls with their moms in there. One is plastering the daughter's bun to her head, one is layering on the lip gloss and the other one is rubbing self tanner onto the kindergartner's face. My daughter finds a stall and goes in. I lean on the wall and just listen to these stage moms "prep" these pre-madonnas for their big performance. These woman are pretty pathetic. They are obviously living their dreams through their kids. I think to myself...I'm glad I'm not one of "those" parents.

Ballet recitals are special, but a Southern Ballet recital is a freakin' holiday. Southern families show up dressed up like it's Easter Sunday. High heels, hats and the smell of Old lady perfume just fills the auditorium. There are seat saving and picture taking. It's standing room only. The lights dim and the music begins.

My daughter's class is scheduled for the 18th performance. So, we sit a watch 17 other people's kids. It seems like forever. I'm getting antsy. I never did use the restroom earlier. Finally, I see her silhouette get into first position on a dark stage.

I'm excited to see her, but at the same time I'm nervous as hell. I pray she doesn't trip, slip or that her hair bun doesn't fall out. Is that a stain on her tights? She's the third from the left and the music starts. I'm at the edge of my seat watching her and secretly comparing her the the others in her class. In my mind I'm not really looking at my daughter, but looking at how much better she was then the others...oh, look that girl slipped and that one missed a cue. And just like that it was over.

My husband and I rush out behind stage to get her. We are so proud of her! She definitely was the best one up there. I secretly start thinking of colleges with good dance scholarships and her rise to stardom. We escort her back to her classroom to turn in her ballet skirt...the whole way praising and gushing all over her. We get there and she turns to me and says, "Mama, can you take me to the restroom, again?"

My heart, just skips a beat as I push open the door... I look in the mirror and think...I guess we're all one of "those" parents, at least once a year.

Wiener Roast

When is it time to stop bathing all the kids together? I admit I'm lazy... I tend to throw all the kids in the tub and spray them down with the detached shower spray. The process goes faster and uses less water, Al Gore would be proud of my "green"ess. Since my eldest is a girl and the rest are baby boys...I don't see a problem...but I did hear one today. I turned my back on the kids to arrange the toothbrushes, and I hear my daughter yell, "Mom, the boys are yanking their wieners again!"

See...my toddler boys have been officially diagnosed with "Manitis...the obsession of one's penis." This disease tends to begin at 12 months old and thanks to Viagra, it is terminal. I can't stand it. I am constantly yelling at them, "Get your hand out of your pants!" And now with potty training, the two year old rips off his Pull-Up and sprays the couches, as if marking his territory. I was forced to buy the pet stain remover carpet cleaner...and I don't even own an animal.

Ah, the joy of raising boys to men. I guess I can deal with the boys taking their pants down as toddlers...the hard part will be keeping my daughter's on at sixteen!

Martini, shaken not pumped

Today is the last day of school. Let the hell begin...

As the sun was trying to peek through the clouds and a bag of popcorn explodes in the mic, I stand at the sink. Its 6:45am. I look down and realized I had the dishes separated into two parts of the sink...machine wash and hand wash for my "more delicate,important" items. So I am soaping up my bottle brush and begin to wash my silver martini shaker and my crusted breast pump...from last night. At that moment, I looked down and thought, I have to start a blog. I reach for my daily dose of Lexapro and take out the popcorn for my two year old's breakfast.

So, I have never blogged, journaled, or kept a secret diary. I'm not computer savvy, don't face book or IM. I don't understand why people text and personally find it annoying. With summer break officially here, and now having a 7 year old girl and three boys ages: 3, 2, and just 4 months...I figure I should start writing some of my adventures down, for my sanity and anyone else who is trying to survive another summer break.

Well, it's almost a quarter to ten. I have to load the boys to go pick up my daughter after her half day of school...didn't she just leave to school? Crap, The two year old has just bitten into a dry packet of instant oatmeal and is eating it, again. This time its the Bananas & Cream version. Well at least he's getting his fiber. I better get him a water chaser, or he's going to choke.

Here I am at the sink, looking out the window...no sun yet, its a cloudy day.