The Journey of Will...So Far.

**By no means does anything written in this blog insinuate that medication is a wrong choice for any child or adult. In fact, I have witnessed many amazing occasions where medications have worked wonders for people. I am not clinically trained in any medical field. I am just a Mom who will always be an advocate for my kids. The needs of every child are very individualized and vary from person to person. This is just one story.


"He was kicked out of preschool today." My husband looked up at me as he twirled his spaghetti on his fork, wide eyed. He scoped out my face for any indication of a smirk or any trace at all that I was joking with him and when he realized I was not kidding, said with half a laugh "What did he do?"

He knew about our son's preschool teacher's repeated concerns about how our son "Will" (I'll call him) was relating to the other kids around him. Mrs. Carpenter had pulled me aside at pick up on more than one occasion. "Will has trouble if he is not first. He has to be first in line. First to sit down in reading circle. First to get his snack. First for just about everything." I knew this already. The first day of preschool, he actually melted down right on the school black top because other children had beat him there and he would not be the first one in the classroom. I sat with him crying on my lap as he reduced himself to a small puddle. I soothed him and held him as the other parents and preschoolers stared at us as they filed in with the excitement and nervousness that is the first day of preschool. After what I felt was a suitable time, I told my son that it was time to get up, dry is eyes and get ready for school. He could not always be first. He was angry at this, but I explained that it was not possible to always be first. That he had to get used to second, third, fourth and last when it came to his peers.

This was an integrated preschool. Done by lottery. I loved the idea. My son would be going to school with a mixed classroom of children his age, some of whom were not 'mainstream'. Blindness, severe autism, cerebral palsy. I thought that this would be a great experience. I wanted him to know that everyone is different. Everyone has challenges and individual needs in their learning process and in life and I was hoping he would develop a keen sense of this. What I failed to recognize is that my son would indeed be special needs.

The day that I got the phone call that Will had to leave preschool and never come back, I had picked him up amidst a frenzy in the classroom. A boy, "Josh", that had had a meltdown and thrown a bin of Lego's all over the floor, was sitting off to the side, rocking back and forth and smacking his own head with the palm of his hand as his aide picked up all of the Lego's and put them back. I found out later that this was the fourth time in a 3 hour period that this had happened. At 3 1/2 years old, shortly after the second Lego incident with Josh flailing and throwing Lego's, my son had decided that he did not want to sit next to Josh in reading circle. He announced this out loud. In his little mind it was probably for self preservation for fear of being beamed off the head with a Lego or a fist. But this was unacceptable.Very hard to explain to a small child. I felt terrible for Josh.

Mrs. Carpenter called and regretfully informed me that Will was not welcome back. I asked her if she thought that maybe my Will, had special needs of his own due to his inability to understand some social queues. Her response will forever stay with me. "Probably, but we have reached the special needs quota in this classroom." I have never forgotten the tone in her voice. Very flat and cold.

A close friend of mine, who had twin boys the same age as Will, and who were also in the same preschool class, wrote me a letter a few days after Will was asked to leave preschool. Her and I had coffee every Friday and playgroup with a gaggle of kids and their Moms, but felt I needed a letter for some reason. It's basic message was that I needed to seek out direction from my pediatrician, because in her opinion (she is a nurse) Will may have ADHD and that my parenting style was not going to work on him. Our Friday coffee thing ended shortly thereafter.

I scheduled an appointment with my son's pediatrician, who I love and trust with every cell in my body. He and Will got along great. They joked and laughed at every appointment. They had this funny repore, Will giggling through any visit he had with Dr. O'Neil whether it be sick or well. I told Dr. O'Neil what had been going on and my concerns about some of the things that we had been noticing. I gave him the example of one day when Will asked me if he could see a box of 1000 toothpicks that was up in the cupboard, which he had asked about before. There were 4 different colors of toothpicks in the box, red, blue, green and yellow. Part of me wanted to say 'No' again, but this time, I was curious why he was so drawn to them. I joked internally that he secretly wanted to impale his sister with them while we all slept. Will responded with "Because I want to put them in order." I let him sit at the kitchen table while I prepared breakfast. I told him he could absolutely not stick them in himself, his sister, the dog, me or anything else and he giggled and said "Why would I do that?" For the next I-don't-know-how-many hours, Will sat with all the patience and precision in the world as he lined up, in a perfectly straight line, and by color, all of the toothpicks on the kitchen table.

Dr. O'Neil looked at me with all the care in his face that I needed and put my concerns to rest with this: "Lisa, he just marches to the beat of his own drummer, that's all."

In first grade, things kicked up again. Everyday that I went to pick up Will at the end of school, his lovely teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, would have appeared to me to run what I will call a 'mental marathon'. Hair disheveled from trying to pull it out, tired eyes, lacking in spirit. I knew that look was from Will. As she confirmed I was right, my concerns came back again that Will was floundering. "He can't focus, Lisa. He challenges me on everything. It's a long day." He was all I knew. My first child, my heart, my boy.

So, we decided to have him tested. And the short of it was, we found out that he fell on the Asperger's spectrum.

Following this news, I made an appointment with one of the top specialist in New England for Asperger's. We waited 3 months for the appointment. On the day of the appointment, we walked in, Dr. Specialist observed Will for 5 minutes, asked me some questions, and then in a heavy Austrian accent said "No, he does not have Asperger's Syndrome. He is a spirited child."

So, I grabbed onto all of the information on how to best raise a 'spirited child'. I read books, took parenting classes, asked a lot of questions. Some of it I believed, some I did not. I filtered through what felt best.

Side note: When Will was born in the mid to late 1990's, I worked for a pediatrician. I saw a huge influx of kids coming into the office with parental complaints about behavior issues. ADHD diagnoses were on the serious rise along with other hyperactivity disorders. Medication was regularly being prescribed. Through comments made by the doctor's and nurses' that I worked with, I devised that while many of the kids with the diagnosis were warranted, there was a large percentage of parents that wanted their children medicated despite the doctors urging that this was not necessary. ADHD had become a catch phrase that a kid with behavior issues or the inability to focus was tagged with. Some not suitably so. Some really did need it. Again, I am not a doctor. Just an observation.

In Elementary school Will was challenged. He had trouble reading. His spelling was horrific. Will's grandfather is dyslexic and I believe my husband went undiagnosed, so I knew what was coming. He was coded in Reading Comprehension and given an IEP (Individual Education Plan). He also was taken out of the classroom each day to meet with a specialist and a small group of his peers to help with his social interaction. At every IEP meeting that I had, every teacher, specialist, and counselor repeated their concerns over Will's inability to stay on task. In one meeting in particular, his reading specialist got angry at my refusal to seek out our options for medication for Will. I had the utmost respect for everyone that my son came in contact with. They were all incredible! She knew that she could push me on this topic and I was fine with her expressing her level of concern. I explained my position and feelings about Will to her like this. "He is all I know. I like his personality the way it is. Challenging does not equal a problem for me. I don't want to dull him. He is who he is. I will not medicate to make things easy. I think he can stay on task and focus if he is interested (toothpicks) in something. Will has to be taught through all of us how learn, that's all. Sorry if it's not easy guys."

He was not tortured, he was oblivious and having the time of his life. He really was. He was unfazed. As he grew older, his meltdowns had stopped and we noticed that things just kind of rolled off his back. He had learned to persevere, because my husband and I had taught him the value of that. He was enrolled as a student of Tae Kwon Do, and that had done wonders for him. We knew competitive sports were not a good idea for Will, but a sport that challenged the individual would be right up his alley. He would eventually earn a second degree black belt. So I knew Will could focus if he was interested.

In sixth grade, Will was taken off of his IEP. He is not an avid reader and never will be, but he can read well. He is a poor speller. He will struggle with foreign language, as it is hard for a him to understand words that he does not have in his arsenal already and how they relate to one another. Sometimes he is quirky. Awkward maybe. I notice that when I use sarcasm he somtimes really studies my face for a few extra seconds before he reacts.

On the other hand, he is an honors student. Today Will is a sophomore in high school with a busy schedule. A linebacker on the Junior Varsity Football Team. His coach pulled me a side recently and told me that Will has the biggest heart in a young person that he has ever seen. He's not the most skillful football player, but he is a team player. Will is an actor. He has been in 12 plays and can memorize a script or song in no time. By the time one of the plays opens, he knows everyone else's part, too. He hugs me almost everyday. I bug him like a mother does, and we dance with each other in the typical teenager and parent hoe down, but he is never disrespectful. Sometimes I think he is more mature than me. He is a leader and one hell of a salesman. I refuse to play Monopoly with him as he is vicious. If he acts like a know-it-all, I still put him in his place. The last time we had to ground him, was in 6th grade. He is sweet, caring and a great conversationalist. He has many friends, yet has no need for the typical clique safety net. He will go to a play that his fellow theater friends are in and sit in the theater by himself. He does not care what others think about him as he seems very comfortable with who he is.

Sometimes I wonder if Will would be a better, even more comfortable version of himself if he was medicated. Would things not have been such a struggle if we had tried it. I think part of him is the struggle. He learned to cope and adjust. We learned so much from taking a different path. I would assume any path would have been a learning experience. Will is exactly who he should be and I couldn't be prouder of him.

Store 24

Lately, I am learning a lot at a very rapid pace. Not my usual. I can feel myself opening up more to letting things in like never before. Maybe I am evolving (written with a smirk on my face). Here's what I learned in the last 24 hours:

When you try to leave your house, by yourself, for a full day away from home, your children and husband may in fact, welcome your absence.

As you drive to a far off destination (78 miles, 1.5 hours away), the same people that welcomed your absence will now call multiple times with questions about sleepovers, cooking times and gruesome finds in the bathroom. Must put cell phone on silent.

If you ignore the fact that your windshield washer fluid is low, your vehicle will incessantly remind you with a very loud BEEP and a message in text that scrolls across your dash in perfect view while you drive, every 5 minutes or so. Just enough to be irritating, but not enough for you to stop and fill up your windshield washer fluid.

Hair does not perform well in the rain, no matter how many expensive styling products you use.

Reconnecting with an old friend is so comfy. Not the type of friend who treats you like their Plan B, but the kind that values who you are, simply because you are who you are. Good, Bad, Ugly. They don't pretend to be something they are not. And they do not expect you to.

Cancer sucks. It really, really does. If you have been blessed to know someone who has survived it, tell them what a magnificent miracle they are. If you know someone (even remotely) that is going through it, even a small gesture is incredibly monumental. If you have lost someone to it, then find laughter, joy and warmth in keeping their memory alive. This is not new to me in the last 24 hours, but the ways in which people sometimes deal with Cancer continue to amaze me. Make it something that you are aware of.

Cappucchino makes me FEEL Italian. And it's heavenly.

Talk to a child that isn't yours. They are funny, intelligent, honest and interesting. Make a memory with them. Look at them. Take them in.

Food  is awesome. Fattening food. Stop beating yourself up about it. Tell a fat girl she looks great. Wrap your arms around your husbands spare tire and tell him you love every inch of him and mean it. Don't look in the mirror and pick out the lumps and bumps that tell society you had a piece of cheesecake, just exercise your heart, mind and lungs, eat in moderation, and celebrate the fact that you have food to eat.

You really can pick family for yourself. I have love for a man who is not my husband, not related by DNA, but feels like he should be. He is my brother, whether it says so on paper or not.

Alcoholics are wounded people. In some ways we are all wounded people, walking around dripping in insecurities, loss, shame and regret. Recovering alcoholics are wounded people who have found their strength and power. We should all exercise our inherent strength and power. Use what your Mama gave you.

Crying is purposeful, especially when done in the company of a good and trusted friend. Hurting for someone else is the reason why we have not all killed each other off yet.

Do not rely on texting to make plans. Period. What happened to talking? Actually talking. For the first time yesterday I realized how much I hate the fact that a great percentage of us don't really talk anymore. Our friend list may be increasing in number but our true friendships are suffering. If we continue on down this technological path as it seems we are destined to, it may be quite possible that we will be virtually raising our children in 20 years. Face timing with teachers, holding birthday parties via Skype, disciplining on twitter #You'reGounded.

Say what you feel but be kind. Honesty is still the best policy. Don't mince words. Don't puree them either. Diluting them is OK. But with clear fluid.

Don't say 'No' and mean 'Yes'. It bugs me.

Friendship can come from the strangest places. This blog, a friend in common, a single word or gesture. Friendships are not always obvious. They can not always be explained. But knowing that they will always be there, is truly one of the most comforting things on the planet.

Surprise parties rock. I want one some day before I die. I just hope people show up.

Laughter is really the best medicine. So is being goofy with someone who doesn't care if you are beyond goofy. Quirky even. Maybe aloof. Quite possibly even awkward. And they still laugh with you. Those are the types of people you remember forever.

Reminder: The best type of advice given, is the type of advice that is asked for. Repeat 100 times daily. This one is for me only. I break this rule all the time.

An inner glow creates an outer one. Happy 40th Birthday Shannon. You are the definition of glow.

So much can be lost in translation.The only regret I have about the last 24 hours is something that got lost in translation. But I will fix it. I can fix things much better these days. I have finally figured out how to get out of my own way.  For I will go to the end of the earth for you. You matter to me. You know who you are.

I do not like the words 'special needs'. How about we replace it with 'personalized needs'?

White turtlenecks do not look good on anybody. Sorry.

My body temperature is changing. Not just changing, it's kind of changing in an epic, global warming kind of way. Glaciers melting, oceans rising, migration patterns changing. That type of change. Oh Goody.

Ultimately, my day was full. It was a live life to the fullest type of day. I didn't go sky diving or feed a village, it just felt full of such a wide range of emotions. And I actually felt them all. Sometimes I feel numb. Mom armor. But not now. It's as if the numbness is wearing off. I am past the pins and needles stage. Some parts of me are waking up for the first time.

A wise person once told me that "The most freeing feeling is when you live life as you see fit and stop caring about what others think of you."

I'm getting there.

I care about the ones I love and how they feel about me, but I can not control their feelings. Only you can control your feelings. Others do not make you feel a certain way, you do.

So this is my rambling, nonsensical (it's really a word), self-realizing, jumble of a recollection of how the last 1440 minutes went. Each day matters. Each surprise party missed is a lost opportunity to be surprised. Each person has light, the ability to glow. Every minute spent soaking it in, should make you realize that your life is precious. That others want to be with you, cry with you, laugh with you, even lose things in the translation with you, should make you feel blessed. Blessed that we have the opportunity to drink, eat, heal, bleed, make memories, open presents...be present.

Take this next 24 and make it memorable. Not just for you.

The World's Smallest Violin

'Writer's Block' is an understatement.

It's more like 'Adreneline Block' or 'Caffeine Absorption Block' or 'I Can't Process Anything That Requires More Than One Brain Cell Block' or 'My Electricity Got Shut Off Yesterday, Not Because I Don't Have Enough Money In My Account, But Because If It's Not On Auto Debit, I Can't Remember To Pay It On Time"...Block.

Seriously, yesterday, my electricity got shut off. According to my husband, the control over our finances that I currently have and have had for almost two decades, will be transferred to him in 3...2...1...

I try, I really do. But let's add it all up. Next month my youngest child turns 13 years old. That's enough. There is only so much a woman in her forties can take. Blog Over.

And then there is this....

I had to fire someone two weeks ago. She was a new hire and was not working out, so I let her go. I manage a very successful dental practice and today, amazingly, I had to call the police on a patient that was acting inappropriately. I am putting in a bunch of extra hours, as I should, due to a very important member of our team being out on maternity leave. The words 'maternity leave' sound so blissful. Just the same as the words 'all expenses paid trip to Bora Bora'. They sound identical to me.

Today I missed my daughter's field hockey game. The first one ever. EVER. I have never missed a game, play, dance recital, etc., that either one of my kids have participated in...ever. I am heart broken. And there will be more that I will not be able to be present at. It's just the beginning. This next month I will be scarce. Dinner either comes from a box, a restaurant or a friend's house.

The world that spins and the daily events that swirl around it, have caught up with me. I am losing. I ache, I sweat, and if I sneeze or laugh hard enough, I will certainly wet my pants. The furrow in between my once sparkling blue eyes has made me into the questioning, crotchety and yucky assed witch that I knew I would speed up to one day. And I have officially caught up with her and we have meshed into one.

I hate politics, politicians, political parties, political ads, political facebook posts, political bullying and polls, as well as poll booths, toll booths and Polly Pockets. I hardly ever use the word 'hate' but I have grown more accustomed to it rolling off my tongue and yesterday I had the audacity to correct the grammar of the punk working the register at Rite Aid.

I am helping plan my 25th High School Reunion, which is unnatural, as my mindset detests anything that insinuates that I didn't just recently became legal.

My children love me, but need me less and less. The air in my house is distinctly laced with all the teen spirit that can possibly hang on a molecule. I am closer than ever to the cold shoulder, opinions of their friends trumping mine, a sedan, a medication list, a bucket list, bunions, and the early bird special.

Today, I am not me. I am the worst version of myself.  I don't write this on such a day to have anyone in particular feel sorry for me, I just write it because 'it is what it is'. My favorite saying these days. "It is what it is". That saying drives my husband crazy (perhaps why I like it so much).

All of what I include here, does not have one ounce of air of complaining attached to it. I swear. I write it to be honest. I don't write misleading blurbs to force you to read between the lines, or facebook one lined posts that draw you into ambiguity. Today it's plain and simple. Those that know me best know that I would rather poke fun at myself why I am feeling this way ,than actually be serious about it, but unfortunately you (the reader) can not hear me snickering. It's not a full on laugh, just a snicker. Or maybe a quiet cackle.

I could very well be the old lady that yells at you for cutting through her yard. Two days ago I actually went the speed limit on my way to work. My thoughts wander to decaf. And night cream. And wondering where I can buy plastic to cover my furniture.

The point of this is, today I decided to relinquish what I deep down have held precious and dear to me for many, many years. I am coming face to face with my own hard nosed, rough edged approach that I aim at people that seem weak and instead of shooting them right between the eyes with my direct nature, I have decided to join them. To become one with the white flag. The towel. The quitter that I once pitied. I am trying on negativity. I am just in the dressing room and I really don't like the way my ass looks in it, so I won't have it on much longer, trust me.

I have decided after the week that I have experienced laced with hell fire, that I am one of the lucky ones. I will not morph into the the dingy broad. Hide behind my mostly black and neutral wardrobe. Or watch the Antiques Roadshow Marathon until I fall asleep on the couch.

No. I won't. I will not.

I will spin around in a huge about face and thank my friend Sarah for reminding me that writing is important to me and others, and thank Jess, a blogger that I have recently found, for her inspiration. She reminded me that it doesn't all have to make sense grammatically. Typos are fun. Run on sentences rock. Life is not always easy. Weakness is not failure. And questioning yourself and sharing your thoughts (and, yes, feelings. Blech.) can usually bring people together in ways that you could have never imagined. So out it goes into the universe. Off somewhere into cyber space. Go create your own black hole somewhere.

I have decided that the heart of me is resilient and can exorcise myself simply with a rough massage from a girl named Mandy and a pretty color for my toes. Something in the purple family.

Writer's Block be gone.

In Writing

I'm not sure if any one of us is ever really taught or trained properly for relationships. Especially the married/long term, commitment filled kind. There’s something about the piece of paper, that is so, well…permanent. It’s in writing. A contract. The wedding is fun and great, but ultimately you are legally bound to one another. Is this natural?

I like to think that successful, happy relationships are plentiful and that we all had the chance to witness our parents and grandparents, our neighbors and friends as they thrived in these relationships as we were growing up. As the years roll by and the generations mesh into one another, it seems like less and less of us make it through to the end. I often wonder how my own children will view a long term relationship as they go to enter into one of their own, if they so decide.

I have always questioned whether we, as human beings, were meant to commit to one another for our ENTIRE ADULT LIFE, from a physiological stand point. From the beginning, I felt somewhat uneasy at the prospect of it as a child. Fairy tale endings did not make sense to me and definitely felt like they belonged in the fiction department. I always thought that I personally was doomed traveling down that avenue. My parents had a tumultuous relationship and divorced when I was a teenager. My grandparents had a great marriage that lasted 65 years. I think that some of both rubbed off on me. I knew that I wanted to marry and have kids, but somewhere deep down inside, I thought I had some kind of a defect. Too flighty, too fickle, too wishy-washy.

After the age of  22 or so,  I remember latching on to any man that paid attention to me beyond 3 or 4 weeks, as long as they didn’t seem too needy. I would have married three or four of them if they would have asked (and a few did), because I really wanted to get the technicality out of the way. I figured there had to be more than one soul mate out there for everyone. How could there be just one? Some part of me felt that I was not capable of marriage, but to get what I wanted in life it was necessary.

Despite my misgivings, I did it anyway. I did it because I met a man who really got me. I loved him and he really dug me. We had, and still have, a chemical connection that I can’t describe fully in words, but it is the strongest force, next to the love that binds me to our children, that I have ever felt. It still feels that way. Stronger than the day I married him.

That all noted, it does not mean that he and I live in perfection. He and I are challenged all of the time with the question “How are we are going to keep it together?” Almost every day.

We have our defined roles. We both work hard at our jobs. I do a lot of shuffling of the kids, while he runs his own business. If it has to do with the dump, the lawn, the exterior of the house or the electrical, it’s all him. If it has to do with school, our homes interior or any type of shopping, it’s all me. We never really discussed this, it just happened that way.  He hates when I put things in the garage just to get them out of my way and I can’t stand the way he chews his food sometimes.

My assessment of my husband is that he resembles a modern day ‘Archie Bunker’. Curmudgeon-like at times, pessimistic for the most part, and very grounded. He makes snap judgments about people (and is almost ALWAYS right) as soon as he meets them. He is conservative with his money, yet surprisingly current and somewhat liberal on most social views. He is very funny. A big teddy bear. Endearing. You either love him or you don’t. He hardly ever raises his voice. He hardly ever calls me by my first name. He hardly ever gets drunk.

 He is 6’3”. I am 5’2”. I snore when I sleep and have a tendency to swear like a truck driver. He sleeps soundly and peacefully and is a man of few words.  When I do snore and wake him up in the middle of the night, he nudges me gently and whispers in my ear, “You’re snoring, roll over”, and then never mentions it the next day. I am up in the clouds and he has his feet firmly planted on the ground. I am the balloon and he holds the string. And when I am in flight mode, he reminds me to come on back down to earth, in the gentlest of ways.

I often say with all seriousness, that without him, we would be homeless. I would offer up ‘the farm’ on a bet, while he would never even think about it.

I weigh 35 lbs. (honestly, 40 lbs.) more today than the day we got married, yet he would swear to you that I could still fit into my wedding dress, and of course, I am not going to challenge him.

I hear other people tell me how they stay up all night with their boyfriend or husband talking about this or that. We never have. We could never talk all night, but sometimes we just make eye contact and we instinctively know how each other feels. He tells me all the time that I am pretty (something that still makes this 43 year old woman blush like a school girl). I think he is handsome and I love the way he smells just naturally.

Yesterday, I had a bad day. A really bad day. I am not quite sure why, but I did. I have had these types of days before. I began to question everything. All kinds of things started to go through my head: “What am I doing?” “I really suck a this.” “What are we going to have in common in 6 years when our kids are both gone?” “We are so opposite from one another.” “Do we have what it takes?”

And then…he reminds me. As I lay in a heap in my bed, suffering from my ‘bad day’, he comes into the room and wraps around me. He comforts me and reassures me. He reminds that he and I are a team. We don’t lie or cheat, because we respect each other. He has never called me a name in anger. Never. Not once. I wish I could say the same about me in regards to him.

We are not perfect. We brush by each other. We sometimes don’t consult one another when we should. We sometimes don’t pay attention to each other’s needs. We forget and need to remind each other to be a couple. But we are in it together. He never reads my blogs and I don’t go to his softball games.

What he does do for me is something that is rare. He stays. He appreciates. He loves and cares for me and our children unconditionally and is respectful. I adore him, even though he can certainly piss me off like no one else can. As we are now in the 17^th year of our marriage, he reminds me that change is inevitable and we will weather it together. We will grow together. Grow old together.

I once read an article written about a couple that had been married for 70 years. Now both in their late 80's, the interviewer asked the couple what the secret to their marriage was. The wife responded with “We never fell out of love with each other at the same time.”

Not perfect. There are no guarantees.

So, if someday he is on this earth without me, someone remember to show him this. He knows, but sometimes it’s just nice to see it in writing.

Adam and Eve, Adam and Steve, Eve and Genevieve...

Facebook and YouTube are great. Seriously, I think they are great. They have brought this great big world around us in for a closer look. We can stay connected with family and friends through messaging, inviting, fundraising, posting, even the act of 'liking' in ways that we never have before. We can see pictures. We can watch videos. We can even see videos of energetic kittens and dating profiles gone bad, sweet marriage proposals and memorable father daughter dances, that otherwise we would not know that they actually happened or existed.

In the last two weeks I have happened across two videos through the facebook page of a friend and via yahoo news that I must address in my blog. Reluctantly I must do this, but with all the passion and determination that I have in my heart. To NOT address such an issue, would go against every fiber of who I am.

One of the videos is of Pastor Charles L. Worley of Providence Road Baptist Church. Located at 3283 Providence Mill Rd, Maiden, NC 28650. The video which you can search for on YouTube if you like, was posted to the church's website dated May 13, 2012, calling for the concentration and ultimate death of "queers and homosexuals." He speaks casually of loathing baby killers but finds no guilt in calling for the deaths of homosexuals. I am shocked that Pastor Worley believes that it is acceptable to kill anyone, given that he is a man of God. He explains that once quarantined, homosexuals would die off, because (light bulb) they can not reproduce. I wonder what Pastor Worley would like to do with the heterosexual population that keeps breeding these homosexuals.

The second is a video, which was filmed at the Apostolic Truth Tabernacle in Greensburg, Indiana (and can be found on their website, as well as on YouTube) is of a little boy standing up at a microphone singing at his church. He sings in front of the entire congregation "the Bible's right, somebody's wrong" twice before referencing "Romans one, twenty six and seven" and concluding with the line "ain't no homos gonna make it to heaven". A man who appears to be the Church's pastor Jeff Sangl, can be seen standing behind the child smiling as he listens to the performance. The congregation erupts in laughter and cheering. Just so you know, on it's own website the Apostolic Truth Tabernacle says "our doors are open to you regardless of your background or where you are on your spiritual journey." Wow...sign me up.

Now, let me give you my take on this. After all, this is my blog. I am not sure how it will be received, but in all honesty, I am not sure that I really care.

 I will address Christianity, because I am a Christian, these people in the videos are 'Christians' (or what I believe to be 'Extremist Christians') and in no way is this meant to claim that other religions do not experience the same issues, it's just what I know. Those who believe that they know the bible best and say that homosexuality is a sin, will say things that sound like this:

 "It says it, in the Bible, that Man should not lay down with another man." (Actually it refers to mankind, which can be construed in many ways).

OR

"God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" (I find this so ignorant). Eve majorly messed things up, remember? Plus, with a divorce rate of 50%, we heterosexuals on the whole, half suck at it.

OR

In places like Leviticus and Corinthians it refers to 'Effeminates' (today's translation: gay men) as being evil or that they 'shall not inherit the Kingdom of God'. If you believe God created all people, then he created gays and lesbians, too. I personally have never met a gay person who I would consider evil. I will say that I have witnessed many a "Man of God" who is evil. And our court system has seen them, too. Repeatedly.

In Corinthians 6: 9-10 it goes on to list others who will not be accepted into the Kingdom of God:

*Revilers (those who use abusive language)
*Drunkards (I think we all know one or two. Some of us were actually raised by one)
*Adulters (No definition needed)
*Idolaters (those who commit false pagan worship or worship a creation of an image of a deity, prophet, saint, etc.)
*Fornicators (40 year old Virgins, you are safe)

Most of us are screwed.

And of course, none of this is really a big deal, because all you have to do is ask for God's forgiveness and you are in the clear. (Get ready, more sarcasm) It's like some kind of disclaimer: I am not supposed to do these things, but if I do, God will forgive me.

So, what on Earth is the big deal then?

Just in case you are not already aware, do you know what else it says Leviticus? No eating pig meat. No wearing of two different fabrics at the same time. No tattooing. No charging interest on loans, No having sex with a woman while she has her period.

Let's move on to Corinthians. In 1 Corinthians Chapter 14 Versus 34 and 35 it says:

"Let your women keep silence in churches, for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home: For it is a shame for women to speak in church."

Well...there goes the Christmas pageant. To hell in a hand basket.

Do we really want to pick and choose what we want to take from the bible and follow? I will tell you right now, gone are the days of church suppers, coffee hours, Sunday school gift baskets and a crap load of fundraising dollars if you tell the great majority of women they can no longer speak in church. You might want to have an athletic cup handy, too, just as a precaution.

The Bible was written and miraculously survived, literally through hell and high water, over the course of 1500 years. It has been translated and re translated and translated again. It has over 40 different authors, ranging from fishermen to kings. Authors who saw burning bushes, seas parting, apparitions and heard voices. Snakes and Donkeys talked. References are made to natural drug use in it's purest form and wine that flowed. Anything that man touches can be flawed. Anything.


If I am going to believe anything, I choose to believe this:

And the Lord said unto Moses, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them. And Moses rose up, and his minister Joshua: and Moses went up into the mount of God.

— First mention of the tables in Exodus 24:12,13

The Ten Commandments say:

1) Thou shalt have no other gods
2) No graven images or likenesses
3) Do not take the Lord's name in vain
4) Remember the sabbath day
5) Honor thy mother and father
6) Thou shalt not kill
7) Thou shalt not not commit adultery
8) Thou shalt not steal
9) Thou shalt not bear false witness
10) Thou shalt not covet

Why don't we just start there. Let's not tell two consenting adults what they are suppose to do or not suppose to do with their penises or vaginas anymore. It's none of our business. And this certificate of marriage that man has created, should be viewed as unconstitutional as long as any living person is denied access to it. We are all created equal. We have no right to deny someone access to their own happiness.

Many people throughout history have suffered through discrimination, and still do. Native Americans, Women, African Americans, Those that suffer with mental illness or who have disabilities, just to name a few. We have come a long way in recognizing our rights as Americans living in this country. Please, let's keep moving forward.

I believe in God. The God I believe in loves all of his children. All of them. Even you if you want to twist and misconstrue His word, He will forgive you. But wouldn't it be better not to have to ask for forgiveness? Wouldn't it be better to just worry about all that you are doing to live by His word. I bet you He would be proud of you, if you did.

Dear Paige

***A few weeks ago, the Our Lady of Sorrows Academy baseball team decided to forfeit it’s Arizona Charter Athletic Association state championship matchup game rather than face off against Mesa Preparatory Academy, which features a second baseman named Paige Sultzbach.  Our Lady of Sorrows claims it is against their school policy to play Mesa Prep, because they do not believe in mixing sexes and sports.

Dear Paige Sultzbach:

You don’t know me, but I just wanted to write you a note to say three simple words: “I support you.” Three more words that I feel compelled to also add are: “I am sorry.” I am sorry on behalf of those who do not understand how their actions can affect others.

Yeah, three words, or more accurately six words, are NOT going to cut it.

My father was a baseball coach. He coached Babe Ruth baseball to 13, 14 and 15 year old boys for 37 seasons, from 1969 - 2005. In the late 70’s, my observation of baseball included such things as goofy boys with long hair that barely fit under their baseball caps, a family of people that gravitated to one another anchored by their love of the sport and one memorable game in particular that included an uninvited streaker, who I caught a glimpse of as he darted across the baseball field wearing only a vibrantly colored neck tie before a hand was quickly cupped over my eyes by one of my Dad’s assistant coaches. In that decade, we also all witnessed the first girl, Cindy, to try out and be drafted onto one of the teams in the league.

My Dad’s stance was that just because a girl had never played on one of the boys’ teams before that did not mean she was not capable of it. Secretly, deep down, I don’t think he appreciated it, but he had the common sense not to share that with me. Of course we had softball for girls. But NOT baseball for girls. Only boys played baseball and they were much more highly regarded for doing so.

Gutsy, courageous. Even back then, I knew just how ballsy she was.

I remember sitting on a swing at the playground as she took her first at bat. Her long, stringy, chestnut hair down to her waist. Her tall, slender shape. Her calm, yet awkward stance at home plate.  It was a pretty controversial moment. I admired her and thought she was pretty cool, yet I remember feeling sad for her. I was sad, because it was not “normal”, the sight of it making me feel all of a sudden inferior. It felt uneasy. Some people in my small suburban town where elated over this new development, but others met it with criticism, whispers and heated debate over many a dining room table.

Shortly after that, my mother, a softball coach, started the first town softball league for teenaged girls, because there wasn’t one for those of us who wanted to play over the age of twelve and play for the town we lived in. I know that Cindy was the catalyst that set this in motion. My mother saw a need, not to mention my softball career going no further. The prospect of me being all washed up at the age of twelve, surely motivated her. That also took some fortitude. I remember my mother complaining that they refused, at the time, to let her use the Babe Ruth name, because it was for boys. She met with some resistance, mounds of paperwork, rallied for support and formed a league anyway, under a different name.

For the record, I am the last woman on this earth to go out and burn my bra (the gravitational ramifications of this would be the embarrassment of a lifetime) but I do believe we have a problem. Not the scream from the rooftops, in your face type of problem, but a serious issue, nonetheless. Yelling, protesting, occupying is not in order here. If I were to occupy something, I would take over something sensible. Like an outlet mall.

 I digress. Something must be done.

My suggestion is that all teams that are in the Arizona Charter Athletic Association (and any others that are interested in equality) should make it an active mission to recruit girls to play baseball. Not coerce girls into playing in order to prove a point. They need to look for talent in girls. Those girls will need to make the cut, be able to play up to the standards of the team (or probably better in order to really prove herself), just as the boys do. If a team such as Our Lady of Sorrows, has a policy that prohibits co-ed sports, that is fine for them, let them. Let them have their beliefs. But it does not necessarily prohibit them from playing other schools that do not have that same policy. By refusing to play another team that has a player that happens to be a girl, how does that violate their own policy? If you read that policy it does not violate it at all. What they did by forfeiting that game was make a statement. An anti woman statement. Once there is a girl on every team that they must face, Our Lady of Sorrows will have no choice but to forfeit every game, which may require them to take a better look at their own rules. Keep your school policy exactly the same, if you wish, just don’t force it on other schools who do not have the same beliefs.

I have a 12 year old daughter that I am very proud of. I truly believe, if put to the test, she could beat the crap out of most boys her age because she is strong and determined. She is driven to be her best, at whatever she does. She is athletic, fast, strong and highly motivated, yet small. God forbid the person that stands in her way. Sometimes, even I as her mother, am tempted to get the hell out of her way.

The other day my daughter told me that “chivalry is ridiculous”. “If I want to open a door or put my coat on, I have two arms, I can do it myself.” I appreciate that. I am somewhat thankful for that as I see the tide continuing to change. We can’t truly have it both ways, unfortunately. I believe in practicing respect toward all people you come in contact with.  

Paige, please don’t let Our Lady of Sorrows influence your feelings about yourself or your abilities. Take that fuel and use it to fire your love of baseball, or criminal justice or education, medicine or auto mechanics, whatever it is. In your time, Our Lady of Sorrows may not take the field with an opposing team who proudly includes a girl on their roster, but with your grace under pressure and important influence, maybe in my daughter’s time, they will.

And that team will be better for it. We all will.

A Clear Day With Foggy Weather

Complaining. We all do it. Some of us more than others. Saying  "I hate to complain, but..." is kind of just like saying "I don't like to gossip, but...". Both are self serving, but we do it anyway.

I complain, mostly to myself, or my husband, and no one else.  Usually about life's small annoyances.

I hate laundry. So I often talk to myself in a very 'postal' kind of way while doing laundry. For some reason that makes me feel better. I could either take out a gun and start using my Tide bottles for target practice, or I can just ACT like I am going to. By telling myself I most certainly could, if I wanted to, it quells my desire to throw each little skivvy and every grass stained knee or pen streaked tee, out on the front lawn. The thought of my husband and children going out into the world unlaundered keeps me in line. After all, I still want people to come to my cookouts this summer.

I listen to complaining often. I manage a dental practice and I often hear patients coming in off the street lamenting about things like: "The traffic is terrible" (It's really not that bad - we live in a very small New England town, a car in front of you going the speed limit usually equals "traffic") or my PET PEEVE: "This weather is awful" (really, what's so awful about it? Without rain, we are dead, no water, get it?) OR "Why is my bill so high?" (because your employer elected to take the cheapest dental insurance possible). Complain, complain, complain.

Dinner. Also a pain in the butt. When I get home from work and I am prepping to get my kids to their prospective activities, dinner seems like a major inconvenience. Everything under the sun has been baked, crock-potted and stir fried. I have no imagination left in me. I make the same old tired thing week after week. Chicken...Chili...Mac and Cheese... Even breakfast for dinner has lost its lustre. Can't we just lobby to cut the American meal plan down to two per day? Three balanced meals is so overrated.

Segue to food shopping. That just sucks. A small container of blueberries is $3.99 for Christ's sake! A good loaf of bread is $3.69 and will be almost gone in the shake of a lambs tail to the tune of two days worth of lunches and toast on the fly for breakfast.

I swear we could do it all day, everyday. Complain. I know people, that I truly believe, want something to go wrong, so that they can complain about it. You know those people. They make complaining an art. It's annoying and ridiculous and who in their right mind wants to listen to it?

Last month, my petty ramblings stopped. I no longer mutter to myself while folding jeans and pairing socks. I happily go to the grocery store and now buy extra food. Of the low sodium variety. Because I am cooking for a friend in trouble. Unthinkable trouble. A sick child. Not with the flu. My friend's 16 year old daughter, Brittany, was just diagnosed with level 4 Lupus. The most serious and aggressive form of Lupus.

Now, you hear Lupus and you think, "She'll be fine, Lupus is not fatal. (fact: Lupus can be fatal)" or "Hey, there are kids out there with cancer, those kids are REALLY ill." Well, tell that to Brittany who as we speak is undergoing a chemo treatment to hopefully send her Lupus into remission. The Lupus that is attacking her kidneys. The Lupus that now has her on 30 pills a day. The Lupus that may send her down the road to dialysis. Tell that to her parents. Tell that to her two younger brothers. Who are worried about her. Not just any worried. Mind numbing scared. Heartbroken.

My friend has faith and hope. Her family is courageous. She and her husband are strong. Brittany is fighting hard. They all look into the future and feel that something positive will come out of this experience. They don't look at this hand that are being dealt and complain to people about it. I am sure they have had their moments of despair, but outwardly they realize what good would complaining do? Besides, why put negative energy out there? We need positivity. I am amazed at their fortitude and their ability stay happy, while in the depths of a black hole that is most certainly the worst time of their lives.

What good does complaining do?

As a parent, the worst thing in the world has to be a child who is sick. Not just any sick. A sick that scares you. A type of sick that gives you nightmares. The kind of sick that brings people into your daughter's hospital room in HAZMAT suits. When we assess our own lives, does it compare to that type of 'really bad'? So, your checking account is overdrawn and the toilet just backed up for the third time this week. Are your children happy and healthy? Are your loved ones OK? Are your parents alive? What if they were not? I dare you to picture it.

Now...I dare you to complain about the weather.