I Was Wrong

I thought my house was cramped until I walked into your apartment, where you house a family of five in two tiny bedrooms. I have never been anywhere that felt so peaceful. Thank you for teaching me that it's not about square feet.

I thought I was broke until I saw your cupboards, empty except for a box of Saltine crackers and a jar of peanut butter. You opened your cupboards to me in faith, believing I would be able to lead you to the resources that could help. I hope I didn't fail you. Thank you for reminding me of how much I have, and for trusting me to help.

I thought I had faith until I read about you in the newspaper, just a child, buried under piles of rubble after an earthquake, singing songs you'd learned at church, patiently waiting for someone to find you. Obviously, Someone found you and took up residence in your heart a long time ago. Thank you for helping me conquer fear.

I thought it was hard to be a mother, until I heard from a friend that you send your child to school each day praying he won't be hit by a stray bullet before he gets back. When I think what I do as a mother doesn't matter, I think of you, standing in your front doorway, being a safe place for your son to come home to. Thank you for reminding me what a mother really is.

I thought teenage girls could be difficult, until I met you. I saw you sit by someone who was struggling and quietly help. I saw you turn your back on others who wanted to make her feel uncomfortable, shielding her from their laughter. You looked as beautiful as anyone has ever looked right then. Thank you for showing me what it means to be strong and of good courage.

I thought I knew a lot, but it turns out I was wrong.

Rock On

I love to rock. Not rock out, although I do play a pretty mean Guitar Hero. What I love is rocking in a rocking chair. By myself is okay, but I particularly like it if a little tyke is in my arms, snuggled up to me while I sing little songs my mom taught me when she rocked me, so long ago.

Okay, that's the wonderland version. Here's how it really goes:

"C'mere sleepyhead, let's rock for a few minutes before you go to bed." Child climbs up on lap. Child wants to play "Ride a Pony" on Mom's knees. Mom bounces for a couple seconds, then gently tries to press Child's head down onto her shoulder for a rest.

Child strains neck to see what dad's watching on TV. Mom sings lullabye at unnaturally loud volume. Child covers Mom's mouth with her hand. Child's hand tastes like peanut butter and sweat, and Mom spits. Dad glances over just then and asks Mom to mind her manners.

Child has to go potty. Mom continues rocking and is almost asleep by the time Child returns, but is abruptly awakened by Child's knee hitting her diaphragm. Immediate response upon being awakened is more singing.

Child can't get comfortable. Due to constant fidgeting, neither can Mom. Mom sighs, and tells Child to close her eyes right away. Child closes them, just not both of them at the same time. Child finds this hilariously funny, Mom less so.

Mom falls asleep. Child turns around and watches TV until Dad tells her to go to bed, around 11 p.m.

Mom and Child are both a little cranky in the morning, and one of them also has a stiff neck.

The End.

Despite all this, I still love rocking. Here's my terrible confession: a little teeny part of me likes it when my kids are sick, because then they let me rock them.

I think I might need to get a cat.

Unintended Offenses

While watching the Olympics on TV last night, my son said I was a big luger, but I misunderstood him and started to cry.

My daughter said I was her biggest Valentine. It is probably a coincidence that I was weighing myself at the time.

I felt a little depressed when I went to the bathroom and nobody hollered "Mom!" the minute I closed the door.

My friend gave me a sweater that she thought would bring out my best features. It's an extra high turtleneck. I wore it once, but it was hard to breathe through all that material. I guess she likes my eyes.

I missed a major meeting at work. The minutes state that I was present but unusually quiet.

My son thought that Signal Butte was another name for me in my yellow spandex exercise pants.

The opinion piece I wrote for the newspaper was mistakenly printed with the comics.

I got buried in paperwork while doing my taxes, and someone left flowers on top of me.

I locked myself into my car. Yes, into. That's all I care to say about that.

My So-Called Ad Agency, aka, do I really have to blog about the Super Bowl?

If I owned an ad agency,  I would hire people who are actually creative. I would hire people who could think of a more interesting way to sell something than the totally over-done "girls showing off their bodies" gimmick.

Got that, GoDaddy.com?

If I owned a beer company, I would be rich, but sad. How can you not be sad when your livelihood is based on giving people one more thing to be enslaved to, and giving drivers one more way to kill each other?

Got that, Budweiser?

If I made a delicious nacho cheese flavored corn chip, my life would be complete.

I love you, Doritos.