Totally Wine

The holiday frenzy starts. I am having Thanksgiving at my house. In a moment of weakness I made the offer. My first. Well, with family. I have had several with friends.

One of the things that I had to do was buy wine. I don't drink much. I once had to take a lie detector test for a job. They go over the questions with you prior to administering the test. They don't want to register a surprise. They want to register an untruth. When it got to drinking habits he laughed at me. He asked me to categorize my drinking habits. Alcoholic? Heavy drinker? Social drinker? Non drinker? I told him I was a social drinker. He asked me to define social drinker. 3-4 drinks per month? 3-4 drinks per week? 3-4 drinks per day? I told him maybe 6 drinks per year. He laughed. I mean roll on the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks laughing. Once he calmed down he explained that would make me a non-drinker.

I hate beer. Hate. All. Can't even pretend to choke down the stuff. I have tried wines. And people laugh at me about that too. I like sweet wines. Ridiculously sweet. Grape juice with alcohol. Not very sophisticated. But it is what I like. I also love sweet drinks. But for the holiday dinner I need wine. So I headed out to the wine store. With a list.

I need a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio for my step mom. I need a bottle of Cabernet or Malbec for my dad. I can do that. So I go to the wine store. Not a liquor store. Not a grocery store. A wine store. There is a whole aisle devoted to each of those types of wines. A whole aisle. For each. Luckily each one has a description of the taste. Unfortunately that means nothing to me. Do I want oak or citrus or... I don't know.

And apparently I look like I don't know. Because not one but 2 sales people come at me offering help. One backs off and the other one helps me. He is preppy and peppy. I think he needs some of the wine he sells. But he is also 12. NO! I swear. Okay, maybe 13. He definitely hasn't started shaving yet. I am so old. I am taking alcohol advice from a 12 year old. But I swallow my pride and listen to him. He finds me a Sauvignon Blanc and a Malbec. You will have to wait a week to see if they are any good.

I then decide that I need a bottle of wine for myself too. I can at least play sophisticated for a day. So I tell him I need a ridiculously sweet wine. He takes me back to the tasting station. Who knew! I can have samples of wine before I make a decision. He pours a red. I taste. It is good. He drinks it too. Maybe he isn't 12? He pours me a second wine. White. Oh my!! Talk about ridiculously sweet. It is like drinking syrup. It is good. But a little too sweet. Even for me. I opt for wine number..... 1.

And right before I leave my preteen wine genius I remember that my bottle opener is in storage...at my mom's...700 miles away. So I ask my boy genius where I can find a bottle opener that does not require a college degree to use. I figure he must know that since he is 12. He hands me one and tells me... "I have been using this one since I was 11." No joke. Direct quote. Must be good. He has been using it for an entire year. So I bought it.

One holiday errand done -- too many to count left to do.

Mean Mama

My first child

I know I am a single mom of an only child. But Ladybug wasn't my first child.

When I was in college I decided to major in social work. When I did my internship I immediately picked a group home for teenagers. No hesitation. I could not have been more excited.

It was TERRIBLE! I hated it. I dreaded every single moment I had to be there. Until I quit. I couldn't believe how wrong I had been. And I was left with wondering what to do with my life.

About 6 years after graduating from college a friend of mine (who is no longer my friend -- but that is another story) came to me glowing about her job. She loved it. She worked for a group home for teenage boys. Juvenile delinquents. Sex offenders. Drug users. Aggressive and violent. And she told me I had to apply for a job there. I had to. I didn't want to. I could not go back to doing that work. Six years was not enough time to make me forget how miserable I was during my internship. She convinced me that I had to go for an interview. I could do that. It didn't mean I needed to take the job.

But I took the job. And I loved it. I loved going to work. I looked forward to talking with the boys. I felt competent. I had a purpose back. It was like I had found where I was suppose to be.

There was a 15 year old boy in my unit. He was quiet and shy. He rarely talked. He was tall and gangly. He made friends with the other boys. He did what he needed to do to work the program. He didn't make waves. He didn't get attached to the staff. But he decided he liked me. I didn't know this was significant because I was new. The other staff understood. Maybe I was the person who was going to get through to him.

He became my first child. I fell in love. And I do not mean that inappropriately. We developed a tight bond. Parental. He blossomed. He came out of his shell. It turned out he was a really funny kid. He got a job. He did well in school. He committed to his therapy. I could not have loved that kid more if he had actually been my child.

In the year and half I worked with him I met his parents twice. I took him home for a visit. For an hour. And his parents stopped by the unit once for about 20 minutes. I was really his only parent. They didn't call him. They didn't visit. They didn't know him. I didn't know his parents. I know he was in the unit because of his actions. But he was such a fabulous kid that I didn't understand how they stayed away.

Eventually all of the staff and treatment team decided he was ready to move into independent living. He was ready to graduate from the program. I disagreed. He was doing great. But he was young. He had come a long way but it didn't mean he was ready to fly the coop. The team disagreed with me. I knew him better. But it didn't matter. He was going to move on. And it was my job to make him believe he could do it. I never told him he wasn't ready. I never told him I was scared for him. I never let him see my doubt that the team was wrong. I encouraged him. I told him he was ready. And I let him go.

For a year he called me. For a year he leaned on me. For a year I continued to do my job with this kid. I was right. The team was wrong. But I would not let him fail. He stumbled. He failed. He struggled. And each phone call I helped him figure out how to pick himself up. For a year I watched him question himself. For a year I watched my boy slip. And at about a year after leaving the program, he got it. He got stronger. He made better decisions. He made life work for him. And I lost him. He left his new program. I left my job. My boy had grown up and left me. Because it was what was right for him. But I still loved him.

Now I silently stalk him on facebook. He doesn't know it. He joined the military. He married his high school sweetheart. And he recently found out he is going to be a dad. It has been 10 years since I have had contact with him. He did it. He made a success of his life. He beat the odds. And I am a proud mama. But he doesn't know it.

Mean Mama

Pity me

Will you please take pity on me? I am a single woman. With an only child. Who sits at a computer desk all day. Dealing with clients whose lives are falling apart. I have no social life. I need a change.

When you visit my blog -- and I know at least one or two people are -- will you leave me a comment so I know that I am not alone?

Fix my problems.

Laugh at me.

Commiserate.

Ask me questions.

Give me blog ideas.

Let me know that you are out there.

Anybody....

Bueller???

Mean Mama

Too funny

If you need a good laugh check out one of my favorite blogs. She cracks me up. She has been gagged on certain topics but you can still read the adventures she has not been gagged for.

Snarky Mom


I really like her most recent blog.

Mean Mama

Murphy's Law

I pulled up to Ladybug's after school program today with my fingers crossed. Please please please let her have had a good day. I know it is not good that I get emotionally involved with her behaviors. But she has had a few hard weeks and I want it to be better. Please

And it was! 11 out of 11 points. Yes, that means she is back on the other chart. But it works. I know most parents want their children off the bad behavioral chart. I want her on it -- she does better on it. And she is happy to see me.

The school is having another fundraiser. This time it is at our favorite pizza place. And it is healthy pizza. If she was good today I was willing to forgo cooking dinner (HA!) and go out for pizza. So we drive across town and get pizza. We apparently go here a little too often because all the waitresses say hello to Ladybug and notice that she has a new hairstyle this week.

She starts to get a little frantic. She is shoveling pizza in. She can't sit still. She is touching everything -- with her greasy, dirty hands. She is picking her food apart. She is talking and not listening. I am just hoping she holds it together long enough to get home.

We leave the pizza joint and we are crossing the parking lot heading to our car. She is singing and dancing. And I am vividly aware that the car parked next to ours is about to back up. I start talking to her. Asking her to wait. Asking her to stop. She is ignoring me. I know she won't listen and I reach out for her to stop her but she is a little to far away from me and I can only grab her hoodie and yank her back to me. At which point she spins on me with all the attitude she can possibly muster and yells at me to stop. I yell right back as I am pointing at the mini van that has now backed out and would have hit her. But she doesn't back down. She yells that I could have just told her. And I lose it. I did! She didn't listen. She would have been hit. Now get in the car.

She gets in and buckles up and promptly falls asleep. I know she is tired. She has been sleeping like crap this week. But I know she has fallen asleep because she is shutting down because I yelled. But I use the ride home to calm down. We are about 3 minutes from home when she starts coughing in her sleep. She has been fighting a cold for a couple of weeks. Not really sick but coughing in her sleep. She has grabbed my shawl and is holding it up to her face as she coughs. I tell her not to hold it in. Cough -- clear it out.

I pull into our parking lot as she coughs into my shawl. I turn and look. Oooooh! I know that look. Nooooo! Don't throw up. Not into my shawl. NO!

She does. Of course.

I park. I tell her not to move. I unlock the front door. I unlatch the car seat. When I had an older car unhooking the car seat was easy. One button. Now that I have a newer car it is more complicated. I have to crawl into the hatch back and dig under the bedding to unhook it. Then I have to crawl into the back seat and unhook it. It is safer. But not nearly as easy at the end of a hard day in the dark to deal with.

It is all unhooked. But I don't want her to stand up and walk out of the car. I don't want puke all over the car. I don't want to clear the car. I don't even want to clean the car seat. So I make the decision to remove the now unlatched car seat from the car with her still in it. I mean, how difficult could it be? To remove a large car seat with a 56 pound child covered with puke from the back seat without hurting the child or getting puke on me. Sometimes I hate being single.

But I managed to do it. Not gracefully. Then she unbuckles herself. Of course she has puked right down the front -- covering the buckles. She wants me to do it. I don't want to do it. She does it. Yeah, I know ... Mean Mama. I drag the car seat to the front door and leave it outside. I let her jut inside the front door. Standing on the linoleum. I ask her to strip. She starts to. But she starts to follow me. Dripping puke on the carpet. I walk her back to the front door. She strips. I send her upstairs to shower. I start grabbing the pukey clothes and taking them to washer.

She is in the shower singing and giggling. I am outside trying to yank the cloth off the car seat. It requires that I take the whole seat apart. I am trying to do this without getting puke on me. I get puke on me. It starts to rain. Of course. The good news is that it will wash away the trail of puke from the car to the front door. She sounds happy. I am not.

I get the cloth in the washer. Now I must wash the car seat. But I don't want to do it outside. It is raining. So I decide to put down my down blanket on the carpet and place the car seat on it. It can be washed. And I have been thinking it needs to be washed. Really. It could use a washing. I try not to breathe too deeply. The smell of pizza, doritos, and stomach acid is not good. Luckily most of the puke is on the cloth part of the car seat. Which is in the washer.

When the washer is done I realize that one piece of the car seat had too many folds in it to get really clean. So I send it back through the wash. With the blanket. At the end of the cycle I pull it out. The 2 have tangle into each other. Probably because of the hooks in the car seat. I untwist. I rotate. It is not coming free. They are now one. So I get the scissors. And cut my blanket. I need the car seat parts.

I am waiting for the parts to finish drying and then I would put it back together. And then tomorrow morning I get the joy of latching the car seat back into the car. And I am not a morning person. I just hope the car doesn't smell like puke in the morning.

Mean Mama
PS. I should add that the blanket shed all over the cloth car seat parts and I had to use a lint roller on it before putting them together. Luckily I had a lint roller. And I could find it. Unfortunately I apparently had the bright idea of storing the sticky lint roller in a plastic bag.

Frustration

I would just like to express a moment of frustration.

Back in August I had an interview. Of a job I wanted. And for the most part I would be good at. There are parts of the job that I would need to learn. I have my worries about the job. But I can deal with them. I also realize that since I am hoping to be moving into a small town that my job options are limited.

The interview went well. I hate phone interviews. I mean, I have a lot of experience working on phones and I can get the information I need over the phone. But so much of communication is non verbal. I like seeing people. The little facial expressions. The twinkle in the eye. The nod. It helps me read the person. But without all that I still felt like the interview went well.

In September I got an email from the HR department saying that I had been selected for a second interview. See, I was right. The interview went well. I was excited. They said the second interview would be another phone interview and that they would be scheduling soon.

In October I began to get worried. I still had not heard anything and I was beginning to get worried. So I took the bold move and contacted HR again and asked for a status update on the interview process. I got a very nice email back saying that they had just met with the board the day before and were beginning to start the process for scheduling the second interviews. So I relaxed. And waited.

It is now November. NOVEMBER! Still no word. No interview. Nothing scheduled. Nothing. I know they haven't hired anybody. Yet. But it raises questions. My options for employment are limited. But all they need to do is schedule a telephone interview. And that has taken about 3 months. Maybe they aren't sure they want to hire? Maybe they are having budget issues? Maybe they just operate slowly?

I just want a new job. So I can move. Start fresh. Buy a house. Change my life. But I guess that is not their focus. It is mine.

Mean Mama

795 pounds!

No not me! I am down to 267.8. I had hoped to be down to 265 (again) by Thanksgiving. That is only 1.5 weeks away. Time is flying. I don't think I will be there by then. But I will keep my fingers crossed.

A few weeks ago I got sucked into a show on Discovery Health about a man who weighed 795 pounds. It followed him in preparation for his weight loss surgery. The show ended just weeks before his surgery. He had spent about 6 weeks in the hospital waiting for his surgery and he lost about 60 pounds prior to his surgery. I was so sucked into the show that I stayed up way past my bedtime -- not that that is rare. I wanted to know what happened. Actually -- to be honest -- I wanted to know that he succeeded. I wanted to know he lost a ton of weight and made a difference in his life. But it just ended. I have no idea what happened. I tried researching on the internet but I have had no luck.

There are days when I don't understand. I mean how do you get that big? And then I realize that there must be people who look at me and wonder the same thing. And then there are other days when I realize I could just keep eating and get to that size in no time at all. I do realize that is not a good option.

Once I hit 265 again I promise to update with body measurements.

Mean Mama

Drawn from water

When I first adopted Ladybug I decided to make the commitment to do something charitable in Ethiopia each year. The first year I helped a preschool to raise money for the orphanage Ladybug stayed in before her adoption. Since then I have sponsored a child in Ethiopia to attend school. I pay her tuition.

I continually look for other options to support. And I read a lot of blogs -- not something I had planned on. So as a result I have learned about some things that I otherwise would not have heard about. A few years ago I heard about the Mingi. Please visit this website to learn more .... http://www.drawnfromwater.org/

I would never have thought that this mentality exists before learning about it. I am so impressed with the people who read and learn and then get involved. These people make a difference in lives. The least we can do is read and learn. And maybe someone will also get involved.

Mean Mama

You don't have to tell me

That is one of the most commonly used phrases in our house these days.

It is not that I am trying to micromanage her. It is that I hate mornings. I get up when I have to. I don't get up an hour early to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee before Ladybug gets up. Partly this is because I hate coffee. I mean really hate coffee. Not regular coffee. Not flavored coffee. Not even ice cream coffee. I actually worried about my trip to Ethiopia because I didn't want to do anything offensive but I knew I would never make it through a coffee ceremony. Luckily I was never faced with a coffee ceremony while I was there. The other part is that Ladybug gets up so early. I would have to get up at 4am in order to beat her. And that is so not happening.

Ladybug gets up early. She has learned to stay in her room and play. Well, unless she has crawled into my bed for cuddle time. When I get up -- after hitting the snooze several times each morning -- we begin the day.

Please go potty, brush your teeth and get dressed.
Please pick up your room.
Please pack your backpack.
Please get your shoes on.
Please find a jacket.
Please get a wipey and clean your face.
Please get in the car.
Please buckle up.

Incidentally, "please" is Ladybug's least favorite word and actively refuses to use it.

Recently she looked at me one morning and said...

I know. I know.

Completely exasperated. I know she knows. She knows that I know she knows. And yet she doesn't do it.

Why? If she knows (and she does) why not do it? It is not like our morning routine changes. It is very routine. If she has to do the same thing every morning why not do it every morning? Why does she wait until I tell her before she does it?

So I stopped telling her. And then she complained that I didn't tell her what to do.

Ladybug 1
Mean Mama 0

Mean Mama

raised by an atheist

I have been mulling this post over for a while. I fear that it could be offensive to some. Please understand it is not intended to be offensive. It is just a reality.

I was born into a Presbyterian home. I have no idea what that means. I was removed from that home when I was 5 years old. I don't ever remember going to church. I don't remember a religious upbringing. I spent 1 year in a foster home where the parents were Baptist. They had me baptized while I was with them. They got in trouble for that. My understanding is that they believed they were saving my soul. But you are not allowed to change the religion of a foster child.

Eventually I was placed in my adoptive family. The religious aspects of my life did not get easier.

My Maternal Grandmother was raised Catholic but converted to the Episcopal church as an adult when she married my grandfather. My mother was raised Episcopal. Not really religious but they were church goers. And believers. During my childhood my Grandmother insisted on 2 religious things. We had to go to Christmas Eve service and we must celebrate Jesus' birthday after the service with a birthday cake. I went to the Christmas Eve service and tried to stay awake. But that birthday cake was a different issue. It is a raisin, date, carrot type thing with a heavy cream cheese type icing. I hated it. But I ate it every year -- until recently.

My Paternal side of the family is Jewish. My cousins all had Bar Mitzvahs. They attended the temple on a regular basis. The weddings are traditional Jewish weddings and my Grandmother's funeral was performed by a Rabbi. They lived in a community that was largely Jewish and all of their friends were Jewish.

When my parents married -- which was short lived -- they decided that the kids would be raised Jewish. We started attending temple soon after we moved in with them. But I wasn't buying it. And I was 7. And I was a trouble maker (any idea where Ladybug gets it from?). After about 1 year my parent's marriage was in serious trouble and I started refusing to go to Temple. We celebrated Passover and Easter. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. We lit the Sabbath candles every Friday night and I learned the prayer in Hebrew.

But I wasn't buying it. Any of it. All of my family is a believer. In something. I wasn't. I tried. I struggled to believe. But I didn't. I just didn't. Sometime in my teen years I started to identify myself as an agnostic. My parents did not push religions. And they did not really teach religion either. But I am not sure it would have made a difference. There are several times in my life that I wanted to believe but ultimately I did not. Eventually I began to identify myself as an atheist. Many friends have told me they know I believe even if I don't know it.

When I decided to adopt I did worry if this would become an issue. Briefly. But what I did notice as I entered the world of adoptive parents is how many of them are religious. I had never been surrounded by so many people where religion was such a focus in their lives. Even in reading blogs so many of them focus on God and Jesus and their belief. The religion varies but so many of them talk about religion on a regular basis.

When I received Ladybug's referral her religion was listed as Orthodox Christian. This is a common religion in Ethiopia. I worried. Really. She was not going to get a religious upbringing with me. I was not going to start doing nightly prayers or going to church. I had no intention of raising her to be an atheist but how can an atheist teach religion?

About a year ago my mom started attending a church on a regular basis. She asked if she could take Ladybug with her. Sure. I was fine with that. I got Sunday mornings to myself and Ladybug liked it. She liked Sunday school. She liked church. She came home raving about what she learned. I listened. I encouraged. It was hard. Because I don't believe. But it became obvious that she was enjoying it. But when my moved away. So did church. I can not go. I just can't. When we move closer to my mom again she can go with her again. I have no investment in raising her to be an atheist.

This year I enrolled Ladybug in the YMCA after school program. I know there is a religious aspect to the program. But I also know it is a good program. And it was in my budget. She has earned her first bandanna -- purple, which is faith in God. That is the first thing she has learned?

About a month ago I was putting her to bed. I crawled in bed with her to read a book. I looked over at her. She had her eyes closed and and was mumbling to herself. I asked her what she was doing. "Praying." That's what I thought.

A few weeks ago I was talking to Ladybug. She told me about her dream the night before so I told her about mine. Unfortunately mine had been a dream where someone had taken Ladybug away from me. When I told her she just looked at me and said...

Ladybug: God would never let that happen.
Me: Really?
Ladybug: No.
Me: How do you know? Do you talk to him?
Ladybug: Of course. And God told me you were meant to be my mama.
Me: God talks to you?
Ladybug: Of course.

So I may not be a believer but she certainly is. I guess it is possible to be raised by an atheist and still believe.

Mean Mama