Right in the Trash!

One more day. I only have to pack school lunches for one more day. It seems like an easy task. How long could it possibly take to throw a few things in a lunchbox? This is where people chime in about how  I need to enjoy these moments while I can. Time goes by so fast. I can hate packing lunches and love my child at the same time. There is something about cutting the crust off bread at 4 a.m. that can send one into a psychotic rage.   I accidentally bought American cheese last week. Do you remember the scene in “Sleeping With the Enemy” when Julia Roberts realizes the cans are misaligned? That was the level of panic I had when I realized I wouldn’t have “white cheese” to put on my daughter’s sandwich. What the hell happened to me? I am afraid of an 8-year-old. A friend once said “If she is hungry enough she will eat it.” No, she won’t.  It will go right in the trash. Then, she will want a snack the second she walks in the door instead of two seconds after she walks in the door. What’s the difference between packing a lunch and making it at home? That’s a good question. It’s one of the great mysteries of the world.

The time I will save packing lunches will be used sorting through papers. Every year my child brings home enough worksheets, workbooks, artwork, etc. to fill a swimming pool. My kid isn’t going to finish the last six pages of the math workbook. It’s hard enough to get my children to do homework during the school year.  Plus, because of the Common Core curriculum I don’t even know how to answer the problems. I miss the good old days when you could solve a problem without 100 steps. I could also do without you sending home every piece of paper they touched during the year.  Not all artwork is created equal. They aren’t all winners. What do you expect me to do with a half finished coloring sheet of a squirrel? Should I hang their construction paper diagram of a plant on my wall? I don’t want the name tag that hung on their desk.  This person grew in my uterus and gave me stretch marks for days. I will never forget his or her name.  Listen, I barely have enough room in my house for their shoes which are actually a necessity.  No matter how many times I organize the footwear it inevitably ends up in a pile in the corner of the room. These kids come out of the building hunched over trying to carry their weight in garbage.  So, let’s cut out the middle man – which is me – and get rid of this stuff at school.  Recycle it. Throw it away. I don’t care.

All Rise!

I thrive on spontaneity.  I’m not as spontaneous as the woman who flashed her breasts  when the Washington Capitals won the Stanley Cup. Her parents must be so proud. I often plan road trips days or even hours in advance. When I found out the New York Yankees were playing in Toronto last Wednesday I scouted several websites for tickets that morning.  I found three seats in section 113, Row 1 – which is in right field – for just $30 a pop.  People pay five times that for an dose of Botox. At least that’s what I have heard.

I scooped up the tickets faster than President Trump can misspell a word in a tweet. My kids squealed with delight when I revealed the surprise. Then, since we don’t live in Facebook’s parallel universe, they continued bickering.

I am always nervous when I cross the border. You would think I am smuggling drugs into Canada. The worst thing I have in my car is an old gummy bear and a few smashed fish crackers under the backseat.  My daughter tried inning after inning to get a baseball from Aaron Judge. He throws a practice ball out to the crowd every inning. Let’s just say her glass was half full. “I’m never going to get one.” I tried to be the optimistic mom, but deep down I didn’t think it would happen either.

I was wrong. Her dream came true at the bottom of the 8th when Judge tossed her the ball.  It bounced, in what felt like slow motion, missed my daughter’s glove, hit the edge of her seat and landed in the row directly behind us. A man in his late 30’s picked it up like he made the game winning play in the World Series. I whipped my head around and shot him a glare that light wood on fire.  In this case, it was the “if you don’t give my daughter that ball I will beat you down” look.  It took him two seconds to fork the ball over. In all seriousness, we were sitting with a great group of people who were rooting for my daughter the entire day and erupted when she finally got the ball in her hands.  My daughter was so happy she began to cry.

 

Judge also threw a ball to my 11-year-old son. His face lit up. Judge smiled back and pointed at him. There are players who don’t even pass a glance when young fans shout their name. I have been to a number of games and Aaron Judge is always a class act.  He has said in interviews he wouldn’t be a Yankee if it wasn’t for his mother, Patty.  Among other things, he said, she taught him “how to treat people.” She should be proud.

 

 

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We all know Kate Spade

You can hear me every morning on the radio – often cracking jokes; although many fall flat. I have been told my laugh is both contagious and annoying.  I am the first one to message or call a friend to cheer them up. I tell my children daily to count their blessings and not to let negative people bring them down. You can scroll through social media and see photographs of me smiling and laughing.  There are shots on vacation. However, you will never see a picture of my feet in front of a pool or ocean. When did people decide it was a good idea to put hammer toes and bunions in their travel albums?  I have snapshots making silly faces with my kids or celebrating their major milestones and photographs with friends on “girls night.”

I worked as a TV news reporter for a decade.  I started as an associate producer which is basically a paid intern. Unlike a Kardashian, I worked my way up the old fashioned way; with hard work.  I stood in front of the camera during live broadcasts maintaining my composure on air even during the most chaotic times.  For the past three years I have worked in talk radio.

I have also struggled with depression most of my life.  It started in college, I had random bouts of sadness.  There was no logical explanation.  It wasn’t something you could turn on and off.  I woke up crying. A good friend suggested I see the doctor who prescribed medication that drastically improved my symptoms, but nothing can cure the illness. It is an illness. Depression is often caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. I have had dark days where I have had to force myself to get out of bed.  Imagine feeling anxious, scared and tired at the same time.  You want to be alone, but don’t want to be lonely. The best thing I have done for myself was to get out of denial. I see a therapist regularly and am constantly working on me. I am no longer ashamed to take medication.  I workout to get natural endorphins.  Full disclosure: I also exercise so I don’t end up on a reality show on TLC.  I’m not wealthy, but I have a nice house and car. My children are healthy. I don’t want to be sad. Nobody wants to be sad.

After the suicide of fashion designer Kate Spade, her brother-in-law talked about what a great sense of humor she had.  She was known for her whimsical designs.  Friends described her as happy-go-lucky.  She was all of those things.  She also struggled with mental illness. According to reports, she didn’t want to get help because of what it would do to her brand. It is time to address the elephant in the room. We need to remove the negative stigma associated with mental health.  It will save lives. Kate Spade did not kill herself.  Depression killed her. From the outside looking in Kate Spade had everything.  Yet, she was in utter despair. She was not alone.  I am Kate Spade.  You may not realize it, but I bet you know a Kate Spade, too.

 

 

My Memorable Trip to Mississippi

Sixteen years ago I felt like a hero.  I registered to be a bone marrow donor and got the call. I was a match.  I could help save the life of a 4-year-old boy.  It felt like I had won the lottery.  Yes, my idea of winning big is having a giant needle inserted in my bone. I wish they would have warned me that I would be lying face down, bare assed in front of a surgical team during the procedure. I would have ordered Buns of Steel. I don’t know if I would have worked out, but I would have ordered it. Actually, the feeling was greater than anything money could buy.  I had a purpose.  I’m not sharing this story to garner praise. I’m no saint. I mock adults who wear Tigger sweatshirts and occasionally snub Salvation Army bell ringers at Christmas. I’ve found it’s best not to make eye contact. I usually pretend to be looking for my keys. If I gave money every time I left a store I would be broke.

I walked out of that hospital feeling like a million bucks. I knew the recipient was a child; a toddler. He was going to live because of me. I was his angel. It turned out I was wrong and he would be mine. That sweet baby boy passed away in the arms of his loving parents. I struggled with his death for a very long time. I still do.

It was policy not to share the recipients information without permission. So, I tracked down his parents on the internet.  It wasn’t easy. This was back in the day of dial-up internet when you couldn’t talk on the phone and use a computer at the same time. Any teenagers reading this just had their minds blown.

The only thing I knew was the child was treated at St. Jude’s Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.  I  found several articles including one about a fundraiser in Desoto County, Mississippi  for a little boy named Shae who needed a bone marrow transplant.  I kept searching and found Shae’s obituary.  The dates matched.  It was him.  The only address I could find was for Shae’s grandparents.  I mailed them a letter. I don’t recall exactly what it said other than I am sorry.  I was sorry their baby’s body rejected my bone marrow. I was sorry I couldn’t help them. I was sorry I would never get to meet sweet Shae.   Most people would have filed a restraining order. This family did the opposite, embraced and thanked me.  I received a note of gratitude every year on the anniversary of the day I donated. I did not feel worthy.  In the 15 years that followed we talked on the phone, sent text messages and communicated on social media.  I named my daughter Vivienne Shae.  Year after year they expressed a great desire to meet me.  I struggled with the idea of it.  I wasn’t ready to come face to face with them.  Then, recently Shae’s father, Todd, was diagnosed with Familial Pulmonary Fibrosis.  It is basically a condition where his lungs harden. He is on a list for a double transplant.  On March 25th, their church family held a fundraiser for Todd.  I saw the event posted on Facebook and knew it was time.  I booked a flight and hotel.  I contacted his sister to let her know I was coming.  I opted not to tell Todd and his wife in case plans fell through.

I arrived at the church on Saturday when the event was in progress.  Todd’s sister escorted me inside to Shae’s mother, Dawn. She covered her face with her hands and began to weep.

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Then, she brought me to Todd. We embraced and cried.

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Dawn’s father, a burly southern man, wearing a cowboy shirt and blue jeans could barely speak.  He managed to get out a few words.  “For 16 years I had on my bucket list to meet you. I didn’t know how I would make that happen, but I knew I would.”

One by one members of their family, wiping tears, hugged and thanked me.  I still don’t feel worthy, but I love this family and my angel named Shae.

Register to be a bone marrow donor: https://bethematch.org/

I am back! Well, I never left, but I have been slacking in the blogging department. It could have something to do with being a working mother of three children ages 7, 9 and 17.  I am not good at family planning.

The funny thing about children is they insist on eating everyday. The author of “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” left out that chapter. Children also create messes and laundry. So, to avoid ending up on a TLC Reality Show I spend free time cleaning. However,  I am working on new blog posts and will upload soon for your reading pleasure. Writing about life is cheaper than therapy.  In the meantime, you can hear me daily on a morning radio talk show.  I work with the legendary broadcaster Brother Wease.

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You can listen on iHeartRadio.  CLICK HERE:  Radio951.com

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I am also on Facebook and Twitter. Once I figure out how to use Snapchat I will post things there, too.

 

Deanna 

Purpose

I walked away from Justin Bieber’s concert last night with mixed feelings. I purchased tickets one hour before the show at the First Niagara Center in Buffalo. My 6-year-old daughter and 9-year-old son were smiling the second the pop star took the stage. Bieber was not. He had a blank look on his face. In fact, he showed little emotion during the show. I don’t think he cracked a smile through the first four songs. He seemed to put little effort into the dance routines. It didn’t seem intentional. He looked exhausted. He sat on a couch and sang a few songs with an acoustic guitar, but much of the show was singing along to a track. At times, he didn’t even bother to lip sync. It was almost as if he forgot where he was. The Canadian singer has made headlines regularly since he was discovered on YouTube. Recently, though, Bieber has attracted attention for some bizarre behavior. He was photographed roaming shoeless around Boston. Then, in late March Bieber announced he would cancel meet and greets at his concerts. “The pressure of meeting people’s expectations of what I’m supposed to be is so much for me to handle and a lot on my shoulders. Never want to disappoint but I feel I would rather give you guys the show and my albums as promised,” Bieber said. At one point during last night’s show Bieber started to give a heartfelt speech “Everyone is going through something,” he said before being interupted by a fan who told him his shoe was untied. He knelt on the stage, tied the lace and lost his train of thought. He couldn’t get it back. The audience squealed when he stopped talking and the music started playing. We were about to hear another billboard hit. Bieber appeared frustrated as he walked up the stage. Overall, it was an entertaining show. There were some spectacular special effects and incredible backup dancers. There is no denying Bieber is talented. I am not ashamed to admit I enjoy his music. I heard countless teenagers raving as they walked out of the arena. My children were on cloud nine. I purchased the tickets one hour before the show and scored incredible seats. They danced along, cheered and laughed. It brought me such joy to see them that happy. At the same time, I was bothered by the show. It’s not because Bieber was a lazy, arrogant pop star. I saw a kid on stage who is unraveling and, as a mother, I wanted to hug him. He is traveling from city to city with his “Purpose Tour,” but seems to be struggling to find his own purpose despite ‘having it all.’

Prom, Minus The

We hit two major milestones last weekend in my family. My youngest graduated from elementary school and my oldest went to prom.  Apparently, it is no longer cool to say “the.”  It’s just prom.  I also recently discovered ‘kids these days’ no longer say “cool beans” either. 

I got a lot of eye rolls when I talked about elementary school graduation. I’m not sure why people get angry over graduations outside of high school and college. Heaven forbid we praise children and allow them to celebrate their achievements. Why on earth would we want to encourage them to value an education?  It didn’t hurt anyone when my daughter walked across the stage wearing a paper graduation cap.  She was beaming with pride. For me it’s a time to celebrate and cry.  I get emotional at the end of every school year. No, it’s not because my children will be home all day and asking for a snack 99% of the time. They are growing up and another phase of motherhood has passed by.

My oldest attended his first prom. He is a sophomore, but several of his friends are seniors and wanted him to go. I was hesitant because it’s tradition to go with a date.  When I was younger, if you didn’t have a date you didn’t go. Nowadays, it’s common for kids to go in large groups.  That is great for those of us who are late bloomers.  I wish I would have known back then that peaking in high school isn’t a good thing.  The stud of your senior class grows up to look like Peter Griffen. 

My son looked handsome in his tuxedo. He also looked so grown up. It seems like yesterday I was dropping him off for his first day of kindergarten. That day I bent down and kissed his forehead before he shuffled into the classroom wearing a backpack almost as big as he was,”Have a great time! I love you.” I didn’t let him know I was upset. I drove by the school four times that day. It’s hard to let go and it doesnt get any easier as they age. I was just as anxious sending him off to prom. He is taller than me, but will always be my baby. I adjusted his bow tie, smiled and hugged him goodbye. I turned away as a single tear streamed down my face, “Have a great time! I love you.” 

 

 

 

Sons & Mudders

I took my 9-year-old son on a date several months ago.  He is the middle child who, I feel, is often lost in the shuffle. My 6-year-old daughter demands constant attention. I love spending time with her.  She always wants to play with Barbie Dolls.  Of course, she is always the cool Barbie with the nicer house and clothes.  I have to follow her lead.  It’s like high school all over again.   I am my 16-year-old son’s chauffeur.  Quite frankly, I would like to keep it that way. I am a control freak. Unfortunately, much like the my hips, children grow whether you want them to or not.  My son begins Driver’s Ed Class in two weeks.  I am not ready for this.  That leaves my 9-year-old.  He is very independent.  He and I don’t get to spend nearly enough time together.  I am trying to change that. Over the weekend, we attended an event at his elementary school.  For years, father/daughter dances were held at the school. It is a special night for dad’s to bond with their daughters. My son’s school came up with a great event for mothers and sons.  The third annual “Sons and Mudders” was held over the weekend. It is an obstacle course with mud; A LOT OF MUD.  aHR0cDovL2NvbnRlbnQuY2xlYXJjaGFubmVsLmNvbS9jYy1jb21tb24vbWxpYi8xNzY3LzA2LzE3NjdfMTQ2NTE3MzA0NC5qcGc=

 

 

 

 

Basically, it is a watered down “Tough Mudder” race.  This is the second year my son and I participated.  For someone who vacuums daily and washes the countertops more times in a day than a Kardashian looks in the mirror  –  I was definitely out of my comfort zone.  I embraced the experience.  I don’t think my son stopped smiling the entire night.

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He and my older son (the boy in white) seemed to really enjoy this moment:

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I pulled the “I gave birth to you and this is how you repay me” card later that night. Actually, it was all in good fun.  I enjoyed not having to bark orders to ‘pick up this’ or ‘clean up that.’  We just played and laughed.

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These are memories that I will cherish forever.  I hope my middle child remembers these moments, too.  I didn’t cram my ass in Yoga pants and roll in the mud for my health.  I did it because I love him.  That statement will either save me money in therapy or be the reason he needs another session.

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When you gotta go…..

When you gotta go, you gotta go. Jonathan Lowe, a reporter for KPHO, was arrested on Monday afternoon for defecating on a front lawn. The 33-year-old was seen by a neighbor leaning against a wall and relieving himself. Investigators said Lowe admitted going to the bathroom on the lawn. “I know what you want to talk to me about. I’ve been feeling very sick and I’ve been stuck in this van all day,” he said, according to the report. Lowe was charged with public defecation. He faces a fine of $2,500 or six months in jail for the misdemeanor. I feel bad for this reporter. I had a similar incident happen to me while reporting at a local television station during the 6 p.m. news. My stomach startled gurgling before a live shot.  I was panicked, sweating and pleading for God to save me. I will never swear again. I won’t ever jaywalk again. I will drive the speed limit unless I am going on vacation and accidentally drive to the wrong airport. The good lord above allowed me to get through this story without dropping a deuce in my polyester pant suit. The camera light went out in time for me to get to a nearby Starbucks. Someone recognized me en route to the ladies room.  “Are you…?”  I cut them off and answered. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”  I am not a celebrity or full of myself.  I just didn’t have time for small talk. I was so relieved (pun intended) that I made it to a bathroom until I tried to flush the toilet and it wouldn’t flush. I frantically wiggled the handle. Nothing. Why me? Why? For a brief moment I thought about living in the Starbucks bathroom for the rest of my life. I could do this. It’s spacious and I would never run out of coffee. Then, someone knocked on the door. I could do the walk of shame or walk out with my head held high. I chose the latter.  “You don’t want to go in there. Someone clogged the toilet.  It is disgusting.” The woman shook her head. “Some people are so gross.” I nodded.

I hope Lowe doesn’t lose his job. He should, however, carry some grocery bags with him on his next assignment.

 

It’s all relative?

Tom Brady has a hectic schedule. I will give you time to get out your tiny violin. Tom Brady’s schedule is so hectic there is a news article about it.  It’s titled, “Tom Brady Details a Day in His Hectic Life.”  I laughed out loud before I even began reading.  The pictures accompanying the article show Giselle and his daughter on a private jet.  (Talk to me after you have waited in a long line at the airport, taken three kids through security and flying coach on a flight where there are no seat assignments) In another shot the family is horseback riding.

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Let’s compare a day in the life of Tom Brady to a regular person. I will use myself as an example.

The article begins with Tom Brady  at the luxurious St. Regis Hotel just below Central Park in New York City.  He is there because he has to promote a new Simmons mattress.  He is only worth $120 million and needed another endorsement deal. There is a table of crab cakes, spring rolls, etc. in the room and a butler is waiting in the wings. 

I wake up and iron clothing for my three children. (I know this is optional for most people, but I have issues) Then, I run downstairs to let the dog out and make lunches. School supplies are organized and ready to go.  I load and start the dishwasher and get breakfast ready for the kids. Then, I head back upstairs to finish styling my hair, make-up and get dressed.

Tom Brady has to fly out on his private jet back to New England.

The author of the article says Being Tom Brady isn’t easy.  He has football practice the next morning.

I make myself coffee and drive 40 minutes to work.  I clock out with enough time to stop at the grocery store before making the trek back. Inevitably, I will get behind a woman who wants every item in her cart double bagged. She can’t have her pasta in the same bag as her cereal. I go straight to the elementary school to pick up my middle child. Then, I drive to the high school and get my oldest. Finally, I pick up my daughter. Once home, I put in a load of laundry and clean up the mess made at breakfast.  I swear my kids throw crumbs around like it is confetti.  That and they intentionally spit toothpaste everywhere, but in the sink. Next, I get the younger kids a snack because I don’t want to sweep again. Children are hungry the second a meal ends. Sometimes they still have a fork in their hands. Then, I vacuum because we have a dog and I have allergies.

Tom Brady is really busy.

“I have hobbies,” he says. “I like being active. I like to surf a lot, play a little bit of golf. But it’ a lot of work and being with my family.”

Now, it is time to put the laundry in the dryer. Then, there is the dreaded task of helping the children with homework. Common Core hurts my brain. Within the course of 30 minutes I say over and over again, “Come on, let’s focus and get this done.” I told my son I feel like a broken record. He replied, “What does that even mean?” My children have never seen a record. They sure as hell don’t know what a broken record is or does. By this time the kids are whining that they are hungry again. I am convinced they have tapeworms. I start dinner and unload the dish washer. They eat. I clean up again.

What happens next depends on the day.  There is tennis practice, drama club, basketball, soccer, dance classes and guitar lessons. I take some time to play with the kids before getting showers and baths done.  I should clarify. I play with the younger two children and exchange a few words with the teenager before he retreats to his bedroom. Then, they brush their teeth. I supervise because it’s cheaper than a high dental bill. I tried allowing them to go at it alone, but a 6-year-old has never been to medical school and doesn’t quite grasp the concept of gingivitis. It takes about 30 minutes to coral the kids into bed.  Then, I get up and do the same thing tomorrow.  I am not complaining.  If I were writing about my life on Twitter I would use ‘hashtag blessed’.  It is, however, hectic – like most people’s lives.

Tom Brady gets a break when the football season ends.