Kiwibox. My old friend.

Maybe you are just discovering my blog, or maybe you have followed me on her for awhile. But what most don't know is this. While I have only recently picked up blogging on blogger, I have been blogging for well over a decade now.

Back in 2000 I came across this site that was created for the main attraction of teenagers. And I, entering the last few months of teen decided to go ahead and give it a shot. I signed up and began journaling. Looking back on most of my entries, they seem childish and all together rather silly. Most consisted of boys I liked, the occasional piece of poetry and bitching about my family. Yes there was plenty of that. But then again I was a nineteen year old kid, living under my parents roof and while she may not admit it or not, my sister was in the midst of her teenage angst as well.

I didn't really set out to make it to any milestone, or to be there for years. And yet, that is exactly what happened. It turned out to be the one thing I looked forward to on a daily basis. And yes, I said daily. The years grew, as did I. I fell in love on that journal, got engaged on that journal. Got married and had a baby. All while 'blogging' about day to day life. There was no formal structure nor was there any really topics. More or less just a bunch of Hodge Podge that became my life.

I made friends on that site, I read others insightful-and sometimes not so-and felt like I knew them. Several people came and went on the site, due in part because lets not forget, the site was after all for teenagers. But that was not the reason I had remained. I didn't care about the articles, the advice columns or anything else the site supposedly had to offer, I was there for the blog. And the blog alone.

I realize now, that this was the beginning of the blogging sensation. While everyone is claiming they had just discovered it I sat back and smiled for I had known it all alone, it was a well treasured event, a part of my life as much as my job was.

But as all good things often do, Kiwibox decided to change a year ago. A major overhaul and everything about the site would change with it. And after ten years of keeping up with the site, with the journal and with several others. I decided to leave my beloved journal.

And move on to if not bigger-cus I know the audience really isn't-at least newer greener pastures. It was time to grow up, and join the site where more adults blogged and what not.

Hence the reason I know blog on this current site.

Still, I decided to hit up my old stopping ground yesterday. And for reasons that I can't explain I began to miss it.

Whether it was the actual site or the time is still up in the air.
But for whatever reason I missed it.

And for a moment, I wanted it all back.

A future hockey mom.

I admit in a million years I never thought I would even consider that someday I would be a hockey mom. And yet, I am pretty sure that is where I am heading. Even if my son is not even two years.

This of course I assume is to be expected. Given the fact that daddy has so much influence in the sport. I mean after all, its a pretty much sleep, eat and breath event around the house. So what else would expect? Really? However what I didn't expect was that my not even two year old son would pick up a hockey stick, no matter where we are at and continuously say 'hockey. goal, hit, drop.' until everyone around him knows where he stands. He plays the sport around the house and even if I am not the most expert person when it comes to what classifies someone as a good player or bad I will not be blind to recognize that at the age my son is, he does hold the stick rather well and has an amazing shot. Keep in mind, he is only 21 months. Even the kids coordination is quite impressive.

I always thought that my kid(s) would be involved in something. Even in my head dreamt of a little ballerina girl since I love dancing so much. Or maybe soccer sure. What little kid doesn't start their sports day with this? Or maybe football. Yes for sure football. But hockey? Never. Then again, before I met my husband I watched the sport but knew nothing much of it, didn't understand the rules or what was really going on. So why should I expect or even consider to be the next hockey mom?

Soccer mom yes. But not a hockey mom.

And yet, it looks like I could very well be heading down that path. My mornings will be filled sitting on a cold hard benches clutching my morning caffeine in my hands. The smell of that musty old hockey equipment forever burned in my car..If you ask my husband there could be worse things to be and I suppose he is right there. Because you can bet, even if I hate the cold, if I can't stand it what so ever. You better bet, I will be there screaming my head off, cheering on my son at every practice, every game. And at every goal he scores.

I just need to invest in some really great gloves in the meantime.

Death of my Teen Idol

I have a confession, yes another one. They seem to come frequent these days. But here it is.

Nick Carter was not my first love.

That title belongs to the man on the right. Johnathan Brandis. I would not consider this my first crush-that goes to a boy named Josh, he lived two blocks away from me. At ten I thought he was super cute. But once I got my first sights on Johnathan, it was all over. I am also pretty certain this was the beginning of my fascination and love with the blonde haired blue eyed pretty boys. But that's for another blog entry.

So yes Johnathan Brandis was my first love.

It started back in 1992. I was a twelve year old nerdy girl with freezy hair and an expander in my mouth. He a young actor getting his BIG break in the movie Ladybugs. He spoke, I think I cried. He laughed I sighed. It was your typical pre-teen fascination that soon turned into buying every magazine he was plastered on, spending hours rereading articles he was in until I had memorized every little detail, from his birthday to his favorite drink. I doodled his name surrounded by hearts and swore that someday, I was destined to meet him, and marry him. The room I shared with my sister turned into a JB shrine...

I was in love, ok maybe even a little of the obsessed kind but I was now thirteen, and so I think its only fitting that every female go through this with at least one celebrity.

By the time I was in high school Brandis was a known name. He had already done several movies, and was now on a TV show called SEAQUEST DSV. I'm probably not the only one to admit their main reason for being into the show was him. In fact I think the creators knew exactly what they were doing.And just as I had with the movies, I watched every Sunday night just so I could get a glimpse of the young actor...back then there was no DVR or TIVO and so I scheduled my activities around it, which wasn't all that hard to do since I didn't have that much of a social life. I would tape the show, and re-watched it over and over until the tapes were worn out. I bought the t-shirts, the character figurines. Anything I could get my hands on. Once again, can we say obsessed. Umm yeah.

The show lasted three years breaking my heart along with it.

After, he seemed to fade into the woodwork. Showing up here and there, but nothing major came out of it. He seemed to be just another one of those child actors that you hear about. You know the kind that make it big as a kid and then you never hear or see them again. That kind. Which was a shame, because back then I didn't think he was all that bad of an actor.I always hoped for a comeback of some sort. Who doesn't.

And I never stopped wondering when he would.

But seven years ago. On this very day. My questions were answered. I logged on to the internet to find that my teen idol, the very first guy I ever loved. Had killed himself. Hung himself more like it. Feeling the pressure of a failing career and never really making it to the kind of success that he wanted.

He was 27.

Once again my heart broke. No one wants to think that any one they loved, even if it was a never going to happen sort of thing would be that desperate enough that they felt they had no other way out. But most of time no one thinks that the famous are among the several who fight with the feelings of loneliness, of failure of being so down and out that they would even dream or imagine such an act. And yet it seems that behind the scenes of the rich and the famous, lies the underground secret. Life isn't easy. For anyone. Even to this day, I read about another young Hollywood star being admitted into another rehab center, or that their attempt in suicide had failed and think that nothing has changed much since that November day seven years ago. Even with all the attempts at making it more known, and more publicized it seems it has done little to address the issue of it.

And it makes me question everything about Hollywood. About the pressures that we as a society puts on these kids, and what really is considered a failure. Because I am pretty sure a successful stint on a popular TV show, and a couple of big movies does not mean you failed. Especially not at such a young age. Not when you have your whole life ahead of you.

But how do we get that out to them before its to late?

Before they become another falling star who left us far to soon.

When??

When I first announced I was expecting back in the summer of 08' everyone was ecstatic, I mean who wouldn't be? Not only that but it finally solved and answered the great question-when are you going to have children-and for nine long glorious months no one asked about it. Instead they focused on questions like names, and colors and if it was a boy or a girl.

And then we had him. And the moment I got out of the hospital, the question about a second child came into play. Being a new exhausted mom, I didn't care for the questions because hello, we were bringing home our son for the first time, shouldn't you give us at least a week to enjoy it before the questions arise again? One would think anyway.

My husband and I had talked extensively about kids before we even had our first. We had a plan probably even before we got married. And while it may not be to what every one else is doing, the plan seemed to fit us just fine. Unlike most, we want a little bit of an age gap between the kids. And for the most part, people at least in the family are well aware of our situation, my disability, his job. And they know what we are thinking, and agree with us. For the most part they have actually been relatively good in asking about the 'When' question.

Until this week, when I happen to mention something about another one in the future-meaning at least another year and a half more like two-little did I know this little statement would cause such a big controversy. When someone decided to inform me that it would be extremely hard with two kids and that my husband would have to quit his job of course. They didn't know what or how I would do it with two kids. Or how we could afford it. They then informed me maybe I should just have one kid, and that would be ok as well. In fact that may be the better option. They continues, adding up the math of my age and all.

I nodded my head because I didn't know what else to say, or think really. Because when it comes to matters of another child, it should not be up to anyone else but the couple. My husband and myself. And no one else. If we decide that our son is to be an only child than so be it, as of right now we would like another in a couple of years. But I fully understand things change, circumstances change and should we decide this, then so be it. But I will not, and do not enjoy being told that we should only have one because it is the better option.

And the determination that anyone over the age of thirty is to old to have a child is beyond annoying. With technology and woman living longer, it is not beyond anyone to see a woman pregnant in her thirties. And again, this too should be something that I should decide for myself. Not someone else. Father in law, friend or a stranger.

So next time you decide to ask someone when they are going to have another child, I strongly suggest you think before you say anything.

Number 21

Meet Brooks Laich. He is a 27 year old center for the Washington Capitals. He also happens to be my favorite player. And yes I will admit, not only do I happen to think he is an incredible hockey player. I also happen to have a bit of a crush on him. Meaning, yes I think he is quite fine looking. Admittedly I am not the only female in the DC area that thinks so. But for purpose of this blog, lets just pretend shall we?

So this past weekend, my husband, my son and myself made our way out to a local mall. For no reason what so ever than the fact we just needed to get out for a bit. Dressed in my Boston Red Sox hoodie and a pair of jeans and my husband in his usual Cap attire we made our way through the stores. And like usual, we had to walk past the memorabilia store just to take a peak. Though this time, it would not be my husband that would go in there drooling but rather myself.

For right there, to the side, doing a meet and greet was none other than Brooks Laich.

I stood there looking until the lady informed us that we were crowding the front of the store, which apparently is not allowed. And unless we were going to look, buy or get an autograph-at the tune of $40, we needed to move on. Needless to say, my husband couldn't get in the line fast enough.

You may be thinking, wait a minute doesn't your husband work for the team? Shouldn't that mean you have connections? Well your right Andy does work for them. However because he does, we aren't allowed to go up to the rink and meet them like everyone else does. I mean I am pretty sure if it was just myself and my son. But Andy isn't really supposed to. So we grabbed a Brooks Laich shirt, quickly paid and stood in line. I wondered if he would even recognize Andy, since he has been helping him on a couple of projects, the logo for his brand for one thing-note he didn't do the design just merely advised him on things-When it was our time, Brooks looked up and immediately gave me shit for my hoodie, all in good fun. As soon as Andy said hello they two quickly began chatting about logos and what not, and my hoodie quickly forgotten.

And while they stood talking about logos, and my son, I stood like a fifteen year old high schooler barely able to get my words out of my mouth. I had asked Andy to make sure I got a pic with him. But as he said goodbye and we walked out of the store I really wasn't thinking of that picture.

That is until halfway down the mall....
Still I had his autograph and his t-shirt.

And for some reason that was good enough for me.

The Dream Team

Who is ready to throw all their savings for a pair of concert tickets to watch a blast from the past? (Raises her hands and looks around). That's right. The announcement many of us females who were teenagers in the 90's had been waiting for came out yesterday. New Kids on the Block, and the Backstreet Boys, on one stage together, coming to a city near you in the summer of 2011.

I can already hear my bank account saying Cha-ching.

You may be thinking, ok this woman here is 30, isn't she well past the stage of girly crushes and drooling over men who are now into their forties-well some of them anyway. Well hear me out.

I was raised in a house with three girls. I am the middle of us. My older sister is just about six years older than I. While I won't disclose her age, I will just say that she was a teen during the reign of NKOTB. I being the kid sister that I was followed her every move. Including dancing along to the same tunes she loved. And the band of her choice was, you guessed it NKOTB. I can't tell you how many times I sat there learning the dances, which I will not be ashamed to admit I still remember to this day. She lived for those boys right up til their demise-thanks to the grunge era-which ironically happened right about the time she went to college, and liking boy bands was not about to win you any friends.

Five years later, I found myself heading into the last years of my own teenage years when five boys from Florida would become my 'world' And if anyone thought that my sister was bad, I could pretty much say, I topped her when it came to devotion and love of the boys. My walls were lined, my locker was filled with images of BSB, Nick Carter more specifically. I was in love with him. To this day, I would probably say there is a part of me that misses those days. I learned the dances, I went to their concerts. Spent endlesss amount of time and money on anything that revolved around them. From lunchboxes to albums to magazines. Most of which I still have to this day hidden in a box somewhere where my husband may or may not know about.

But unlike my sister, who stopped following her boys. I to this day continue to follow, buying up albums they still put out. Attending concerts they put on. While I would love to say I go there simply to remember my past, part of it is also because I still love them. I still pull out their records thinking they are amazing. Maybe a part of me will never quite grow up. Even my own mother, will contribute to my 'love' Just yesterday she taped Oprah for me since they happened to be on. I wanted to hug her that much more.

This all being said, you can imagine my excitement when they announced that both bands will be coming together to tour next summer. Could this be? Yes....and while the 30 year old in me tried to hide the excitement of seeing both bands-I have never seen NKOTB. The sixteen year old teen girl in me jumped up and down already staking out her spot in line....

and exclaiming that she is sooo there!!! Backstreets Back alright!

When you try your best, but you get nowhere.

I have a confession. I am a horrible test taker. I have been for years now. I would like to blame it on that famous teacher I had back in high school, but feel the roots stem probably deeper than that. So I will just simply say it again.

I am a horrible test taker.

I am also one of those kind of test takers you see from time to time and laugh at. Like a junkie needing a hit, my palms begin to sweat even at the mere mention of a test. I sit there for hours reading, and going over my notes, to the point of obsession. Knowing that no matter what, or how much I study, the results will more in likely never equal the amount of effort I put into it. In fact often, I wonder why I bother studying at all.

So last night was another wonderful mid-term. I had been studying for two days straight, so much so I began wondering if I perhaps over-studied-is there even such a thing?-still I felt confident as I entered that classroom. I knew what I was talking about. I was handed my exam and sat there looking it over.

In all honesty it didn't take that much time to do. No, I wasn't the first one done but it didn't take me nearly the three hours that was allotted for it either. I handed it in, thanked the professor and walked out feeling like for once my efforts were going to pay off. I was going to pass the exam there was no doubt about it.

Until this morning, when I checked my school account to find that she had posted the grades. Still feeling confident I hit the see grades button and watched as my scores came up. My results?

Well I didn't pass with flying colors thats for sure. In fact I barely passed it if you want the truth. I sat there staring at the screen in pure disbelief. How in the world could this be? I studied. I reviewed. I took my time....none of which seemed to have mattered in the long run.

Needless to say I was feeling disappointed in my grade, in the class. In knowing that I have a week to sit and dwell on the grade before I see the professor again. In myself for being so damn confident....

and for once again feeling that I was too stupid to do something.
As I closed the browser I tried to remind myself it was just a grade. It is just a midterm and this to shall pass. Still several grades to be handed out before the final grade is posted.

Still all this telling to my sole, didn't make that barely D any better.
And next time, can't get here fast enough.

Welcome November

Now that Halloween has come and gone, lets welcome what probably is one of my favorite times of the year. The leaves have fully changed, my fall semester is halfway over and both Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner. I have always struggled to figure out which exactly I love more and since I have never come to a solid decision lets just make it an equal tie and say, bring on turkey, pumpkin pie and family.

This morning I got up, got in my freezing cold car and found my way to a local radio station that begins playing Christmas music in July-no not really but they may as well-just to see if they had switched over yet to their 24/7 Christmas music up until Christmas night. They haven't yet. I don't know if this bummed me out to much since it still seems a little to early to be singing Jingle Bell rock and Oh Holy Night. And yet, I find the music contagious, and infectious and for the most part it puts me in a good mood. Even the sight of the holiday decorations up at the mall yesterday seemed to put a smile on my face. Even if I thought it was just a wee bit early.

Then there was another thought that flashed through my mind as I was thinking of the holidays. And it is this, maybe its not so early. Maybe its just coming faster and faster than it did as a kid. I know, I was warned of this growing up. But come on, how many of us actually believed that what our parents were saying, would actually end up to be the truth? How many of us sat there thinking the holidays would never get here, never come. We would sit there with our advent calenders just waiting as the days go by slower and slower. We would count the days until winter break with anticipation. All the while our parents would sit there and tell us not to waste our days. Or wish them away because one day we will be adults. And the days will fly by and you wish you would have the days like this back.

I miss those days.

My mom was right. Absolutely without a doubt. A 100% right about the fact that it comes faster and faster each year. I look at my son, who will be two in February finding it hard to believe that he will be in his terrible two's before long. And I wish for him never to grow up, want him to cherish these days as my mom had done so long ago. Knowing there is nothing i can do stop them either.

And since I can't. I will head into this new month just as excited as ever. I will do my shopping, celebrate with the family and be thankful for the moment. Because this year the holidays,just like all the ones in the recent past, will come and go in the blink of an eye all to quickly.

This is Halloween

Halloween 2010.

I know for a lot of people, especially children Halloween is a pretty big deal. I mean it ranks right up there with Christmas. Who wouldn't enjoy dressing up as someone for an evening, getting way to much candy and then turning around and bargaining with friends and family on the candy that you really want. I on the other hand have never really been that into it. Sure as a kid, going around door to door stuffing my face with endless amounts of candy was pretty sweet. I won't lie. But getting dressed up, getting scared shitless? Yea not so much. And yes its ok, go ahead and call me a whimp. For the most part I probably would agree with you.

But of course now I have a son. Yes we did get all excited. We went and picked out the cutest costume, which was originally going to be Buzz until he got scared of the wings, and then he quickly decided on Nemo...we rushed to the store to stock up on candy, our favorites just in case we had leftovers. And we made sure we were home, our door open ready for little monsters and princesses. So everything would be more involved, and Halloween dif. had to be more special right? I have a kid so it certainly has to be.

Umm nope.

Then again my son hasn't even turned two yet. Still we decided to take him out. If not to the entire neighborhood than to at least the few houses around the area. What we discovered is this, the apple apparently doesn't fall to far from the tree after all. It seems Logan is afraid of just about any costume that does not involve Buzz Lightyear, Mickey or a princess. And you can forget most of the outdoor decorations yea, he wasn't having any of it. We did however manage to dress him up in his Nemo outfit drag him around to the few houses that were handing out candy at 6 pm and get him to at least experience the idea of trick or treating.

But once the older kids started coming in, Logan began howling and screaming, he got himself so worked up he made himself sick. Making me wonder if it was all worth it really in the end. But at least we tried, at least we did it...

Here's to hoping that maybe next year he may be a little more into it.

And maybe with a little luck his mommy will be more into it as the years go on as well.

That's the Way he likes it.

This is Alexander Ovechkin.

For those of you who may not know him, well let me introduce him.

He is a 25 year old 6'2 left winger for the Washington Capitals. He is 233 Lbs of nothing but pure muscle. And he is arguably one of the best players the NHL has seen in years. During the season he has his eye on one thing, getting the Caps to the Cup. And during the off? He likes to party, drink and the ladies.

More specifically he likes the Russian ladies.

Now, this may not seem to be a big deal to you. Or even myself really. But after an article in GQ was published,apparently it has become a big issue for the female population around the DC area. I don't know about you but I am pretty sure I heard a thousand hearts break all at the same time.

But why? I mean do you blame him? He is 25, he is single, he is young he is at the top of his game right now, and lets not forget that while he is playing right here in the states, on American turf. He is Russian born and raised. I wouldn't expect him to lean any other way really.

After all, we don't expect Prince William to like American girls over English girls do we? Yes, hearts would break but come on think about it a little bit. One always goes back to their roots. And while I may love to have a fling with some hot sexy import-I should apologize to my husband-when truth comes down to it all, I would go back to my good old American boy(s) any day. Because that's what I know, that's what I prefer. And would any one get all pissed off at me for saying this? If they were to publish my comment in a magazine, would the backlash begin, would a thousand men break down and start to whine about this?

Probably not.
Most would simply shrug, flip the page and go on their merry little way.

Because when it comes down to it all, who really cares.

Is meeting his future wife really why he is here? Because I thought it was to play hockey. And while I may think he looks good when he cleans up-I am after all a female and will not deny this-I could care less if he is dating a blonde, a brunette or a redhead. I don't care if she speaks English, French or Russian. Because to me, that's not the point of his being in the states.

What I do care about is him scoring, his getting us to the level of game that we want, and we expect him to be. I care that he is beating the shit out of Crosby and doing it well. I care about whether or not we are going to win the next following games, and the playoffs. And as long as he is scoring, there is a pretty good chance, we will see him around in June.

And by all means if that means he needs three Russian females in order to do so. Well then by all means, give the man three Russian women.

38 years of marriage

My parents celebrated 38 years of marriage yesterday. Not exactly an easy accomplishment, but one they should dif. be proud of. After all, in this day and age any one would be lucky, myself included to see 38 years of marriage.

Sometimes I would like to know their secret. What makes them different from the rest. What makes a marriage last. From talking to her, I know they had their moments, I know they came close to walking away from it all. From time to time they wondered if it would be easier. It may have been. But what made them decide it was worth it?

The fight.
The drive.

What made it all worth while? Because sometimes, as much as I love my husband I have my doubts, my fears that we won't have what it takes in the end of it all to last to see 38 years.

I would like to ask how they keep the passion, the fire the desire for one another alive. I am not talking about just in between the sheets because love, passion and the desire needs to go beyond this. But what makes this all work? What is the secret?


And how does it change, or when it does how do you handle that?

But I want to know simply how to keep the love for one another last.
So mom and dad this one is for you.
Happy Anniversary.

Well it could be worse.

Allow me a moment to bitch.

I am an American with a Disability. Cerebral Palsy to the right side. Thankfully for me, its only a very minor case and the majority of the damage is to my right hand. Every day I wake up to this, every day I get up knowing that somewhere along the day I will have to face a challenge. Whether it be from a stare I receive, or a water fountain only geared to right handed folks.

I do this on a daily basis. Nine times out of ten, I have no issue with my set back, because really I'd like to think I adapt pretty well to anything thrown at me.

Still I can't deny there are days that I wake up and think, this sucks. Just plan out, no words to describe it other than sucks. Really really sucks. Usually it comes when I am struggling to change my son's diaper with one hand. Or when he was younger and still was in the infant car seats and I couldn't work the handle with one hand. So I would be stuck at home until my husband got home. Groceries would wait, the formula would have to wait.

It was when I was in HS and couldn't try out for any sports because they told me I was to much of a liability. So I managed. Or sat on the sidelines and watched as my sister was cheerleader.

It was the dates I never got, the guys that wouldn't except me for being me. It was the teachers that never thought I could do much of anything.

It comes when I am trying to open a bag of something, or a door when my hand is filled and no one seems to offer so I struggle and have to work things under my chin. I really think I could use another hand then. Its standing in the pouring rain trying to work that damn umbrella.Or standing on the metro, with nothing to hold on to and having my hands filled with things and not being tall enough to hold on to the top so I struggle with this to. And those around me, who don't even realize I am disabled don't bother to help .

Or having trouble shaving my underarm because I can't use it so I have to ask for help..yeah that one sort of sucks.

But I will say struggling with my son ranks right up there with all the suckiness. Because I see all the other moms and dads, and think why can't I just do that. Why do I have to struggle with holding him, putting in a key to the door. I can't even open the damn door without a struggle sometimes.

It's moments like these that I admit I sit and wish for just a moment to be different. To know what its like to be able to use that right hand. To not have to worry about things like figuring out how to drive with one hand, or cut my own food. I would be satisfied with 24 hours with the ability to use both hands. 24 hours that's all I ask for.

Unfortunately, that's one wish, no matter how hard I may try, that will never be granted.

You think its easy? I beg to differ with you. And I raise a challenge to go home and try everything with the opposite hand. And only that hand. It doesn't have to be for 24 hours, even just for the night....

Believe me I have several why me moments. Sometimes I feel I am worthy of it. It is not often I get down, or pissed off or anything. But every now and then.

You better believe it.

And then there are moments like today. On metro. When I boarded and the guy beside me sways back and forth. He talks to himself. And all around him people are making fun of him. Even if they don't say it they are laughing. He speaks slowly and asks how many stops are there til Federal Center, its a question he asks out loud on a daily basis. Everyone ignores him like they do most days he rides. There are a few of us that know, that recognize and help, but its not many. He still wears velcro shoes.

No one bothers to give him a seat either.

But this doesn't seem to bother him. He smiles around and laughs. Like its sunny and 80 instead of damp and cool.

Suddenly, my disability, no matter how small seems that much more smaller. And I feel ridiculous for being upset as much as I am because it takes me a few seconds longer to change my sons diaper. Or that I struggle with a key in the door.

When it comes down to it all,
I could be a lot worse off than I am.

I'm not a Princess, this ain't my fairytale.-The end of my dream 2011

In the past week I have blogged about two things, being bullied and the start of my traditional Friday dance.

What I haven't blogged about, what I have been avoiding for the past several days is. Disney. Specifically regarding the Moms Panel.

If you are anyone who has been following the MP's process, by now you know that notices went out last Tuesday to those that made it through to round 2. And like all that applied and considered themselves hopefuls I held on to my newly bought smart phone, staring at the email alert. Willing it to ring. As if staring at it would make it suddenly do so. I sat there at the dinner table, trying to concentrate on my son, my husband my in-laws. Thinking any minute now it was going to be me that was notified.

No email came.

I hit the refresh button three more times before finally calling it a night. And when I climbed into bed, I sat staring at the ceiling feeling three things. Numb, heartbroken and disappointed. There was no feeling of being angry that I didn't make it. Just a general overwhelming sense of sadness.

Of course I tried to hide this, from my husband, from my mother who called the next day hoping for good news. I said everything was fine, I would be fine and life was great. Next year would be different.

Next year will be my year.

Still that didn't stop me from going back, questioning my answers. Thinking that perhaps they weren't good enough. That I wasn't good enough.

Perhaps this seems a little extreme after all not making it to the Moms Panel isn't the end of the World. Life will go on, my child will still grow and I will still continue to visit my favorite place on Earth.

But to me, making it on the Moms Panel isn't just about a free trip, or even the pay I won't receive-it is after all a non paid position.-but its the chance to help someone find the happiness, the joy in Disney that I myself have found. Its the chance to make someone else's dreams come true for once. Its the thought that maybe, just maybe this is what I was born to do. Help. Plan. Know that I was apart of making those dreams possible.

It has been almost a week since I found out I wasn't one of the chosen ones. I can't say it doesn't hurt any less for I would be lying if I told you this. But I am trying to look on the bright side, because really that is all I can do at this point. The search will be on again in less than a year, September will be here before I know it. I have a gorgeous son, a husband who finally gets my nutty Disney sense and another year to perfect my Disney love, knowledge and passion for Disney.

So watch out Moms Panel search 2012, here I come.

All She Wants to do is Dance

It all began the fall of 1998.

I came back to my dorm at Longwood (then college, now university) to an empty room. All of my roomates and suitemates had class up until after 5:30. Mine were all done by 11:30. Leaving me the entire afternoon to myself. Believe me, they may have laughed that I got up for those extra early classes. After all, we were no longer required to get up at a certain time so why should we? But I had my reasons.. And two weeks into freshman year they weren't laughing anymore.

When it came to Fridays down in Farmville, there wasn't much to do. So for good reason most got the hell out of there as fast as they could Thursday evenings. Those that did stick around partied until they were drunk, or ended up in other peoples rooms. I was neither a hard core party goer-amazing since I am a huge fan of dancing, nor had I made that many friends yet-Leaving me not just an empty dorm room, but empty hallways as well.

I got the idea one Friday afternoon shortly after arriving to school that I would do a Friday celebration. A kick off the weekend, relieve stress, smile and be happy. That sort of thing and since no one was around, I didn't really care that I made a fool of myself. It started in my room, I would crank up a song, half the time it was whatever we had on Napster or in my CD player at the time-yes Itunes, there was life before you. Cranking it up to volumes unimaginable before standing in the middle of my room and just rock it. When I realized that no one was around it gradually grew from my room to the hallway, for five minutes I would grove up and down the halls.

Of course this would not go unnoticed forever, because while I thought the halls were empty, on occasion I would get caught and found out. I did however not let this stop me, and soon it became known that at noon every Friday I would do my Friday dance around the dorm. Several girls would open their own door and dance along with me in their own way.

What started out as something to celebrate and simple, turned into something elaborate and enjoyable. I am sure if you ask the few that I am still friends with, I had a few memorable dances as well. Everclears Santa Baby comes to mind, along with a nice little ballroom cha cha to Gloria Estefan's Conga.


This tradition would carry on when I returned home, and started a full time job. On Fridays, every Friday I would dance down the halls, usually after most everyone, with the exception of one or two-was gone for the week. Sometimes the dances were simple more like cheers other times it was pure out get down and dance my ass off sort of dance.

And it is now a tradition I have in my current cube, I find a jam, throw on my ipod and for five minutes dance. I shake my hips, do the running man, and lip sync at the top of my lungs.I have yet to be caught doing this in my current group. Not that its going to stop me, embarrass me maybe but stop me, nope.

But I imagine its only a matter of time before I turn around and a crowd is gathered at the entrance to my cube.
Until then.
I will continue to dance, every Friday.
At noon.

A bullied kids life-Part 3

I entered freshman year as most teenagers do.

Moody.

We had just moved to a different school zone, meaning I would not be attending the high school my older sister and all of the few friends I had made would be going to. Believe me at fourteen this was everything. Still I walked into Centreville High School the day after labor day, my combat boots and baby doll dress looking forward to the fresh start. A new school meant, a new opportunity to make friends, to fit in. To not be the girl that got picked on.In order to do so I joined theater, the speech team and because I really wanted a cool jacket, somehow managed to score a spot on the girl's softball team as the manager. And for awhile there I was generally happy with school. Maybe I wasn't popular or that skinny (I was after all a size 12) but at the same time, I had made friends and popularity wasn't all that. And I was known. For whatever you want to label me as I was known.

So one would think, great end of story. A happy one even.
But lets not get carried away. The point of the past few posts have been to bring awareness about bullying. I could sit here and tell you how bullying stopped at the students but I would be lying.

Besides my physical minor disability, I have also been blessed with a learning disability. Mainly in the areas of Math and Science. Therefore as part of the agreement to bring me into mainstream classes, I was to be in self-contained/and mainstreamed classrooms were a LD teacher would be able to assist me. I would also spend a period in resources, where the teacher would be the same as my math teacher. Giving me even more help in the subjects.

Freshman year the school had put me in with a Math teacher/resource teacher named Ms. A.(I will leave her official name out). From the beginning, I didn't mesh well with this woman. I often felt i was being talked down to. And her favorite word was stupid. I can't tell you how many times I sat there trying to figure out a problem, get it wrong as was told how stupid I was.

Yes, you heard. Stupid. It became so frequent that she would ask me, Aleisha do you know what you are?' She would make me say stupid until she was satisfied that she heard correctly. Yes she called me stupid. On a daily basis.

One afternoon as the bell rang, I overheard her and another teacher discuss learning disabled students to one another. It just so happened they were in the ajoining room, and the door was cracked open. I sat in horror as she went on to say

'LD students are dumb and stupid, I don't know why I even bother with them. Someone should just put them in a corner and forget them. They will never amount to anything in the end anyway. Forget about college, most of them won't even finish high school.'

And what I did next, would be the undoing of Aleisha. I decided to confront her. Because no, I was not that stupid, no I was going to amount to something and no she should not be talking about us like that. So I went to her. I should have known it was wrong when she opened the door to the door and in a loud voice verbally bashed me for everything. Telling me how stupid and dumb I was to even think she would care. That I was in the wrong, and that she was right, we weren't. She was yelling so loud that the kids across the way looked at me through their classrooms but like myself, could do nothing but let her give it to me. I left that day thinking I was exactly what she said I was.

Stupid.

After that, and for the next four years she would make my life a living hell. When I was getting a C in math or science she encouraged me to drop out of the after school activities to focus on math and science. She would pull me out of class just to yell at me, and call me stupid and dumb. If I didn't know the answer, she would pull me up in front of the class and announced it to the class that I was. Stupid.

Aleisha you can't do this because you are stupid. You can't do math because you are stupid. And you will amount to nothing in the end. May as well give up now.

When I finally confronted the principal after having enough of it, Ms. A informed the principal that she was only doing this for my well being. And that no harm was coming of this. The principal agreed. She actually freaking agreed!. As soon as the principal was out of ear shot, Ms. A's sent me to dentition after school because I turned her in. And when I went crying off to the theater teachers office-where I spent the rest of the afternoon on his couch in his office-she told me how much of a wimp I was.

Funny, I ended my freshman year with a 3.95 grade average. Apparently not so stupid after all.

My sophomore year was no better, Ms. A had personal made sure I was in her class. And so once again the torment continued. After going to the principal the year before and no results, I couldn't do much except take the abuse Ms. A spat out.

And with each passing day, I felt like crawling more and more to that hole somewhere far away. I must say, if not for softball and speech team. I know I would have turned out a lot differently than I did. And to this day, I credit them in getting me through the Ms. A years.

But when Ms A let the boys get in my face, a staple gun in hand I said no more. I suppose staring at a stapler as the staples shoot out will do that to one. Thankfully I had a different resource teacher and so one afternoon I ended up going to her. Finally someone began to listen. Ms. J began pulling me out of the math classes, testing me. And loo and behold, I actually knew what I was doing. Or with a little help and a different teaching style I did. Of course when Ms. A caught wind of this, it became a war between Ms. J. and Ms. A. Ms. A would pull me out even more of classes, would talk to my other teachers to ensure that she was in control of everything. Often they would send me to her.

But by late spring Ms. J convinced the LD department to remove me from Ms. A's guidance and classes. This of course only after I had complained, and refused to see her anymore. My tears, which I hate to admit I shed on a regular basis when it came to even the mention of Math, and Ms. A seemed to have finally been noticed.

Finally the LD department decided to step in to the matter.

Ms. A, would not get in trouble for her actions because apparently I was the only one who would come forward in the abuse. And while it was recommended that she was to have no contact with me what so ever, truth is, up until the day I graduated she still came to 'see' me.

So bullying, does not just contain students anymore. And its an unfortunate tale to tell, that the very adults who are supposed to be looking out for students, can sometimes be the very ones that encourage and act on it themselves. I am now just over ten years after graduating, but even still Ms. A has had a profound impact in my life. I wish I could say it was for the better but again I would be lying. For her words, continue to plague me to this day.

But I am working on it.

A Bullied Kids life-Part 2

Looking back I don't think I realized I was being bullied, or know when it actually began. Probably because before then, I had never been exposed to such a thing. After all in my previous school/classes I got along with everyone. While they were a lot worse off than I was, when it came down to it all they were all like me. Outcast, misfits and a little slower. But somewhere between the first day of school and Thanksgiving break of my fourth grade I would figure it out. Along with the pain and the inner torture that came with it.

I may not know when it began, but I am pretty sure I know the name of the main contributor. His name was 'Doug'. Doug was your typical elementary kid. He was well liked by most everyone, the teachers included. Boys wanted to be friends with him and girls even in the fourth grade had crushes on him. He was smart enough to get by but athletic enough to know in the long run, his grades wouldn't matter.

He was also the school's counselors son. A fact I soon would not be able to forget.

It started out innocent enough, on the playground. During dodge-ball, when I was always picked last. Then as the game began, I became the target of his aggression. And that red rubber ball the reason for many of my bruises. While it may have been Doug who originally started it all, it soon would catch on and before I knew it half of the class was making fun of me. If it wasn't the name calling it was knocking my clothes, making inappropriate hand signals. It was making fun of my speech, my slight limp. It was picking my last, or first just to make sure I was the joke of the game.

Making friends in elementary school is tough, making friends when they think your name is retard, crippled, dumb girl, ugly, MMR girl damn near impossible. And the few friends I did make, seemed to disappear shortly after they realized being friends with someone who didn't fit the mold everyone else did wasn't exactly popular.

And in elementary school, being popular was everything.

I would like to think I took it all well. For the most part I did what my mom, my therapist suggested and smiled through the pain. Because if you smile, they don't know how much they hurt you. And one should never let them see how they got to you. Which is a lot easier said than actually done. I was thankful for the friends that I did make, no matter how long they decided to stick around.

I also managed to deal with the pain. The names continued, the attacks on the playground during dodge-ball so apparent and so hard that I ended up sitting by myself in the corner in hiding making friendship bracelets until they called us back in.It was better than a thousand bruises anyway.

And in those precious years when everything is key, when making friends is important and feeling wanted is something the only thing I felt was isolated. Small, not worth while to anyone. Its a hard lesson in life, that feeling of not being good enough for anyone. How often did I come home and cry because I just wanted someone, anyone to like me? How often did I just wish for this stupid disability to go away. Even for a day. If I didn't have the disability, then maybe people would like me, kids would stop making fun of me and maybe I would have friends.

I can't remember telling anyone just how lonely I felt during those years. Bringing it to my parents who had two other perfect and normal daughters was hard, I being the middle child didn't want the attention that it was bringing. And yet at the same time in my family I found the only normalcy I would probably ever know.They couldn't offer much, besides love and hope that someday things would get better.

But sometimes that's enough.

I sat there and put up with the name calling and the teasing for the two years of elementary. Admittedly there were some days that were better than others. But isn't that always the way. These days helped me get through the bad. For awhile anyway.

And then came the sixth grade. When I was put back in the same class as 'Doug'. Which wouldn't have been so bad because lets face it, not everyone in the same class your going to like. But did I really have to be seated next to him? Shortly after a school break, we were back in the desks preparing for our lunch, when our teacher announced that we would be leaving we all packed our stuff, and me and all my clumsiness dropped my stuff on the ground. As quickly as I could, I got down and started picking it up, delaying us from our lunch. I suppose every minute we were late meant another minute away from dodge-ball. But I wasn't moving fast enough for Doug who shoved everything in my desk and then exclaimed the words that still to this day haunt me.

'Your such fucking asshole. Could you move any slower retard'

That was all it took, I could no longer hold the tears I had been fighting back for the past three years in. My teacher oblivious to what had transpired asked the group that was seated in my seating group what was going on, and not one of them said a thing. And when I was sent down to the counselors office, I knew that there was no way 'Doug' would be in trouble. Still I sat there explaining my side, they called in the classmates, all of whom denied he said anything and sided with Doug that it was all my imagination taking over again. When I insisted that it wasn't, they called my parents who sat there in the office as Doug's father explained the 'misunderstanding.' and informed them if I was prettier, if I didn't wear braces on my teeth and if my parents could afford name brand clothes, and if I didn't have the disability-as if I chose to have this- none of this would happen.'

Doug never got in trouble and I for the rest of the year continued to get tortured by him...including getting pushed down three flights of stairs at the end of the school day.

Again no one saw, heard or did anything. Including the teachers.

I will admit I was not sad to these years gone...
My teenage years could only get better.
Or would they?

A Bullied kids life-A survivor's story. Part 1

I was nine when I first discovered I wasn't normal. Up until then I had been put into classrooms with kids in wheelchairs operated by their mouths and kids who wore helmets. Kids who acted like they were six rather than their real age of 12. Most of whom drooled and couldn’t pronounce let alone spell their own names. The type of kids that others would make fun of, and adults didn’t know how to handle. So instead, they were separated made to eat their lunches hidden in their classroom. Tucked away from the rest of the bunch. Because they felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Up until then, theses kids weren’t any different than I. Rather they were classmates, and friends. Fellow students.

But at nine, everything changed.

That was the year when the local school county actually began to listen to my parents. Who for years insisted that I didn’t belong in such a group. That I in fact was to advanced for the self contained disability focused classes. My Cerebral Palsy-caused when my mom was bitten by a dog in the stomach while carrying me, causing me to have a prenatal stroke-was only minor. I had full range of everything except my right hand. It had little effect on my mental ability, which was at this point far outshining most of everyone's expectations. While most of the students could barely read and write, I was forming sentences, and paragraphs. I was understanding math and science. And while I was wearing a brace on my leg, the doctors assured my parents it soon would be coming off, now that my walking had caught up to the rest of me.

Finally, during the spring of third grade they began to deliberate. They began to observe. They had meeting after meeting. With teachers, with psychologists, with therapists. All of whom seem to acknowledge that I was farther advanced than most of the children in the classroom. In fact, they were having a hard time keeping up with my learning. As much as they loved having me in the program, I was no longer disabled enough to be in the program. Their resources for me were already quickly evaporating. When all was said and done, it was agreed that in the fall of the following year, I would be transferred from the classroom and the walls I had known for years, and start the fourth grade among the 'normal children.'

I remember it all. Sometimes so vividly still it scares me. Those wonderful feelings I had those days leading up to the first day. How excited I was to step on to the long bus, instead of the short bus I was so used to. To stand with my baby sister, who was a newly first grader and hold her hand at the bus stop. I was, like every other elementary school kid. How I loved walking her to her class room before I made my way into that classroom that had no adaptations to fit certain needs. How I looked at my desk, with my name on it and thought, finally. I am just like everyone else. I would have friends, and slumber parties. And recess without worrying if I was going to hurt 'Cory' who I loved but his helmet made it hard for him to do much of anything at times. Yes I remember it all. How I sat down, pulled out my Rainbow Brite lunch box, and then quickly hiding it under my desk once I realized in the fourth grade everyone switched to paper bags. And as my teacher started his yearly speech I breathed and thought See I am just like everyone else.
Normal.

But like many things, what we think is often very far from what actually is.
And how quickly my joy would soon turn to tears.
And I would learn just how different I really was…

The Waiting Game.

They say its the waiting that's the hard part. And three weeks after I applied for the Moms Panel this year, waiting is exactly what I am doing. Waiting for word, confirmation, or worse a rejection letter. Hoping its the better of the two. But yes, waiting is exactly the name of the game thus far.

I can't say I am being patient. Because every morning, no matter how much I try to not think about it. I wake up thinking, is today going to be the day. Are we going to hear something? I roam message boards, facebook fan pages anything searching for someone that may have the slightest clue to when we will be informed. I relive last years message. Which was sent out mid October. Which means if they stick to the same schedule, we will be hearing next week at some point.

By now I am sure my husband is completely sick of me analyzing, questioning and going over the questions again and again. Even though I know there is nothing more I can. I can't go back and change my answers. I can't second guess myself. And I can't wish I answered them any differently. I am sure he is tired of me hearing about how cool it would be if I made it, it I went to training in December and trying to guess what all entails during the training. I have sent him thousands of links, but none seem to be exactly what I was thinking about.

I am sure he is tired of hearing how ready I am.

And then I sit there and think, I can't and won't set myself up for disappointment. Because lets face it, as much as I want it, I am not guaranteed to get through to the next round. I am up against a lot of good applicants, who feel the same way I do/ Who every day do exactly the same as I do. And I try hard not to think about the rejection yet. Reminding myself that I still have a great chance, and by golly this could just be my year.

But the waiting is killing me. I fill my days with other things in order not to think about it. And I try to avoid looking at my emails in hopes that something magical pops up in that inbox.

Because the moment that I stop. Something will pop in.

And until then, I will just sit here and wait.
Some more.

Single Mom weekend.

I have to give it to the single mothers out there. For there are times when I don't know how you do it.

With my husband busy with the Caps, it was my weekend to play super mom to my son. I got lucky enough to have my sister watch Logan while I went to the game on Friday night, my only oppurtunity to get out this weekend. Turned out I would need it. For bright and early Saturday morning Andy went off back to DC were he would spend the rest of the weekend.

Everything was great up until after nap, when I swear he woke up on the wrong side of the crib. And somehow he went from my sweet baby boy, to the full fledged two year old he is soon to become. Cranky, pitching a fit, not eating everything is mine. He screamed at the top of his lungs for his daddy, who obviously seemed to be able to do so much better at this than I could. And he would not take no for an answer.

When I finally managed to get him calmed down enough, we went off playing, being goofy, reading, watching Mickey Mouse Club house. We colored, we had lunch. Changed another diaper..and when all was said and done, it was time for a nap.

Or so his mommy would think. Logan on the other hand, was not about to miss a moment of the precious day and decided to fight it all the way.

Thankfully, driving him around in my husband's protege seemed to help and while I had to do it, it also seemed a bit ridiculous to do so. Now usually, my husband has been around to help. If I need a moment I am able to step out and take it, the same goes for him. But this solo parenting thing isn't as easy as one would like to think it is.

The nap, short lived as it was seemed to help just a bit and he was home if not a happy camper entirely, at least a little bit in a better mood. And we danced around the living room until daddy would return.

By Saturday night when my husband came in I was ready for the well deserved bath I had waiting for me, knowing that Sunday would be round 2. I would need my rest.

And once again on Sunday, my little boy was not a happy camper. Though not as much as on Saturday but still quite exhausting none the less, we ran, we colored we changed diapers and outfits. We had lunch with my mom, watched some football-yes I know how amazing its football!-we changed another diaper, gave him some snacks.

It was all really exhausting.

Don't get me wrong I love doing this. Its the greatest thing in the world, and dif. the most rewarding. But this was the first time since May that I had been on my own for an entire weekend. No tag team help. No second hand to help with the diapers and the meltdowns.Even Logan seemed to notice that daddy wasn't around. Making him scream for him that much more. I tried to explain daddy was at work, but to a one and a half year old, the whole working on weekends thing, doesn't quite fly over with him. I guess its going to take for all of us to get used to the hockey schedule again. The long weekends when he isn't around. This time though I was more than happy to see he went down without so much as having to put him in the car for a nap.

No one was happier to see my husband that I was when he walked in the door last night. And as he walked over to give our son a hug, and I walked up to the bath once more. I tried to remind myself that several thousands of women, and men do this on a regular basis.

So I had no room to talk.
But I still don't know how they do it.

Fall in Love

So welcome to October. Or rather one of my favorite months of the year. That's right, I said it. And because to many, they will sit back and think, but you hate the cold. And they would be right, because I detest the cold. But lets not forget that October, isn't all that cold. Yet. And while it means the days get shorter, it does present us with some great positives as well.

Which means I know present ten reasons why I love this time of the year. None of which are in any specific order.


1. The gorgeous colors
2. Sweaters and toe socks
3. Hot Chocolate nights
4. The holidays are that much closer.
5. Hockey-its the beginning of another season people. Need I say more.
6. The first fire wood smells.
7. The amazing photo opportunities it calls for.
8. Apple Cider.
9. Finding those perfect boots again.
10. Chilly mornings that make you want to stay in bed.

So while yes I may be in mourning for my long summer days that I so eagerly look forward to. As I put away my shorts, and flip flops, my heart breaks. I know it will be a good long while til I can once again wear them comfortably. Still I can't deny how much I look forward to the wonderful month of October. To the gorgeous season we call autumn, and to the next few months of sweater wearing.

Happy Fall to one and all!