Focus

At a meeting near Ottawa on Friday, we were told by the head of HR not to use the word "focus" in front of the team because it meant something different at their company.

F* off 'cause you're stupid.

Good to know. And particularly interesting coming from HR . . .

Subversive Cross Stitch

I think I just found just the thing to complement our family needlepoint sampler.



Really catches the eye.

Racials Slurs and Expletives in Second Grade

Last night, after watching Serena Williams play in the US Open for a little while, I was putting the kids to bed. Son #1 asked me, "Mama, why do some people call black people the 'N word'?"

Me: Where on earth did you hear that word?

Son #1: Evan called a girl in our class a "F'ing N" last year and got sent to the Principal's office. (Names changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)

Me (shocked, horrified and somewhat speechless): That is not acceptable -- not funny, not to be taken lightly, not to ever come out of your mouth -- do you understand? We need to focus on loving everyone and embracing people's differences.

Son #1: Yeah, that's why I like the kids in my class so much: some are Asian or Indian.

Me: So why, with so many awesome friends, do you hang out with Evan so much?

Son #1: Well, he's really funny. Do you know how we met?

Me: In kindergarten?

Son #1: Yeah, we were supposed to be drawing and he asked me if I wanted him to draw a picture of his private parts. So I said, "yes" but I didn't know what private parts were. A few minutes later, Mrs. Fernandez was taking him to the Principal's office and I looked over to my left and saw his drawing. That's when I figured out what private parts were. When Mrs. Fernandez came back she told us that we're not allowed to draw private parts in school.

(Pause.)

Me: Life is all about the choices you make. You have a choice right now. You can either sink to his level if you keep hanging out with him or you can raise him up and let him know that there's a better world out there that doesn't include using bad words and drawing inappropriate pictures.

Son #1: We've already talked about that. We now have an agreement that he won't swear around me any more.

Me: Whoa. I'm impressed that you've already had that conversation!

Son #1: I had to. He got sent to the Principal's office every day last year for swearing and I thought maybe he should stop.

I felt like I had been sucker punched. I am sooooooooo glad that, for the first time in three years, these kids are finally in different classrooms. And, no, he can never sleep over at that kid's house even though he keeps asking. Never. Do his parents think this crap is funny? Are they saying these things, too, or just resigned to it after raising older boys? I have no idea.

You are known by the company you keep. And life is governed by the choices we make. How do you really teach that to a kid entering third grade?

Son of a Gun

During the sermon this past weekend, our pastor was recounting the scene in Dead Man Walking when Sister Helen Prejean (Susan Sarandon) tells the convicted murderer/rapist (Sean Penn) whom she was counseling spiritually, "You are a son of God" and he responds with a bit of a laugh, "I've been called a son of a you-know-what plenty of times, but I've never been called a son of God."

Son #1, who just turned eight, turned to me and whispered, "I bet he's been called a son of a bitch."

Hmmm. Well, at least he was listening.

Why? Cuss we like you!

Apparently, this is 91% less than other websites who took this test (read: derelict expletive-laden filth mongers).

However, if I'm aiming for Six Sigma defect standards, I have some gosh darn diddly arn work to do.

Created by OnePlusYou.

Same as it ever was . . .

I just took the online "Sleep Profile Quiz" from Ambien CR. I scored a 3 out of 10 which means that, according to them, I don't have a sleeping problem. I guess I need to have had a major life crisis recently and be supplementing my sleep already with melatonin in order to qualify. Just the sheer fact that I can no longer fall asleep or stay asleep, night after night, isn't enough.

It's a vicious cycle. I can't sleep and I lie in bed worrying about work. But when I get to work, I can barely think because I'm working on no sleep. So I can't get enough done. Then I go to bed, even more freaked out than the night before . . .

All of this is turning me into an evil bitch. Last week, as I was driving to work I passed some women in my neighborhood who were out jogging together. I said aloud (in my car, of course), "Fuck you." And then I said it about a hundred times more over the next couple of days. When the street light would turn red right in front of me. When someone would cut me off. Whatever the minor infraction, it didn't matter. I was feeling really let down by the universe. Why do I have to work my ass off for years and years with nothing to show for it? What's the f*ing point? What would happen if I just drove off a cliff today?

"And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house. And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife."

In the midst of this maniacal behavior, my oldest brother sent me another research study pointing to how liberals are less satisfied than conservatives -- not because of rising inequality (which is often erroneously blamed) -- but rather because they do not see the opportunity at hand as clearly as their happy-go-lucky, conservative friends. I realized that my definition of the "haves vs. have nots" in my community is what's making me miserable specifically in light of my personal lack of upward mobility.

I leave for work before my neighbors and come home later. Yet, my house is in disarray and I have little to no money put aside for my retirement and my kids' education. I am jealous that one good friend's major stress in life involves a new puppy. As much as I know she's really frantic, I think, "How hard can it f*ing be?" and then I feel guilty for minimizing her angst. I am jealous that another friend's husband is uber-successful and whisking her off to London at a moment's notice. As a stay-at-home mom with beautifully manicured fingernails and no time at all to call me and check in to see how I'm doing, my jealously is compounded. Then I think, what kind of so-called friend am I that I cannot be happy for her? The truth is, I am happy for her. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is a horrible place to live.

Then I hear about a couple who lost their eight-year-old son in a bicycle accident years ago and I count my blessings. I hear about a woman roughly my age who was born with hydrocephalus, who cannot see, sit up, speak, use her arms/legs, etc. yet has been lovingly taken care of for years to ensure her life is not further compromised. And I know, I know, I know that I have a fabulous life. I don't live in Darfur, I have never been a victim of genocide, I have perfect health (when I'm sleeping well), I have two gorgeous, loving sons. What the f* is wrong with me?

So, instead of praying for greater mobility, a new job, more money, a rich husband (sorry hon) and a cleaning lady, I need to begin praying in earnest for non-attachment. I need to be okay with who I am, right here and right now: a latent Buddhist apparently. Or an expletive-laden Christian. I'm just glad that God provides compassion and forgiveness. If this f* you phase continues much longer, I'm going to need 'em.

Kids Say The Darndest Things: Part 1

I've never kept a scrapbook or baby book for my kids. We just have heaps of pictures on the computer and in drawers or boxes throughout the house. And there are a million things I have wanted to capture but never did. But here's the first from my memory bank with more to come.

When Son #1, our oldest who is now seven, was in preschool, he went upstairs one afternoon and it was suspiciously quiet for a bit too long. When I went to check on him, he was lying in bed looking at one of his toys. "What's the matter Scootchie?" He responded, "My plane is broken. And I don't know what the h*ll is wrong with it." I gasped. He looked shocked. "Is that a bad word?" I assured him it was and he apologized. After a minute of silence, he then asked, "I don't know what the f*ck is wrong with it?" They don't teach this in Parenting 101 but I burst out in laughter. "Dude, that's worse!" I haven't heard him swear since.