Not Quite Woodstock

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a setting and an object. From that point, you are given 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were comedy, a silo and waterslide.

Not Quite Woodstock

Let’s get the dirty details out in the open from the start. My name is Hibiscus-Fairylight Nowakowski and I live in a barn. As much as I wish I were kidding, this is the running joke known as my life.

Perhaps I could be more accepting of this Bohemian name if my parents were children of Woodstock; if they’d been forever changed by the love, drugs and music that emerged from that small New York town in 1969. I’d even understand if they lived in the Haigh-Ashbury part San Francisco during the hippie movement.

The problem is, my parents were born in 1972 in rural Kansas. They’ve never even been to California or New York. For some reason, they always felt slighted that they missed out on the generation of “make love not war” and by saddling me with this grain-fed, organic name, they could somehow capture a piece of the past. Rather than people looking at me like I know the secret to total tranquility, they look at me like I have three heads while I try to explain my name.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You forgot the hyphen. It is all one name.”

“No, the hyphen is between Hibiscus and Fairylight, not Fairylight and Nowakowski.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It is my name!”

“N-o-w-a-k-o-w-s-k-i.”

Don’t get me wrong, despite these peculiar details, my life is boringly non-remarkable. The barn we live in was converted on my great grandparent’s old farm and my Nana and Poppy live next door in the farmhouse. My dad works in construction and my mother is a nurse. They were high school sweethearts; a real Jack and Diane love story. It is all so disgustingly romantic. Kind of makes me want to barf.

My favorite place on the property is the abandoned grain silo. What once housed crops now plays host to my art studio, my reading hammock and has been transformed into something resembling the Church of Hibiscus-Fairylight. I have yet to find any parishioners, though, other than my fat cat, Jerry.

It was this unwavering love for my sacred silo that made it so hard to stay away from it the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday. I had no idea what my parents had planned, but whatever it was required me to move out anything I might classify as “good” and stay away for an entire seven days. While part of me was excited, I also worried that this meant there was no new car in my future. I mean, isn’t that what every 16-year-old wants?

A day before my birthday, my parents blindfolded me and led me away from the house.

“Isn’t there some quote about never letting a hippie take you to a second location,” I joked with them. “With all of this build up, there better be a car waiting for me.”

“Very cute,” my mother retorted dryly.

I could hear the sound of running water, peaking my curiosity. When at last they removed my blindfold, a water slide stood in front of me, the top of it three-stories high, emerging from an opening in the silo, emptying into our pool below. It was amazing and more than I could have ever imagined.

“No way. No way,” I stammered.

“Try it out,” my dad invited.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I darted up the stairs and climbed on. I sat for a minute admiring my dad’s work. I always knew he was talented, but this was truly some next level shit.

The ride down was fast, fun and nearly flawless. With about four feet left, my thighs rubbed against the fiberglass, slowing my final approach and delaying my splash. Always quick with an answer, my dad returned with a large bottle of hand soap.

Climbing the stairs, my dad explained, “We can add a bit of soap and really get it going.”

Of course he was right. We stayed out there for nearly an hour enjoying my dad’s handiwork before going in for lunch. What came next we may never really know, but we all have a theory. Mine involves a fat and curious cat.

As we ate our grilled cheese, Jerry came to the back door, meowing loudly. I went to let him in, only to discover he was covered in big, fluffy suds.

“Holy, Jerry Garcia,” I managed, looking at my parents curiously before the clarity of understanding swept over me.

I sprinted to the silo, Mom and Dad right behind me, only to find white fluff emerging from every opening. Soapsuds spilled out, coating the ground all around. As it melted into the surrounding dirt, a big muddy mess was left behind. I know I shouldn’t have laughed after all of my dad’s hard work, but it was a sight to see.

The best I can figure is Jerry some how knocked the connecting hose loose, which combined with the uncovered soap, leaving a messy sea of suds. As my dad sprinted through to get to the water valve, he slipped, leaving him coated in a combination of sticky brown mud and crisp white bubbles.

My mom stood there laughing, tears of disbelief running down her cheeks.

“Find something funny?” my dad asked her, throwing some mud in her direction.

Before I knew what was happening, the three of us were slipping, sliding, laughing, crying and creating shenanigans. Jerry sat there, watching all of us as though he had never seen anything quite like us.

As we cleaned up the disaster left behind that evening, I looked over at my parents. My dad with a push broom, my mom, rag in hand, both mud coated from head to toe.

“Guess that car is sounding pretty good right now, huh, guys?”

85% Lean Meat

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a setting and an object. From that point, you are given 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were horror, a supermarket and an earring.

85% Lean Meat

Tracy pulled her red Jeep Renegade into the parking lot of Save-a-Lot. The myriad of reasons to avoid shopping here was considerably longer than her grocery list, however convenience ruled.

“Mom,” whined Jocelyn from the back seat. “Why are we here? I wanna go home.”

After five hours at the baseball field watching her son, Tracy concurred with her daughter, however her husband invited the team over for a cookout, leaving Tracy to feed twenty-five people on short notice.

“I know, Peanut. We won’t be long. We need hot dogs, burgers, cheese, a watermelon and some chips. In and out,” Tracy apologized to her exhausted 6-year-old.

She grabbed the red handle of a rusty cart, the front wheel squeaking unbearably. She abandoned it for a second, but found it wasn’t much better.

This confirmed what Tracy already knew - this place was a shit hole. That was perhaps the least weighted reason she avoided shopping here: the heaviest being their odd and ominous neighbor, Rob, who worked as a butcher. Ever since he moved next door two years prior, he’d given Tracy an uneasy feeling. Her husband told her it was all in her head, but a woman’s intuition shouldn’t be ignored.

It was this gut feeling that led Tracy to call the police when another neighbor’s beagle had been found dead in an alley, sliced tail to throat, flies covering its exposed and bloody innards. As she lay in bed at night, Tracy could still hear her son’s screams upon finding the animal, still smell the bitter stench of rotting corpse and could still see the animal’s gray tongue, hanging to the side, its tip missing and a puddle of thick, crimson blood pooled on the pavement below.

The officers paid a visit to the house next door, but nothing came of it. Since that day six months ago, Rob had barked a sharp, short bark each time Tracy saw him. Despite her efforts to ignore him, it turned her stomach every time.

Tracy headed to the deli counter when she heard one of these canine calls. She looked over to see Rob grinning from behind the meat counter.

“Let’s go, Jocelyn,” Tracy commanded, ushering her daughter along.

The line at the deli counter was already five deep, and three more shoppers quickly fell into place behind the mother and daughter duo.

“Mom, I have to pee. I can’t hold it,” exclaimed Jocelyn, loud enough for the other shoppers to glare at Tracy, expectantly awaiting her reply.

Tracy looked nervously at her watch and then at the restroom door 35 yards away. The team should be pulling up to the house about now and her cart was still empty.

“That’s the door right there. Into the bathroom and right back to me.”

Tracy watched carefully with the eyes of a mother hawk. Jocelyn entered the bathroom and the green sign switched red, signaling occupied.

The line crept forward. Tracy glanced nervously around to see if a second employee was nearby to offer relief, but saw none. She shot her eyes quickly back to the bathroom door. Still occupied.

Her eyes wandered to the meat counter. Rob was no longer standing there, replaced by an Opie-looking young man.

Eyes back to the bathroom.

Eyes to her watch.

Eyes back to the bathroom.

Eyes to the man behind the deli counter.

Eyes back to the bathroom.

“Next! What can I get for you?”

Tracy looked startled, as if she hadn’t been standing here for seven minutes waiting for this exact question.

“One pound of yellow American, please.”

Tracy perused the display, her eyes landing on some pepper jack cheese.

“Also, a quarter pound of the pepper jack,” Tracy added.

She glanced back at the bathroom door. Still closed. Something in her brain flashed warning as she looked, but Tracy quickly dismissed it, distracted by the two plastic bundles being passed to her.

She threw the cheese in her cart and walked to the bathroom. As she approach she realized what was wrong. The sign was green. It showed vacant.

Tracy deserted the wheeled rust bucket and bolted for the door. Throwing it open, she stood frozen. The sounds of the store were drowned out by the deafening waves within her head; panic crashing along the barrier of a mother’s greatest fear.

Jocelyn was gone.

On the sink lay one of her daughter’s gold pineapple earrings. Two drops of blood had run down the side of the white porcelain basin, like two tears down the face of a mourning mother.

“Jocelyn! Tracy screamed repeatedly, darting up and down aisles, expecting to see her around each corner. Instead she ran into a man wearing a dirty dress shirt and unmatched tie.

“Ma’am, is there something wrong?” the manager asked, as though her shouts weren’t an obvious answer.

“My daughter. I can’t find my daughter. She was in the bathroom. Blood,” Tracy rambled before falling to her knees.

The front door was locked and a voice echoed from the P.A. system, announcing the missing child. Jean shorts. Red t-shirt. Blonde braids in her hair.

“Jocelyn, when you hear this, please make your way to the closest Save-a-Lot employee,” said the detached voice.

Despite an offer to sit in the back office, Tracy walked, dream-like, up and down the rows of macaroni and cheese, mandarin oranges and cereal. She weaved in and out of displays of picked over corn-on-the-cob, browned bananas and five-pound bags of potatoes.

The meat counter stood unmanned. From the darkness in the back room, another distinct bark rang followed by hysterical, uncontrolled laughing. Tracy turned her head toward the sound, only to catch a glimpse of something shiny from within the case.

There, exposed among the fresh, bloody, coarse ground meat, a single pineapple earring protruded - its match still clutched in Tracy’s hand. She fell to the ground as two evil eyes glared through the doorway.

The world went black.

Keep Your Enemies Closer

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and a subject. Then we had 72 hours to write no more than 2,000 words. Here is my story with the prompts, suspense, a tutor and a funeral.

Keep Your Enemies Closer

Rachel’s phone chirped, waking her. It chirped again before she could grab it off of the nearby nightstand. A litany of texts filled her screen.

I had fun last night. Sorry if I come on too much.

I hope you’re not upset with me.

I would do anything for you to be happy.

Our relationship means the world to me.

Rachel sat straight up, mouth open in disbelief. Their relationship? She had gone out with Paul the night before and intended on it being a one and done situation.

The date was more an act of mercy than an attempt at romance. Rachel taught ESL at the community college continuing education department, and Paul was a student who needed a lot of attention. She had begun tutoring him in addition to the Tuesday and Thursday classes, and he had been asking her out incessantly since. She told him she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend but they could hang out on strictly platonic terms.

That was one of Rachel’s personality flaws. She struggled to tell people no. Her overt people-pleasing tendencies had deep roots in her absent mother and narcissistic father; revelations reached after many years and many dollars had been poured into therapists and bottles of wine. The lack of parental love had resulted in a lifetime of striving to gain acceptance from everyone, and yet she had no close friends to speak of despite it, or perhaps because of it. Whether it was nature or nurture, she was a bit of a social pariah.

She started to type a response when the phone rang. Her thumb landed on the screen where the next letter of her eloquent version of “get lost” would have been, but inadvertently hit the answer icon instead.

“Hi, Paul,” she said.

“Rachel, please listen. I am sorry if I upset you. You not answering my texts,” Paul stammered.

“Sorry. I just woke up.”

“I need to talk to you about last night. It import-,”

“The other line is beeping,” Rachel interrupted. “I will see you at class Tuesday.”

Rachel took a deep breath as she clicked over to the incoming call.

“Hello,” Rachel answered, more of a question than a statement.

“Good morning. Is this Rachel Jacobson?” the serious male voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Detective Gibbons from the Columbus Police Department. We’d like you to come in to discuss your father.”

“What is it? Is he hurt?” Rachel pushed.

The rest of the conversation she heard in pieces. The police suspected a robbery gone wrong; furniture flipped; a slashed painting; a bloodied letter opener on the desk; stab wound to his throat; her father, dead.

Rachel declined the offer of an officer escorting her to the precinct. She welcomed the opportunity to process what she had been told without the watchful eye of anyone. Her relationship with her dad was complicated, and her reaction may have seemed odd to outsiders.

She jumped in the shower, taking time to collect herself. Rachel faced the showerhead, letting the strong stream of scalding water dance off of her skin. She could feel her skin reddening from the heat, but didn’t care. It was as if her bathroom had become a sacred hot spring, washing away 32 years of being Eric Jacobson’s daughter.

She towel dried off and looked at her phone: four missed calls and voicemails from Paul. She didn’t know how she could be any clearer than she already had. When he tried to kiss her last night, she’d turned away.

Just friends, she had reminded him, using the word friends loosely.

She requested an Uber before throwing her phone into her bag, not even listening to his messages. She had neither the time nor the energy to deal with his advances right now.

She dressed, skipping the makeup, letting her raw, red face be the outward expression of her internal angst. She headed to the front door of the apartment complex, but as she reached the entryway, a hand grabbed her.

“Rachel,” Paul whispered, almost hissed, as he pulled her towards him. “I need to talk at you. Why are you avoiding me?”

“Dammit, Paul! You are hurting me. Let go!” Rachel demanded. “I’m headed to the police station. It’s about my dad. My ride will be here any minute.”

“I need to talk to you about when I drop you off,” Paul said.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, but you’re really starting to scare me. I don’t want to have to tell the police that you’re stalking me, but you’re forcing my hand,” Rachel told him, as she pulled free and opened the front door.

“Trust me. Don’t tell police anything,” Paul yelled as Rachel got into the car. “I mean it! Don’t tell them anything!”

It was nearly dream-like at the station. There were pictures and questions. They wanted to know if she had any other family they should contact. (No, she was it. No friends either.) Did she know if he kept any large amounts of money in the house? (She didn’t know.) Where was she the night before? (A standard question, they assured her.)

Rachel told them about her date, she was sure they could confirm it. It was a busy restaurant, an early movie; she was home by 10:00 and was streaming Santa Clarita Diet on Netflix the rest of the night.

These types of questions went on for nearly an hour, interspersed with coffee, too hot and too strong. She would have to make an ID on the body but the medical examiner needed a little more time before the body could be released.

“Rachel, we are all sorry for your loss,” Detective Gibbons told her as they walked to a squad car. “If you think of anything else, please let us know.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replied.

She sat quietly in the police car. She would have preferred getting back on her own, but was afraid Paul would be waiting for her. She hoped the cruiser would deter him.

“Would you mind walking me in?” Rachel asked.

“No problem,” the young officer assured her.

Rachel opened the front door to the complex, her eyes darting around quickly, making certain Paul wasn’t lying in wait. She jumped slightly as the heavy door clicked into place behind her. They took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors opened. The entire floor was empty other than the lingering smell of curry from a neighbor’s late lunch.

Rachel put her key into the lock of apartment 425 and looked over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m good,” she told the officer.

Rachel’s trepidation was a stark contrast to the peaceful silence of her apartment. Her racing heartbeat was the background music as she went from room to room, corner to corner, checking for Paul. More and more she was convinced he knew something about her father’s murder, but was uncertain what or how much.

Rachel headed into the living room to call the funeral home. Her father wanted to be cremated and in the mausoleum with his parents. With no other family and no real friends, Rachel didn’t think a big service was appropriate or necessary, just a small memorial at the cemetery’s chapel.

Consumed in her planning, Rachel missed the envelope just inside the door. She was hanging up with the funeral home when she saw it.

Rachel, if you would only listen to me, we talk about your dad. I hope you not tell the police anything. I just want you to be happy. I want to be the new man in your life.

Be the new man in her life? She yelped, startled, as her phone rang, slicing the cold silence surrounding her.

“It’s Catherine,” Rachel’s supervisor at the college said. “We just heard. I’m so sorry. I saw the break-in on the news but had no idea. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I. Um. I won’t be in this week,” she stammered.

“Of course, sweetie. You take all the time you need,” said Catherine before ending their call.

It was all too much - all of it. Rachel felt drained. She closed her eyes and slept, a deep and dreamless sleep, all the way through till Sunday. Sunday and Monday were blessedly quiet. No Paul and only one phone call from Detective Gibbons. She called the funeral home and confirmed the service for Tuesday and called the florist to arrange a large spray of flowers.

Rachel thought about the information the police had. She thought about Paul and what he knew. She worried for her own safety. Could she walk away from this unscathed?

Mostly she thought about her dad, trying to conjure good memories from her childhood, but it was the fights and disappointments on the forefront of her consciousness. They had fought just last week about his disgust at Rachel working as a teacher and tutor. He didn’t spend all of that money on college for her to have such a demeaning job. She had never been good enough in his eyes. She was an unwanted child saddled with a perpetually miserable father, and now in his passing, found herself the sole proprietor of the pain, past and present.

Tuesday morning rolled in, the heavy, gray sky matched Rachel’s mood. She arrived at the chapel just as the minister and funeral director emerged from an unmarked door.

“I’m Eric’s daughter,” explained Rachel. “We spoke on the phone. I doubt anyone else is coming. We can start whenever you are ready.”

As if on cue, the door opened, bringing in three men Rachel recognized from her dad’s time at Price & Parker Marketing, followed by Catherine and, to Rachel’s dismay, Paul.

He walked over to Rachel and hugged her, whispering in her ear, “I want you to know I never want you get hurt. I take care of everything.”

Without saying a word Rachel took her seat. Paul sat down next to her. The door opened one last time, ushering in Detective Gibbons. Rachel stirred uneasily as the minister began. Paul set his hand atop of Rachel’s. She sat, frozen.

When the service ended, Catherine and the others approached Rachel with hugs, handshakes and generic phrases of concern and condolence. Detective Gibbons was the last one. After he left Rachel looked around. Where was Paul?

Rachel walked down the narrow hallway to the restrooms. She started into the ladies room when Paul suddenly appeared behind her, pushing his way in with her.

He locked the door.

“Paul, stop,” Rachel began, but he put his hand over her mouth, cutting her off.

“No, you stop. You listen to me. I just want to love you. I want to help you, but you not listen to me,” Paul commanded. “Why you make me do this?”

Paul reached into his pocket; silver flashing as he pulled something out. Rachel twisted free of him, tripping as she tried to distance herself.

“After I try to kiss you goodnight Friday, I sit in my car trying to know what I did wrong. I saw you leave from the side door and get in a taxi. I follow you. I saw you in the window. I saw you fight. I saw you kill him,” Paul revealed.

The color drained from Rachel’s face. Paul knew. Her secret wasn’t a secret after all.

He held his silver flip phone in his hand, showing a grainy picture of her walking away from her father’s house.

“I can explain,” Rachel began. “He wasn’t a good dad or even a good guy. He left me a voicemail Friday saying he was ashamed of me for doing so little with my life and was taking me out of his will. I snapped.”

“I no tell anyone,” said Paul, taking Rachel’s hand and leading her out of the bathroom. “We be friends now, yes?”

Rachel’s hand relaxed in his, conceding.

“Yes,” Rachel sighed. “Yes, we be friends.

Be Their Axis

Remember when you were a kid and the school playground had those carousels that you would sit on and see how fast you could go before you couldn't take it anymore? The best was when somebody had a parent or older sibling there to spin it and make it go faster than any 9-year-old could muster.

The trick to not getting dizzy was to focus on the spot in the middle of the toy. By focusing on the axis instead of the world blurred by speed around you, you didn't fall victim to the chaos.

Fast forward 35 years.

As you pour the kids their cereal before school, little Suzy is asking why she can't have a cell phone. All of the other 4th graders have one. Little Greg is still mad that you didn't let him stay up till 11 last night to watch all of WWE, insisting that all of the other kids in his class are allowed to stay up late and watch the whole thing. Why are you so mean? How did they end up with the meanest mom in the world?

As a parent, it is no fun having to tell your kids no. It sucks having to be the bad guy. But you know what is even worse? Raising little children with no boundaries that grow into big children with no boundaries that grow into adults that don't know how to make the right choices. Right now the argument may be about bedtime, which isn't a matter of life and death, but as kids grow, so does the gravity of the choices and situations they face.

In a few years, it isn't going to be WWE little Greg wants, it will be an unsupervised party at a classmate's house. Little Suzy won't be asking about a cell phone, she is asking about a nose ring. And you will say no. You will be that axis that keeps them steady when the world is spinning around them.

I was raised by strict parents. I always had a curfew. I had to quit cross country in 8th grade when my grades slipped. I was always held accountable. When I went away to college, my mom called me one day. She was upset. Somebody had told her I was doing drugs and acting recklessly. (It was a scorned ex-boyfriend trying to trick my parents into making me come home.) I told my mom that she spent 18 years teaching me right from wrong. Two months at college hadn't erased that.

I was steady because they had always been.

Now I have five kids, and man, I see how fast that carousel is going that they are on. I see it in a way I couldn't when I was the one riding. I see the stress, I see the peer pressure, I see the choices they have. I have to be a mean mom quite often, and that is ok. Childhood goes by so quickly, and what we do now as parents sets them up for how they live the rest of their lives. Sometimes it will hurt us more than them when we have to tell them no, but we tell them no anyway, because we are that unwavering center.

We make the tough decisions because we love them.

It is us - the moms, the dads, the grandparents - that are the solid, steady, constant axis on their short and fast spin around childhood.

Cruising Altitude - NYC Midnight 2017 Short Story Challenge

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and a subject. Then we had a week to write no more than 2500 words. Here is my story with the prompts, Romantic-Comedy, a childhood crush and a blood test.

Cruising Altitude

The seatbelt sign illuminated as Matt drained the remainder of his bloody mary; which at this point was mostly vodka, settled at the bottom of the cheap, airline cup. The drink was meant to settle his nerves, but his mind was racing even more now than when Megan first called asking if he could come visit for a few days.

Megan calling was unusual. Anything other than a group text was out of the ordinary – although very much welcomed. She hadn’t wanted the group included this time, however, just Matt, and Matt was happy to comply. After the initial call three days ago, they hadn’t talked again. He had texted the details of his flight and she responded that she would meet him at the airport, leaving him clueless and curious as to why she needed the last minute visit.

Their history together was nearly as old as they were. Growing up it was rare that you saw Matt or Megan without Greg, Brian and Caitlyn. They were as close as siblings, and while distance kept them from meeting daily, it hadn’t weakened their bond. Greg and Brian were twins, and Greg and Caitlyn had been married for 3 years. Neither of these intimate unions, though, had made the group bond any less special. Theirs was a posse positively impenetrable by time, distance or the sometimes-burdensome realities of adulthood. Only Brian and Matt still lived in their hometown outside of Chicago. Greg and Caitlyn had moved to Charlotte and Megan lived in Latrobe, Pennsylvania where she was finishing her doctorate while working as a bartender.

Matt was so consumed by his thoughts he hadn’t realized the plane was touching down until they hit the runway. In his surprise he let out a little, but loud, grunt, causing the miserable looking 60-something cat lady next to him to shoot him a dirty look.

“How am I the crazy one? She’s covered in cat fur and smells awful,” he thought. “I wonder what that scent is, eau de kitty litter?”

He chuckled to himself, and again got the death stare from Grandma Feline. He mumbled a half apology and she glanced accusingly at the empty cup in his hand.

“Oh no. I’m not…,” he started to explain, blushing slightly, but she had already pulled out her bag, uninterested.

He grabbed his carry-on from the overhead and exited the plane, proceeding to the baggage claim of the small airport where they had arranged to meet. He instantly spotted a silver Nissan matching the description of Megan’s new ride. Opening the rear passenger door he tossed his overstuffed backpack inside.

“It’s about damn time! Where have you been?” Matt joked as he opened her door, leaning in for a hug.

“What the hell?” yelled the heavy-set man behind the wheel. “You better get your ass away from my car!”

Again flushed and apologizing, Matt grabbed his bag and scurried to a nearby bench. He powered on his phone and immediately a text from Megan popped onto the glowing screen.

“Sorry. Stuck at the bar. Mind grabbing an Uber?”

His heart sank.

The thought of having to wait another 30 minutes was as torturous as a Novocain-free tooth-extraction. Then again, his unrequited love the past 27 years was even more torturous, and he’d survived that. Perhaps unrequited wasn’t the most accurate description. She had been his first kiss, after all, playing Spin-the-Bottle in Caitlyn’s basement. They’d also been each other’s prom date after Matt’s girlfriend dumped him a week before the dance and Megan’s date had come down with chickenpox. While dancing to Lady in Red he had attempted to give her a kiss, which landed on her cheek, leaving him the one in red as his cheeks burned crimson.

He opened the Uber app and requested a ride. Forty minutes later he was walking into the pub. She didn’t see him come in, and for almost a full minute he watched her with no filter. Her chestnut brown hair sat in a messy bun on top of her head, a few pieces dangling in front of her mahogany eyes. She moved methodically behind the bar as though it were a well-rehearsed dance, knowing exactly where to place her feet and smiling to a song only she could hear.

Watching her, Matt thought she must be the most beautiful woman in the world, and whether or not he got the happily-ever-after he wanted, he knew without a doubt that his life was better because he could call her friend.

“Matty!” she screamed when her eyes landed on him.

Megan ran out from behind the bar and threw her arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport. Let me get you a drink. I should be out of here in fifteen.”

She slipped behind the bar and poured him a beer - the ease of their friendship evident by not even asking what he drank. As she set it down, he couldn’t help but notice the uncharacteristic circles under her eyes.

“You ok? You look tired,” Matt asked.

She shot him a dirty look. “Geez. Thanks!”

“You idiot,” Matt thought to himself.

He sat quietly, watching her as he slowly sipped the cold draft. After a few minutes another woman arrived behind the bar. Megan smiled at Matt, letting him know she was done.

“Let’s get out of here. This is my first weekend off in a while,” Megan explained as they headed for the door.

“It’s only 2:30. What should we do for the rest of the day?” Matt asked.

“Actually, I have an appointment at 3:00. I’ll explain on the way.”

Megan’s red brick townhouse was only a block from the pub. She took Matt’s bag and tossed it in the front door before locking up. Matt, meanwhile, had started down the driveway to admire Megan’s new car.

“Very nice,” he said. “Much nicer than the random one I got into at the airport.”

“You did what!” Megan exclaimed. “Oh, I need details!”

Matt had a reputation of being a klutz. He didn’t try to make people laugh, but his instinctive inelegance outshined his introvert tendencies. He gave her the rundown of his embarrassing blunder, while leaving out the butterflies in his stomach and the disappointment of her text.

“If you weren’t such a stickler for the rules, you would have had your phone on before the plane was even at the gate,” Megan laughed.

“Hey, nobody was complaining about this ‘stickler’ all the times I volunteered to be DD so you guys could drink,” he defended.

“You just didn’t want us to see how terribly you handle your alcohol,” she quipped back.

It was true. Matt was useless after his fifth drink; as demonstrated the night of his 21st birthday when he threw-up in their taxi and passed out in Greg’s apartment entryway - a moment Greg and Brian brought up continually.

Though Megan liked to mock him, she didn’t torment him the way the twin terrors did, and she let it go at that.

“I hate to kill this amazing tease-Matt-vibe we have going, but there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s why I asked you to come out this weekend,” she confided.

The light turned green and she turned left into a small parking, put the car in park and suddenly began to cry.

“Oh, shit! Megs! Are you ok? What’s going on?” he stammered.

He gently took her face in his hand and turned it towards his own. He softly wiped away her tears and she attempted a half smile.

“I’ll wipe your tears, but you’re on your own with that snot,” he joked, trying to bring back the lighter mood.

“You ass,” she laughed as he handed her a napkin that was on the center console.

“I had to have some tests done last week. I’ve been having some weird symptoms – headaches, tired all the time. They did some blood work and I may need more testing. I made the mistake of turning to Dr. Google to self-diagnose and I have myself all freaked out now,” she trailed off. “I didn’t want to make my parents worry. Not yet, at least. And with Caitlyn and Greg expecting the baby, I didn’t want to add any stress by asking Cait to come.”

“Expecting a what?” Matt exclaimed.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. They were going to tell you next week when they came to Chicago. Surprise!”

Matt was speechless. A lot of information had just been passed and he was trying to process the combination of the immense joy of a baby and the terrifying possibility of Megan being sick.

“Don’t you know Google should only be used to figure out how to correctly spell words like emoluments or to find the cutest kitten videos? Why don’t you let me drive,” he finally offered. “You relax.”

“We’re here, genius,” she responded.

They walked through the dull beige hallways and entered a plain, non-descript office. Matt couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t make these offices more aesthetically appealing. Were they afraid hanging a Van Gough poster might forever mar clear, starry nights for the patients?

They had barely sat down when a nurse wearing SpongeBob SquarePants scrubs called her back. “Please have a seat,” said Nurse Nickelodeon. “Dr. Cohen will be right with you.”

“It’s going to be fine. I promise,” Matt assured her.

“How can you be certain?” Megan pressed.

“I wore my lucky underwear. Want to see?”

He stood up and started to undo his belt. Just then the door opened and a short, balding man entered.

“I was going to go over your test results, but I can come back if I’m interrupting,” said Dr. Cohen.

Matt burned a darker shade of red than he’d ever previously mustered.

“Please excuse my friend. He was only showing off his underwear,” Megan offered with a chuckle.

“An exhibitionist, huh? I can give you the name of a great psychiatrist before we go over these results,” Dr. Cohen jested, enjoying a jovial mood uncommon in his office. “But seriously, down to business. I’ve reviewed your tests and the only thing we could find is low iron. I would like you to fill this prescription for a daily supplement.”

“I don’t understand,” Megan managed after several moments of silence. “What about the headaches and when I got so dizzy at work that I almost passed out? Are you sure all I need is an iron supplement?”

“Well, I suggest a stool softener as well. Adding iron may leave you a little constipated.”

“Constipation is ok! We’ll take constipation,” Matt exclaimed, jumping enthusiastically out of his chair, shaking the doctor’s hand.

Matt’s jubilation was contagious, leading Megan and Dr. Cohen both to laugh at his overly fervent reaction to blocked bowels.

“I’d like you to call in a month and let us know how you’re feeling and then follow up with another blood draw in two months. Other than that, you are an extremely healthy 32-year-old,” said Dr. Cohen.

That night Matt and Megan went out to dinner to celebrate. After dinner the weekend flew by - Saturday brunch with some of Megan’s friends from the university, the new Ryan Reynolds’ movie (Megan’s celebrity crush), losing track of the time as they shopped in a used bookstore, falling asleep on the couch side-by-side watching Saturday Night Live.

Every time Matt wanted to tell her how he felt, it seemed wrong. She seemed so vulnerable in light of what had happened, and he was afraid telling her how deep his feelings ran would come across desperate, or inappropriate.

It was noon on Sunday when they pulled up to Arnold Palmer Airport. His backpack was stuffed with his weekend essentials and his new Stephen King book was at his feet.

“I’m glad I was able to be here for you. I’m even happier that everything was ok,” said Matt.

“I’m sorry I made you come all this way for nothing,” she replied. “I feel ridiculously stupid.”

He knew this was his final chance to tell her how he felt. If he didn’t do it now, he wouldn’t have her to himself again for months.

“Megan, I love you,” he blurted out. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember and I can’t stay quiet about it anymore.”

He looked up from his trembling hands to her flawless eyes, where tears had begun to form. He realized the enormity of his mistake. He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to rewind the clock just 20 seconds and take it back.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry,” he repeated. He grabbed the strap of his backpack and booked it for the sliding doors of the airport.

He went through security without looking back. Matt bounded down the stairs to the gate, where they were already boarding. His heart was beating a million times a minute and he could hardly catch his breath.

“Are you ok,” the gate agent asked as he handed her his boarding pass.

“I’m not sure,” he responded. “I may have just ruined the most important friendship I ever had.”

He made his way to an empty seat towards the rear of the plane. He felt shell-shocked. What had he done? He tried to gain his composure as he watched the last few stragglers make their way on board. Suddenly, that same concerned agent walked aboard the plane.

“Matt?” she called out. “Matt Frazier?”

Matt jumped to his feet, his mind suddenly burning with questions. Had Megan sent her for him? Did she want him to stay? Maybe these moments weren’t reserved for the movies. He tripped over his feet as he quickly made his way up the narrow aisle.

“Your friend gave this to security,” she said, handing him his book. “You left it in her car.”

As quickly as his excitement had arisen, disappointment took its place. How could he have been so naïve? He walked back to his seat, fully aware of the eyes watching him, burning a hole in the shroud of shame that cloaked him. How could a weekend so full possibility end with such colossal heartbreak?

He sank into his seat, wishing it would swallow him. The plane pulled away from the gate, and he was vaguely aware of the flight attendant reviewing what to do in case of emergency, but no oxygen mask or flotation devise could save him from the pool of despair he was drowning in. After a failed attempt to sleep away the heartache, he grabbed the book, a welcomed distraction. As he opened it’s cover he saw a note written on the inside flap, Megan’s bubbly handwriting unmistakable.

He read it. He read it again, and then closed the book. A smile spread across his face as the pilot announced cruising altitude, but Matt wasn’t paying attention.

His heart was already soaring a thousand feet above the clouds.

Take Your Own Advice

Being a parent is one of the coolest and most stressful things in the entire world. We try to teach our kids how to be people - productive, kind, functioning, actual people. The one truth we often don't let our miniatures know is that we are still learning how to be people ourselves.

There isn't any age in particular where you are suddenly wise to the ways of the world. There isn't a certain birthday where the universe gifts you a book with all the answers. Even adults have to look at what each day gives them and figure out what the hell to do with it.

This weekend I got to take my daughter out of state for a soccer tournament with the Olympic Development Program. She has met the other girls, but didn't know them. Being a typical mom, I was worried about her making friends and fitting in. My worry was wasted, though, because of course she made fast friends in a way that only children are able to do. I, on the other hand, lacked her ease and bonding ability. I sat by the pool, my senses in overdrive with the burning stench of chlorine and the deafening echoes unique to indoor hotel aquatics, sipping a beer and trying to work up the nerve to go over and talk to the other parents.

My husband must have a spousal psychic thing going on, cause just then I got a text. "Is she having fun? Fitting in ok? How about you?"

How about me?

How do you figure out how to fit in?

Cliques of parents who already knew one another from club teams had formed, and I had to make a choice. Sit here by myself, or take the advice I'd given my daughter before the trip. "Be yourself and you'll do just fine."

I made my way around the groups of parents, first in the pool and then in the lobby, eventually sitting down and joining four other parents. Guess what happened?

I was myself and I did just fine.

Well, mostly fine. My social anxiety kicked in and I talked too much, too fast and too loud. But that is just my reality. I am much better with words when I'm putting them on a screen than when I am putting them into the universe. However, I am who I am.

The whole experience made me realize all the advice we give our kids that we should be doing ourselves:

- If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all.

- Eat your vegetables.

- Don't stay up past bedtime.

- If you're bored, read a book.

- Get outside and enjoy the sunshine.

- Be the kind of friend that you want to have.

- Be kind.

The list could go on and on, but I think you get the idea!

Being a good parent doesn't mean TELLING them what to do, it is about showing them what to do and how to live. And then, hopefully, they won't feel like they need a manual for life, because they had me there to teach them!

Singing the First Day of School Sad Mama Blues

Anybody who has ever had a phone conversation with me when my kids are home know I can't go more than 10 minutes without having to interrupt the chat to correct Beckett, or redirect Beckett or yell at Beckett to close that "damn fridge" for the umpteenth time that day.

See, all of my kids can be challenging at times, but Beckett is by far my most challenging. Some of it I chalk up to plain old 6-year-old antics, but thrown on top of that is Beckett's need for constant sensory stimulation. (That is a whole other post for another day.) In all seriousness, there are many days where Beckett's Tasmanian Devil-like-tendencies drive me to tears.

Sometimes at night after I've tucked him in, I sit on the couch and cry. I wish he could understand how much I love him, how my heart hurts if I just sit and focus on my complete and overwhelming love for him. There is nothing I hate more than to fight with my little monsters who are my everything.

Given the level of Beckett-induced exhaustion I face on a regular basis, I thought I would be ecstatic when his first day of kindergarten came. I would be able to have a complete conversation without screaming. I could eat a meal without being begged to share. I could clean the bedrooms without him taking advantage of my back being turned and climbing on the kitchen counter for food.

And yet...

Yesterday, Monday, marked our last day together before school started. His brother and sisters went back Monday, which gave us the day together. We went and got his hair cut, ran to a couple of stores and enjoyed lunch out. Every time I thought of him getting on the bus, I had to hold back tears.

For the last six years, my little Bean has been mine. Sure he had teachers and therapists and coaches, but that was just a couple of hours a few times a week. When I think about him starting kindergarten, I can't help but think of all the other people (mostly women) I will now share him with. He will look forward to getting off the bus and be greeting by a smiling face that is not mine. Somebody else will dry any tears. Somebody else will calm his fears. Somebody else will give him a hug if he needs it. Every once in a while, he will slip up and call his teacher mom.

I am extremely grateful for the incredible teachers that work at our school. I am forever indebted to them for putting their own kids in daycare to come to work and take care of mine. I am still jealous, though, that I will now have to share my baby boy with them.

He didn't cry when he got on the bus this morning. Miraculously I did not cry, either. He woke up this morning all smiles and excitement, and it was quite contagious. I know he will do well in school and I am happy for him. I just wish time could slow down and my babies could stay just mine a little longer.

No One Else Can Play Your Part

It is morning. The sun is just beginning to light the world around my modest, three bedroom split entry in the southern suburbs of Pittsburgh. From downstairs, in what was once our game room before being converted into bedroom number four, an alarm clock sounds. I am not in bed to hear it blare. I am not there to hit snooze. I am not there to welcome the day.

In my absence, my oldest child, only 11-years-old, gets herself ready for school before packing lunches for her four younger siblings. My husband rushes to get all the kids dressed so he can be out the door on time to drop the kids at a sitter before heading to work. It is a chaotic scene. There isn’t time for a lot of hugs, kisses or cuddles, not even for the 8-month-old, as they try to adjust to life without mom.

They survive without me, but they do not thrive yet. There are so many questions and hurt feelings. There is more anger than they know how to express.

In reality, this is not what my household looks like. Begrudgingly, I hear the alarm clock at 6:30 waking me to get the kids ready for the school bus. I am a lot of things, but a morning person is not one of them. I am still here because I know nobody else can play my part. I am still here because I know my story, past and future, matters… my life matters…I matter.

I do not wear my diagnosis of depression with pride. However, I am proud of how I have chosen to grow as a person because of my depression. In four days, it will mark the 19 year anniversary of when I tried to end my life. I don’t share my story because I want pity. I share it because maybe it will help somebody else not choose that path I chose. I share it because I think it is time that we as a society are not afraid to start a conversation on mental illness.

When tragedy hits, like the recent suicide of Robin Williams or a mass killing, there is a brief increase in outcry for a new outlook on mental illness. Facebook posts go up. Articles are retweeted. Inevitably, though, the conversation stops until the next headline bringing it to the forefront. In between those headlines, how many people take their own life because of their struggles.

What if we kept the conversation going in between? Imagine letting people know it is ok to be anxious, depressed, bipolar, or whatever the case may be, and that there is help.

At the doctor for an annual check up, you have your weight checked, your cholesterol…maybe you turn your head and cough. How great would it be if after you put your clothes back on, a few minutes were spent asking how you feel. Obviously there are doctors and therapists for this, but not everybody even knows where to begin. Some people don’t even realize they need to talk to somebody.

Things won’t change from my voice alone. I hope more people will start a conversation about what they have experienced, or what they are going through now. People need to be fast to ask for and offer advice.

If I can ever help any of you find resources or see that your life matters, please let me know. You matter more than you can imagine. No matter how alone you may feel, please know you are not. I am right here for you!

Resources: http://twloha.com/ http://www.thesemicolonproject.com/

An Ibis Among Flamingos

I went to the Pittsburgh Zoo a couple of weeks ago and was admiring the flamingos. I have always found it interesting that they get their pink color from the shrimp that they eat. While gazing at them as they pruned and had a mid day snack, it was hard to not notice the ibis that was in the same enclosure. (The zookeeper informed me his name is Donnie Ibis, a joke most Pittsburghers will get.)

It turns out the white ibis is in with the flamingos because they had nowhere else to put him. He seemed to get along well enough with his fellow feathered companions, but it was blatantly obvious that he was different than his pink pen mates...he didn't quite fit in.

I'm an ibis.

Don't get me wrong, I have been blessed with some of the greatest friends in the world. I believe I am well-liked. And yet, it seems that I never quite fit in with large groups. I'm not great at being one of the flock. This isn't a recent revelation. In high school I had a solid group of friends, but they didn't all belong to one cliche clique. I had jock friends, nerd friends, goth friends, band friends and so on and so forth. There was no one group I fully identified with, and I was ok with that.

College was no different. I didn't have a solid label. I was a college athlete, a was a thespian and I was youth minister at my church. All three of these groups provided me with great friends, but no one group to call my own. I was again a bit of a floater.

Fast forward to today. I am 36-years-old. A devoted wife, a loving mother, and a mostly well-adjusted member of society. I live a life typical of most suburban moms. I drive the mini van to soccer practice, run forgotten homework to the middle school, I push the stroller around the cul-de-sac after the dinner plates have been loaded into the dishwasher.

When I see a fellow mom at the grocery store we stand and talk for ten minutes (or until one of us is dragged away by a child) about what class our kids are in or how ridiculous the amount of homework is that is sent home. Despite the pleasantries and the eerily similar lives, I have never stopped feeling like the ibis.

Do you know the feeling? You're standing around a picnic in a circle talking, and yet you are right on the outside...somebody's shoulder somehow blocking you from really being part of the conversation? A Facebook post showing a picture of your kids' friends all at a local park for a giant playdate, but you missed the memo? Always kind of wondering if you missed a "Stepford Wives" meeting that would explain exactly what is expected.

For a while it was really bothering me. Do people not like me? Do I give off a bad vibe? Why weren't Joe and I invited out with the crowd?

Looking at the ibis, though, I realized it is ok to not be another pink dot on the canvas. I really do have amazing people in my life. My life is not defined by the clique I most identify with or by my Friday night social engagements. I have an opportunity to teach my kids to embrace being a unique spirit, to always try to be an ibis, or hummingbird or emu...whatever they are called in their hearts to be - never to conform to what they believe people expect them to be.

I am blessed to have a beautiful flock of my own. I have a place where I know I belong and am loved exactly as I am. What else could I ask for?

Just One More Baby?

I've started to realize through talking to a number of my friends, those of us in our mid to late thirties have more in common than a love for yoga pants and wine. It seems a large number of us suffer from "am-I-really-done-syndrome."

There is a very loud, clanging biological clock that we all realize is nearing it's final rotation. Soon no watch battery, no winding of the key will buy us more time. So we look at our one, three, five children, and wonder, am I really done? Do I really not get to do this again?

Moms may take to Facebook to moan about the midnight puking that required laundry at an unthinkable hour, or groan about the teething baby that kept us up all night. We may run to Mad Mex as quickly as possible on Friday evening to sip margaritas and try to forget about the huge blow up with our daughters over cleaning their bedrooms. We may sometimes act like we don't cherish every little mommy moment we have.

The truth is, there isn't one second of it we would trade. And the thought of "the last diaper" we change, "the last soothing lullaby" we sing, "the last anything," makes us think that maybe we should have "just one more."

I was giving my four-month-old a bath last week and my nine-year-old daughter, Elliot was helping me. Keil, the baby, was splashing away and giggling. I sadly said to Elliot, "I can't believe I won't ever get to do this again."

In her sweet and innocent wisdom Elliot replied, "Yes, Mom, but you get to do it now."

Wow.

Yes, I get to do it now. I have the option of focussing on the fact that I will never have a four-month-old again, or I can focus on all the joy the moment is giving me. I can be sad, or I can choose to be glad and celebrate the largest and smallest milestones, even if it is the last time I will experience it as a mom.

There is nothing I love more in life than being a mom, and I will remember my daughter's words every time I lose focus of the moment I am in. I think that is the only cure for "am-I-really-done-syndrome."

And, the reality is, I am not really done. I have the rest of my life to be a mom...maybe not to a new baby, but to the beautiful children I have already been blessed with.

Facebook Envy, Be Gone!

We live in an age of over sharing. In 2 clicks on our smartphone we can share pictures of every meal we consume. Three minutes on Facebook can reveal everything about a person except maybe their blood type and birth weight.

I am guilty of habitual social media browsing. I get lost in my Facebook newsfeed and carried away searching hashtags on Instagram. With all of this has come a brand new way for us moms to feel inadequate - let's call it Facebook envy.

Sometimes we all see what other people are posting and feel like we are falling way short comparatively. It is hard to know that what they share isn't necessarily reality.

"Wow! What a great workout at the gym. I ran and never even broke a sweat. Getting close to my goal weight. Yay me!"

(Reality: I got to the gym and after half a mile my phone died and I had no music to keep me entertained so I called it quits for the day and went for fro yo instead. Ugh!)

"After the gym I made a delicious five course meal using only the organic foods I grew in my garden. My kids ate every bite and were so well mannered. Yay me!"

(Reality: The fro yo didn't sit right so I didn't feel like cooking and grabbed KFC on my way home. The kids had a huge fight over who got the drumstick and the last of the mac and cheese. Ugh!)

"Before bed all the kids sat around the living room reading Tolstoy while hubby and I reviewed our portfolio. Future looks bright! Yay me!"

(Reality: The kids watched Spongebob while the hubby and I fought over finances. I don't understand where the money goes every month. Ugh!)

"I decided to try the family bed idea I saw Blossom talking about on Good Morning America. A whole night of cuddling with my babies? Yes please! Yay me!"

(Reality: The cat peed on all the kids beds and I didn't get around to cleaning it today. Guess I'm stuck with them all piling in bed with me. Ugh!)

Ok, those may be far fetched, but I think you get what I am talking about. On top of this, every holiday has become a contest of who can make it cuter, better, bigger for their kids; the daily Elf on the Shelf pictures, the rascally leprechauns, Pinterest birthday parties. It's enough to make the less creative or over-worked mom feel like she has let her kids down because they aren't getting the extreme Martha Stewart experience.

We can't let ourselves feel like failures over somebody else's newsfeed, though. We can't possibly know what their reality is. Maybe their fairy tale version they share is just their way of coping with what they perceive as their own shortcomings. Plus, who wants to air all their dirty laundry for the world to see.

I was recently talking to a friend who is separated. We were discussing how hard married life can be, and I revealed that my husband and I recently went through a rocky patch of our own. She was shocked. "You guys always seem so happy, though," she said.

Well gosh, nobody is always happy. Every marriage has issues. That couple that just posted pictures of their romantic weekend away could be taking a trip to try to reconnect rather than divorce. You never know what somebody else's struggle is.

I gladly share when my 11-year-old does laundry or my 6-year-old runs the vacuum. I don't post when they are on the ground kicking the crap out of one another. And guess what? They are kicking the crap out of each other more often than they are doing housework!

Let Facebook be an escape. Enjoy looking at pictures of cute babies. Laugh at the e-cards. Don't let other people's timelines become the measurement of your own life, though. Do your best every day to be your best for you, because your real life status is way more important than the next guy's Facebook one!

Slow Down, Emotional Speed Bump Ahead

Right now the boys are rough-housing in the other bedroom and their yelling is making me feel like a crazy person. I seriously just snapped at my 11-year-old for putting vanilla lotion on her hands because vanilla lotion gives me a headache. Of course she doesn't know this, but that didn't stop me from banishing her from the same room as me.

If the neighbor's dog doesn't quit barking, I can't guarantee it's well-being.

I haven't showered. I live in oversized sweats. Shit! I think I forgot to brush my teeth today.

Everything overwhelms me. The house is a mess, because the thought of cleaning it exhausts me. I have anxiety because the house is a mess. I feel bad about myself because the house is a mess. I'm afraid my husband will be disappointed in me when he gets home because the house is a freaking mess.

My mood has been like this for at least a week, and yet it was just this morning that a little voice inside my head whispered, "Sara, you aren't going crazy. You are just depressed." (Hmmmm, if there are voices whispering to me, maybe I have gone crazy!!)

All joking aside, I was finally able to put the pieces together and realize what is going on. It started with one little text message to a friend.

She asked if I had blogged recently and I replied "No. I haven't had motivation to do anything lately."

I reread the message today and realized I am not lazy, I am not a mega-crab, I am not the mommy monster - I am simply experiencing postpartum depression. I know a lot of people who don't suffer from depression don't understand. My husband always says, "What are you unhappy about." The answer is nothing. I'm extremely happy. I cannot believe how blessed I am. I have an incredible husband, five beautiful children, a family who loves me and some of the world's greatest friends.

Depression isn't a choice. It isn't something you just "get over." This isn't my first bout with postpartum depression, so I knew what I had to do. I called my doctor and asked for a prescription until I am over this emotional speed bump. That is all it is, a speed bump. It might slow me down for a bit, but it certainly won't stop me.

I have to admit, I feel so relieved and so free having realized today what was going on with me. I feel more hopeful and less guilty about all the ways I've failed lately. I know that I will feel better, I will be better and my life will be better.

To all of you out there who feel this way, who have been there, or are there...whatever the case may be, don't be afraid to talk about it. Don't be afraid to share it. We can all help each other through the hard times, as long as we let people know we need help.

Let the Madness End

In the chaos and anxiety leading up to the birth of our beautiful little girl, I neglected my blog and the few faithful readers I have. My apologies. However, recent "mom" stories on Facebook, Twitter and Good Morning America have led me back to the keyboard.

It isn't a new concept...criticizing the choices of other moms. Working vs. stay-at-home. Fitness buff vs. couch potato. Vegan vs. carnivore. I wish it would all stop.

Two days after giving birth, the "mom" story of the day was the wife of a Norwegian soccer player who posted a picture of her body 4 days after giving birth. I'm not going to lie. At first I thought she was lying and hadn't just given birth. But, when I saw pictures of her during her pregnancy with hardly any belly at all, the picture made sense.

Needless to say this is not what my post-baby body looks like. But NEWSFLASH! Even pre-baby I looked nothing remotely close to this. I don't believe posting this picture did anything to empower the average woman or bolster the self-esteem of all of us other moms dealing with the flab left after our babies have made their grand entrance into the world. However, this woman has no obligation to build up anybody's confidence.

As women, can't we say "good for her" while celebrating our own bodies? Her looking like her supermodel self (yes, she is a model) doesn't make her any less of a mother than I am, and me having a mom pouch doesn't make me any less of a woman than her.

Women are given these bodies that can do such an amazing thing...create and carry life. WOW! Amazing, right? So why do so many women put themselves down instead of celebrating what a miracle their bodies are. And please, for any women who are unable to carry children, please know you are no less of a beautiful, incredible and wondrous being. Some of the most loving and amazing mothers I know adopted their children. The mom's whose babies are carried in their hearts rather than in their bellies are not only mothers, but saving angels for those kids.

The next big stir was a picture posted by model Gisele today of her beauty team working on her while she breastfed her baby.

Again, 99.9 percent of women cannot relate to a team making you gorgeous while sitting in a penthouse in your plush robe and a photographer snapping pictures of you nursing your child.

We can all sit around yelling at our computer screens that the picture was unnecessary, or we can say how great it is that this busy, working mother is not only nursing her child, but is sharing the experience and possibly inspiring other women who thought they could not breastfeed because of working or fear of judgement or lack of support.

I say, "You go girl!" Thank you for letting the world know you are a proud, breastfeeding mama!!!

Women need to stop feeling like everything is a competition with other women. Let's celebrate each other and encourage each other. Let's set an amazing example for our children by being positive, loving people. Life is too short and too precious to sit around hating on one another!

America's Favorite Past Time

Magic lives at the ball field.

There is something about filing in through the gates and making your way to your seat, knowing that anything is possible in the next 9 innings.

A bad game the day before, a bad series the week before, a bad season the 21 years before, won't stand in the way of the pitcher and the batter as they face off or block the possibilities that lay between the mound and the plate.

Maybe this is why the Pittsburgh Pirates triumphant return to the postseason means so much to so many. While not on the diamond, Pittsburgh isn't a city starved for victories. We have had the beloved Penguins and celebrated Steelers leading us to triumph many times; and yet the city is embracing the baseball playoffs like the idea of winning is a foreign concept.

So what is it about Pirates baseball that can pack the Roberto Clemente bridge with fans who don't even hold a ticket, just a lawn chair and a whole lot of hope?

In a city known for hard work and dedication, this exciting adventure in the postseason represents what Pittsburgh is all about. We are the Steel City. And what is steel? It is iron and carbon.

Iron, the most common element, representing the every day men and women who make up the city. Carbon, when under pressure, forms a diamond, the hardest naturally occurring substance there is - because in Pittsburgh, we are tough.

So here we are, cheering on our Buccos who never crumbled over the criticism and pressure the last 21 years brought their way. They kept fighting. They persevered. And wow, what a gem they have given to this city in this 2013 season!

The Pirates have reminded us this year what dreaming is all about. We went from dreaming of a winning season, to dreaming of a postseason, to big dreams of a World Series. The loyal fans and even the bandwagon fans, are alive with energy as they wait for the Buccos to pull off the next victory, like a rabbit out of a hat.

And why not?

After all, magic lives at the ball field.

Several Worlds Apart

On Monday I took a little trip to the emergency room at our local women's hospital after having a severe cramp in my leg. Long story short, it was a wasted visit, everything was fine, although it gave me peace of mind. While I walked out of the hospital no longer worried about a blood clot, a new concern was weighing heavy on my heart. In the emergency room, just a thin curtain separated me from the woman in the next bed. All I saw of her when I passed her was her green striped pajama pants. I can't tell you her race, her hair color...for all I know she could have been my doppelgänger. As I lay in the bed waiting to be examined, it was impossible not to hear the conversation between the doctor and the woman in the green pjs. The woman was pregnant, due with her second chid on October 24, so around 36 weeks pregnant. She came in because she had an infected pimple in her ear that was causing her pain. Ok...no big deal. However, it was what came next that rattled me. Since she was there anyways, she decided it was a good time to try to get clean. She was hoping to start a methadone conversion. She was a drug addict.

As I listened to her I was in total disbelief. She told the doctor she was using 10 bags of heroin a day. In addition, she was taking around 10 benzos a day. The doctor asked her if she used cocaine or marijuana. The woman laughed and said "Can you believe I don't like weed?"

At this point I was fuming. My blood was boiling. I wanted to reach through the sheet and slap this woman. How was she laughing? How dare she do this to the little, defenseless baby in her very own body.

As far as cocaine? The woman said she no longer did coke and it wouldn't be in her system. When the doctor pried further and asked when the last she used it was, the woman told her Saturday. SATURDAY! That was just two days earlier! How could she say she didn't use anymore!

I lay there, repeating to myself that I needed to mind my own business.

Next I started crying. The woman told the doctor the baby's father was still involved in her life. In fact, he was the one who supplied her the drugs. She lived with her mother, who helped her take care of her two-year-old. She worked as a prostitute for a while. She has hepatitis C but hasn't seen a doctor for it in years. In the very beginning of her pregnancy she saw an OB, but it had been more than 20 weeks since she had seen one.

How is any of this possible? How? I saw a doctor almost every week of my pregnancy because of something that I had less than a 3% chance of happening. I resisted using Tylenol several times when I felt I needed it because I wanted to limit what I put in my body.

Here I was in a bed right next to her in the same emergency room in the same hospital, and yet I felt like we were from two different universes. We were both carrying a new little life inside of us, and yet I couldn't relate to her at all.

I had started angry, been resolved to tears, and ended in prayer. I laid in my bed praying for her, praying for her baby and praying for her little son at home. I prayed she would find the strength to get clean. I prayed her baby would be healthy. I prayed her son was safe.

I also prayed for myself, though. I asked God to help me not to judge and to find understanding when understanding seemed so far beyond my reach. At the end of the day, the reality is there is no amount of judgement I could pass on that woman that could change her. I have lived a life of privilege. My version of struggle in my 35 years would be a walk in paradise for a lot of people.

I am not so naive that I don't know this. It is not my place to judge her. It isn't what God wants us to do, and it won't make me a better person or set a good example for my children. Rather I will continue to pray for her and I ask all of you to do the same.

Personal Triumph Trumps Personal Best

Having had big sisters and being a big sister, I know first hand that big sisters aren't always the kindest or most supportive. They can be, but they can also be pinching, hair pulling, yelling, attitude-filled bullies.

My oldest, 10, is no exception. Being the first born she has decided it is her job to boss around her younger siblings and throw major tantrums when she is told it is not her place.

On Sunday, Pittsburgh had it's 35th Great Race. The Great Race is a family tradition for the Wolf clan. In my family, you run your first Great Race when you are 6 (if you want to). This was Presley's fifth Great Race, and her little brother, Nolan's, first.

As much as I had hoped to be able to run it with them, I had to make the decision that at 32 weeks pregnant it wasn't the best move for me or "Lil Boo." I asked a few people, but they weren't able to be running buddies with the kids, so my non-runner husband stepped up to the plate.

Presley is quite the little runner, and was entering the race seeded for the second time. She earned this honor by finishing second in her age group last year. We have a deal every year that if she gets a personal record she can pick out a stuffed animal as a reward. (Actually, this year she attempted to up the ante to a cell phone or Kindle Fire, but Mommy shut that down pretty fast.)

With tears in my eyes I got the kids all dressed in their pink "Pancreas Racing" shirts and pinned their race bibs on. After a couple of quick pictures I kissed them goodbye and promised to meet them at the finish. I couldn't believe I was missing the race with them.

I took the other 2 kids and we headed downtown to the finish line. I am proud to say I navigated my way through town, closed roads and all, found a parking spot and still got to the finish early. We secured a cheering section near the finish and waited for Presley. I watched the clock, waiting for 52:00, her goal time, to come along. It came, and went...53, 54, 55...I was getting so nervous.

Before I knew it the clock read an hour and still no Presley. PANIC! Was she ok? Did something happen? Finally, at 1:04, she crossed the finish. I tried to find her, but she broke plan and came to where she saw me standing. Eventually we found each other and by then she had her brother with her.

As it turns out, the kids lost their dad in the first mile. (It just so happens to be the same spot where we lose my dad every year.) Presley didn't want Nolan to have to do his first Great Race alone, so she stayed with him. She taught him our "smash the cup" game at every water station, she showed him "rainbow hill" where we like to see all the different color t-shirts as we run, she even gave him "boosts" where I grab her hand and pull her up to give her momentum.

She did all of this knowing she could not place or get her goal time. She knew that cute little Small Fry at Build-a-Bear would not be hers again this year. But she also knew that the Great Race is special not because so many people do it, but because she has done it with her mother and created all these great memories. She wanted to make sure Nolan had the same kind of Great Race she has always gotten.

She did eventually pull ahead of him around mile 5, but she knew at that point her goal time was out of reach.

I am so proud of her. I am sure today when she gets home from school and he is on the chair she wants she will yell at him and throw some elbows. The 6.2 miles didn't suddenly improve her contrary disposition. It did in that moment, though, give me a peak at the person she is growing up to be.

(And for the record, I thought she more than earned that stuffed animal! We made a mall trip yesterday!)

That Punched in the Gut Feeling

Some of you may know that my youngest child (well, youngest for the next 10 weeks or so) has some developmental delays and challenges. Beckett (aka Bean) has verbal apraxia, a speech disorder that makes it difficult for Beckett to communicate what it is he wants to say. He also has developmental dispraxia, which effects Beckett's ability to carry out sensory and motor tasks. Finally he has sensory processing disorder. This effects the way Beckett processes sensory input. He is sensory seeking and under-sensitive, meaning he seeks out sensory input and needs big, dramatic touches to get the right kind of feedback.

With the help of an amazing team of therapists over the last three-plus years, Beckett has made amazing progress, but he still has a lot of challenges. There are days I can tell within the first 5 minutes of him waking up it is going to be what we call "a high sensory day" for our Bean.

He used to run full force into walls and furniture. Luckily high sensory days don't involve that anymore. These days they involve a lot of him sneaking food, hitting his siblings and not being able to sit still. It is always a challenge for my husband and I because we need to reinforce proper behavior even though we understand why he is acting this way.

Bear with me...there is a reason for all of that background story!

This morning I was taking Beckett to therapy and he was rattling off the laundry list of jobs he wants when he grows up.

A police man, a doctor, a fire station guy and a bus driver.

I told him that his Great Aunt Mickey used to be a school bus driver. When he asked why she wasn't anymore I reminded him that she passed away last January. This was the conversation.

"Oh yeah. Did she have cancel?"

"You mean cancer. Yes honey, she had cancer. She is in Heaven now with God."

"Does she still have cancel in Heaven?"

"No, baby. When we are in Heaven with God all of the bad stuff goes away and we aren't sick anymore."

"I wish I were dead."

Well you can imagine how I reacted to my beautiful baby saying this. What he said next, though, broke my heart and amazed me at the same time.

"Well sometimes I don't want to fight with you and I tell my brain that, but my brain doesn't listen and do what I want. I don't like that."

At just five-years-old, my little guy knows that something isn't quite "normal" in how his brain works. Not just that, but it already bothers him enough that he knows he doesn't like it and wants it to be fixed.

This is a huge wake-up call to me that I need to find more ways to reinforce to him everything about him that is good. I also told him we will do a fun activity to come up with ideas of things to do when he can tell his brain isn't listening.

As sad as his statement made me, I am so so grateful for this little peak into his thoughts so I can try to be a better mom to him. It is so easy to get wrapped up in the craziness of life that I forget to consider how the things that stress me out and upset me could be having the same effect on my babies.

If you are somebody who believes in prayer, I ask you to offer a little prayer up for me today to help me grow and learn to show my son what a truly amazing gift he is to me and to the world.

The #1 Rule We Should Be Teaching Our Children

"People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel. Remember what you do echoes in eternity."

I read a heart-breaking story yesterday about a 15-year-old Connecticut boy who committed suicide after years of being bullied. The young man somehow got into the family's gun locker and took his young, precious life. Along with his life, the hopes and dreams his parents had for him were killed, the youth and innocence of his friends was taken, and a future that might have been amazing was snatched away in an instant.

This hurts my heart so very much.

The young man was from Poland and he was very tall for his age, 6 feet 3 inches. Apparently some classmates used these facts to tease and torture this poor kiddo over the years. After his first day of 10th grade, Bart Palosz couldn't take anymore.

We have helicopter parents who obsess over every homework assignment and call the teachers like it is their job. We have little league moms and dads who brawl with umpires and coaches. We even have some parents who buy beer for their high schoolers and drink with them on the weekend.

I think a lot of parents have mistaken "being involved" for good parenting. Parents get so busy pushing their children to be good students and good athletes, but how many are being taught to be good people? Kids are always watching us. ALWAYS. I have learned this lesson the hard way when my kids repeat something I said on the phone or to my husband when I thought we were having a private conversation.

This means how we talk to and about other people is how our children learn to talk to and about other people. How our children see us treat other people is how our kids learn to treat other people. Look back through your conversations and interactions over the last few days and think about the message you have been sending to your children.

One of the things I teach my kids is "it is nice to be smart and it is nice to be pretty, but the most important thing you can be is kind." It is so simple but really important. I would love to believe my kids are always nice. That they never get caught up in petty childhood arguments. I am not that naive. I do believe that more often than not, though, they are kind and compassionate.

There were two other stories I recently read on CNN. One was about a woman with a special needs son who was left a terrible, hurtful note by a neighbor saying the child should be "euthanized." The other article was about a woman out to eat with her special needs son who had a melt down. The note she got was the opposite. A stranger had paid their bill and sent a note saying "God gives special children to special people."

Of the two authors, whose children do you think are more likely to be kind, loving people.

I am going to leave you with the same challenge I leave my kids with every day before they get on the bus. Be kind to someone you don't know today. Smile at them. Pay them a compliment. I promise it will not only brighten their day, but yours as well!

The Goodbye Middle School Bus Stop Kiss (or lackthereof)

"A child's kiss is magic. Why else would they be so stingy with them." - Harvey Fierstein

On the first day of school, my oldest child, Presley, missed the bus to the middle school. I felt so bad for her. It was her first day of middle school and you could tell it killed her juju a bit. Don't get me wrong. My complete hatred of mornings has resulted in many missed busses for my kids over the years; just never on the first day.

She recovered quickly, as children typically do, and had a great first day.

I broke the rules of being a cool middle school mom, though, and on the second day of school I walked to the bus stop with her to make sure there were no issues. There were two other parents in their cars, but I was the only one bold enough to stand in the designated driveway and wait for the yellow bus to come barreling down the road.

As it came to a stop the kids formed their little line to get on, and my daughter turned and walked away.

But wait. Where was my kiss? She forgot to kiss me! As she got on the bus she turned and waved to me. She didn't notice I was trying my best to hold back tears of heartbreak and disappointment. She always kisses me! She isn't too grown up to hold my hand as we walk around the local amusement park. She tells me she loves me around her friends. So why all of a sudden do I not get a kiss before school?!?!

When she got home I teased her and asked her if she is suddenly too cool to kiss her mom at the bus stop and she just laughed.

This morning we were running around and she asked me to walk her to the bus again. I was very surprised and didn't feel much like going down there. My pregnant body has been pretty sore and I still had my pajamas on. However, I am never going to pass up on my "big girl" still wanting to be my "little girl" so I slipped on my flip flops and headed out the door.

Again I was the only mom down there. I told her she didn't have to stand with me and could go over with the other 10 or so children, but she was content hanging out with her mom, even if I did have pjs on!

As the bus pulled up, totally on her own, my beautiful daughter turned and kissed me good bye! Right in front of the other kids at the stop, right in front of the kids already on the bus. Then she hugged me and walked away.

I am so blessed I can't even begin to express it! It wasn't just a kiss. She was trying to make a statement to me by having me walk her to the stop and kiss me. She didn't need me to walk her the 100 yards to the stop. I would have been happy with the kiss goodbye at the front door. At only 10, though, she understood that her little public display of affection would tell me "I love you" louder and clearer than any note, text message or sky writing ever could!

A blog entry dedicated to her can't begin to compare with what she gave me this morning, but I hope I show her in enough other ways how much I love her and what she means to me!

The "F" Word

With four small kids around, I try to be very careful when I choose my words. Among the list of banned words in this house is the "f" word. Seems obvious, right? But you are probably thinking about the wrong "f" word. Guess again.

Fat.

Fat might seem like a strange word to add the obvious list of swear words and insults like stupid and hate. In my mind though, fat can do more damage than any of the other words, especially for two beautiful daughters.

It wasn't a totally banned word until about a year ago when my youngest son was at speech therapy. He has verbal apraxia and that day had been working on his ffffffff sound. One of the words they did in his session was fat. While transitioning to his next therapy, they passed a larger woman in the hall and Beckett innocently said, "She is fat." The therapist was mortified, I was mortified and Beckett was clueless. I felt so bad that this happened, but I used that opportunity to think about how that word is used and the many ways it can damage self-esteem.

We don't own a scale in our house and we never have. I have no plans of ever buying a scale for our house. I make a point to not say a dress or a pair of pants makes me look fat in front of my kids. (To my husband or texting my friends is a different story.) This isn't that I don't think it around them or I don't wonder about fluctuations in my weight, I just don't want my kids to know I think it.

We live in a society where overly skinny girls earn spots on magazine covers. Our society accepts the fact that these already tiny models are airbrushed to look even thinner than they already are. None of this is an opinion, it is all fact.

I have no expectations that I will be able to change these skewed standards we as a nation have come to recognize as normal. What I do have control over is what I teach my children about their own bodies. In our house, instead of talking about weight, we talk about health. Healthy eating, healthy choices, staying healthy through exercise...it is all about their health.

My college cross country coach used to check our body fat on a regular basis. More than once he told me I was too fat and needed to lose weight. He would criticize the team's meal choices. While he had a lot of redeeming qualities, his view on women and their weight was not one of them. I was fortunate enough that all of the insecurities I've always had, my body image has never been one of them.

As parents I think it is an easy formula to shelter our children from developing these issues. First, don't keep a scale in the house that they know about. If you really want one, keep it somewhere in your room. Two, make healthy meal choices so they learn what healthy eating looks like. That doesn't mean fast food never happens, it just needs to be done in moderation. Three, be active and keep them active. Let your kids try a variety of sports until they find the right one for them. Don't let it end there. Take time to be active together. Whether it is taking evening walks or a family bike ride. Four, watch your language. When they hear you complain about your body or criticize somebody else, you are sending them a negative message. Instead, if you are having a "fat day" talk about feeling the need to work out.

We get to be the number one influence in our children's lives if we choose to be. We can build their wall of confidence so strong that no classmate, commercial or magazine cover can destroy it. Let's teach them to put more weight in who they are than what they weigh!

What Defines a Super Mom?

I am a stay-at-home, pregnant mother of four of the most beautiful, intelligent, well-behaved children in the world. (I may or may-not be biased.) Even biased, I had to cross well-behaved off the list. I adore them and they are my universe, but I am not foolish enough to believe these little munchkins have halos following them around.

Kind of like baseline testing for concussions, I think baseline stress level testing would be interesting. If such a thing existed, my stress level right now would measure off the charts. Way off. My hubby and I are fortunate enough that we were able to take my mother-in-law in during a transition period in her life. It makes me feel good that we have been able to provide this for her, but it is never easy adding another adult to a full household.

As I already said, we have four children, plus there is my husband and I, our two large dogs, our cat and the three guinea pigs. We live in a small, split entry house with three bedrooms and a game room converted into bedroom number four. Needless to say, it is close quarters.

Combine the stress of adding another person to the mix, a high risk pregnancy and a summer of four very busy children, and I don't know many people who wouldn't be stressed. Two of my favorite stress relievers are wine (which clearly is not an option) and running (which is a lot harder than it was pre-baby bump). Basically I've taken three paragraphs to tell you I'm stressed. Very, very stressed.

Yesterday I had to run errands with all four kiddos. My husband was out of town helping his mother move some items and so me and the gang were crammed into his small, 2-door Kia Forte Coupe. The 8-year-old and the two 5-year-olds (Irish twins, not actual twins) were in the back seat and just.would.not.stop.

He touched her. She looked at him. He breathed in my direction. For the love of Pete it was nonstop bickering.

I started by asking them nicely to stop. I asked again. I reminded them of the fun evening I had planned. I asked again, a little bit louder. I stopped asking and told them they needed to quit. I begged. I cried. And then, after 20 minutes of non-stop misbehaving, I flipped out. I grew horns and started spitting fire and morphed from loving mommy to the big, bad mommy-monster.

They shut up fast.

The rest of the errands were normal stressful without any more major flip outs by them or by me.

When we got home I made them the special "shark dinner" I had planned for a fun-filled night of cheesy Syfy movies and family time. We enjoyed our fish fillets, lifeguard guts (cheesy hash browns) and surfer eyeballs (grapes). We drank our "blood in the water" beverages (cherry pop) and finished the evening with blood and gut sundaes (ice cream with whipped cream and strawberry sauce).

I shared the plan on Facebook and a few people commented on what a good mom I am. Somebody even called me "super mom". Super mom? I went psycho on my kids just hours earlier. I didn't raise my voice. I full on YELLED. I yelled so much my youngest told me he doesn't love me when I get mad.

So I wonder, what makes somebody a super mom or a super dad? Is it doing fun things? Is it never losing your cool? Is it giving your kids their own way?

I think super mom is really just doing the best you know how and continually learning to do better. I think being a super mom is loving your kids unconditionally. And, when I start feeling bad about my "less than super mom" moments, I try to think back to my book, The World According to Mister Rogers. In it, he says that parents teach their kids an important lesson when we let them see us as parents have a whole range of emotions - anger, joy, sadness - and still love our children through all of those other emotions.

I don't know if I am a super mom or just a mom doing the best I know how...but I do know I love my children with all my heart and soul. Whatever that makes me, I will take!