Two years, three weeks, and one day....

My plans for the Memorial Day weekend included packing up as much of my belongings as possible so when "the call" comes, I can turn in my two-week notice and leave on a moment's notice.
"Whee."
As some of you who read this post (but do not comment) know, I plan to move to Illinois.
"Look."
My 82-year-old mother is now in a nursing home and I want to move there so I can move her in with me. I'll of course have to hire someone to help me out during the time I'm at work, which means I need a decent salary.
"Up." (hands in the air and then clapping.)
So my plans Sunday night included cleaning out the living room closets, packing boxes and storing them in the closet, and throwing away anything that I did not plan to move with me.
"Look, Mommy. Vrroom... Vroom."
I plan to stay up until about midnight, and rise at 7 a.m. Memorial Day to finish the rest.
It's after 10 p.m.
I'm sitting in my nightgown packing and Dion is playing with my step ladder, climbing up and down on the thing, clapping, throwing his hands up and pushing the thing around my dining room.
He's content, and I'm content that he's content because now I can concentrate on the packing.
(Crash)
"ARRGGHHH!!!!! CRYING!!!!! AAAARRRGGGHHHH
My attention has to be diverted from the packing because Dion is now crying. But wait, that doesn't sound like his usual whinnying.
I get up, run into the dining room to see that the step ladder has fallen and my son's finger is caught between the area where the two areas folds and becomes flush.
He's trying to pull his little finger out.
There's blood.
He's screaming.
I'm frantic.
When I finally get it open, there just seems to be so much blood. He grabs my white shirt. There is blood on it now.
I rush him to the bathroom and stick his right, ring finger under the water.
Why did I do that? I don't know but it seemed to be the right thing to do.
The water was turning red.
The gash in his finger seemed so deep to me.
I can't seem to stop the bleeding.
I had bandages in the house, but at that moment, I couldn't remember where they were. So I wrap his finger in paper towel and moving tape, stick a pair of pants on him and run then run to my bedroom to grab a skirt.
While I'm grabbing the skirt, I hear loud crying again.
Dion has taken off the make-shift bandage and his little finger is bleeding profusely again.
"Dion, please, don't take it off again. Please baby, no!"
So I again wrap his finger, this time with a wet one and the moving tape.
I know it was against the law, but I sat Dion on the front seat on the arm rest as I drive to the hospital. I wanted to make sure that he kept the makeshift bandage on. I also wanted to make sure that his hand was elevated in hope that would slow down the flow of blood.
And I wanted to comfort my baby.
Why didn't I stop him from pushing that ladder?
Why did I allow him to play with it?
We arrive at the emergency room about 10:45 p.m. I guess it took me about 15 minutes to get there, but I don't know.
A lady who has a little girl who appears to be about Dion's ages rushes past me and makes it to the counter just seconds before I do.
You have to tell the check in person the reason so they can determine what level you are on and when you will be seen.
Like an idiot, I wrote, "Two-year-old has a very deep cut on the right ring finger."
Why didn't I show that lady my son's hand?
Why didn't I say it was still bleeding?
After an hour in the waiting room, I went back to the counter and said, "How much longer? His finger is still bleeding."
And then I lifted him up and so that she can see the makeshift bandage that was now stained red.
We were directed immediately to a nurse.
Dion received three stitches in his finger - stings that will have to stay in his finger for 10 to 14 days.
He cried something awful when they gave him a shot to numb the area around his finger. I wonder if the pain of having a needle go in and out of that area would have been worse.
He cried.
I cried as I tried to sing to him and comfort him.
I felt bad.
After he was all stitched up, I heard the mother who had entered the hospital just seconds before us complain that her daughter had not been seen.
"I'm not saying that no child is more important than another, but come on, a boo-boo on his finger?"
I wanted to slap the dye out of her hair!!!!!!!!
As a precaution, his finger was also X-rayed to make sure the bone had not been broken since the cut was so deep. Thank God it was not.
At 3:30 a.m. we were handed discharge papers.
I placed Dion in his carseat and he slept all the way home.
Here he was, just two years, three weeks and a day old, and he had already been in an emergency room.
Wow.
I had forgotten I was cooking ribs. Thank God the house didn't burn down while we were gone.
Monday, he got ice cream and candy, two things he normally would not get. He was held so much and loved on so much and kissed so much.
Once, he even "laid" himself on the floor and said, "fall, mommy."
I know he did not fall, but I was impressed that he realized that he could milk that finger injury for all it was worth.
On Monday, we slept until 11 a.m. - four hours past my packing schedule. Because in the end, Dion is the most precious cargo I have.

I would rather die than be fat.

Almost half of Americans would give up a year of their life to avoid being fat, according to a recent survey.
The online survey of 4,283 Americans ages 13 to 79 also found that between 15 and 30 percent would rather leave their marriage, give up the possibility of having children, be depressed, or become an alcoholic than be obese. Five percent said they would rather lose a limb and 4 percent said they would rather be blind.
The survey was conducted by Yale University for the purpose of gauging anti-fat bias.

What the?????

Am I so out of the loop that I didn't know that people would rather be dead than to be like me?

Do people really look at me and pity me?

I can't discount this and say that since it was at Yale, it was probably a bunch of teen-agers or college kids, but I do wonder. And why is there such a big difference between the percentage points, 15 to 30?

I would totally disregard with this all together if I didn't know someone who felt this way.

I once worked with a man who had weight loss surgery. There were some complications and in the end, he wound up confined to a wheelchair, barely able to speak, suffered memory loss, became 200-plus pounds lighter and was living in a nursing home. He was 32 years old at the time.
He said even if he knew the outcome would be the same, he would do it again.
A one point, he was losing 21 pounds a week. Those three or four months he had prior to being hospitalized were wonderful, he said.

I will admit that being fat limits me: table over a restaurant booth, chairs without arms, well made and often expensive, antique furnishing, fewer dates, fewer come-ons, fewer clothing options, and some airlines will try to make your purchase two tickets.

These are just a few aspect of my being fat... okay, obese.

But do I want to be dead?
Really, do I?
Do I hate myself and the way I look that much?
Do I want to disappear into the background and not be seen?
No, I don't. I've cried about a lot of things in my life.... being broke mostly....
but I don't remember the last time I cried about being fat. Yes, I have and yes I did when I was younger, but as I type this, I'm trying to remember the last time I cried because I was fat and blamed all of my failures on being fat?

I really don't remember. It had to have been in my high school days. I had a great time in college, so I don't remember feeling that way then. Plus, I lost a few pounds while in college because of all of the walking I was doing.

I really don't know when it was.

I know that being a fat, black woman is what the world sees as I stroll down the street, but there is more to me than that.
I know that because of the way I look, I am limited in who will flirt with me. I know that. But men do flirt with me.

I'm still single because I'm not going to settle for just any man who gives me the time of day.
I have value, fat and all.
Yes, my life would be so much easier and cheaper if I were smaller, but this is my life now.
Yes, I need to lose weight and I want to lose weight, but this is my life now.
Yes, I would probably have more men approaching me if I were smaller, but this is my life now.
I know I need to make better decisions about my life, the one thing that I will not waiver on is that I want to LIVE a long, happy and healthy life.
And yes, I would love to live that life as a smaller woman, but the most important word there is I want to live.
This is my life now - a fat, black woman with pride.

I talked with the tall, curly haired, ball-busting, scrapbooking, list-making, journalist mom

the best, "I'll kick your ---, reporter that I know!!!!
At least, that's how a lot of people see her.
I just see her as a good friend, a good mother, a good reporter who lives on three hours of sleep, and does way too many craft projects. She is an Army version of Brea Vandecamp from "Desperate Housewives."
My friend, "the tall, curly haired, ball-busting, scrapbooking, list-making, journalist mom" and I have worked together for five years. Her husband is in the military and they are now living in Florida.
I miss the daylights out of her, even though we didn't see each other that much when she was here.
Though she is married, her husband was always away and I felt this kind of kinship with another "single mother."
She has two children, only 14 months apart:A sweet, beautiful little girl who seems to be smiling all the time. And then there's her son - a handsome little boy who loves his mother and his litter sister, but who like my son is all boy.
She loves her children. She had a kind of musical chair thing going at one time because they were in two different day care centers. I thought that was insane (and it was) until I had to do it for a while.
This girl is the most organized woman that I know. She always has a list of things to do. And boy, does she have things to do.
Aside from taking care of her two toddlers, she scrapbook, take photos, knits, sews, collects stuff and still manages to take her children on some kind of outing each week and make their Halloween costume.
Oh, did I say works full time?
She just amazes me. I am in awe of her and what she is able to accomplish. She was even offered a promotion while she was on vacation - a working vacation where she sent in stories.
Huh?
Anyway, she called the other day and I was so happy to hear from her. She is truly a great woman and a great friend. I don't have a picture of her, but picture a smiling, six-feet, tall woman with shoulder-length spiral sandy blonde hair who could kick your butt, if only she was better at directions.
I love you, "you the tall, curly haired, ball-busting, scrapbooking, list-making, journalist mom."

Places I am likely to see men I could date.

Note to self:
Check out these places for guys.

Lowe's Hardware
Home Depot
Ball games
Sports bars
Church
The race track
The sports park
The dog park
Car shows
The auto parts store
In the beer isle of a grocery store
Circuit City
Best Buy

Anyone else have any others suggestions I should add to this list?

When did I get this old?

He was talking on his cell phone when I pulled into the parking lot and he turned to look at me.
He opened the door to his SUV and just stared in my direction.
He should have. I was having one of my "good days."
I was wearing what I call a hair hat, (also known as a long wig) a pair of thong sandles and a blue jean dress. Since I was sitting in my car, all he could see from his distance was the hair, and maybe my make-up and my face.
But just having him there staring at me made me uncomfortable.
Was he staring at me?
Why was he staring at me?
Was this the beginning of a flirt?
Should I flirt back?
Should I stare?
Should I smile?
Should I say something?
Oh lord, I have to get out of this car.
How do I get out of this car gracefully?
My wig is slipping. Should I pull it down?
My butt is too big. Don't get out of the car.
Oh shoot, now he is going to think I'm a mental patient.
What do I do?
As he continued to talk on his phone, he continued staring at me.
Then he smiled and waved.
My eyes widen. I smiled. I waved back.
Then I opened the door and stepped out of my car into a puddle of water.
He got into his SUV and drove away.
I am so pathetic.
When did I get this old that I have lost the knack of flirting? Where was my womanly wiles?
Now that I am a mother, I spend so much time devoted to my son that I've forgetten the basic.
Two years ago, I would not have thought that much about flirting back, especially if I "thought" the guy was flirting with me.
yet, I went through an entire process that would have eventually had me thinking what kind of father this guy would make for my son.
I don't know him. I remember more about the SUV he drove than what he looks like.
Life is too short to analysis every possible man and meaning.
I just want learn how to go with the moment.
I think I used to be able to do that. Or at least I thought I did.

There is a lot of unvisited land out there.

Here is a list of the 24 states I've visited so far. I "borrowed" this concept from my friend, Emilie, who has traveled to 40 states and to seven foriegn countries.



create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Here is where my mom has been. The majority of these occurred after I graduated from college and I took her with me.


create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.


Here is where my two-year-old son, Dion has been. We stayed overnight in a hotel in Kentucky once. He slept there so I counted it for him. Plus, his little map looked so bare.
But he's young.



create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Sweetie, you don't have to share your toys with anyone

"Share."
"Play nice."
"Is it okay if she rides your toy for a while."
"You have to take turns."
Those are the things that a "good mother" who is trying to raise a "respectable, honest and nice son" would incorporate into her speech about sharing.
But as I looked over into my neighbor's back yard and saw it littered with broken toys, the only thing I wanted to say was ,"You had better not let that child get any where near your things!!!"
I have to admit that I am a selfish parent. I kind of knew I would be. I think to a certain degree all parents are. But I didn't expect to be a miser about it, too.
It would be one thing if I had to referee a fight over a toy between my children. There will be no clear winner there.
But there will ALWAYS be a clear winner if I have to referee a fight over a toy between my child and someone else's child. My child is going to win!!!! Especially if we are at home and it's his toys.
When we arrived home, two of my neighbor's daughters (one 2 and the other 5) came by for a visit.
I really didn't want them there, because I had things I had to do - prepare dinner, give Dion a bath, laundry, the dishes - but how can you be mean to kids?
Once inside our home, the two girls went straight for Dion's toys and started playing with them. Dion, on the other hand, wanted to go to the back yard and ride his hobby horse. So I let him.
I left the door open so I could monitor Dion as well as the girls.
About 10 minutes later, I decided it would be easier if they were all outside so I allowed them to grab a couple of Dion's toys and we all went out the back door.
The two-year-old was crying to ride the horse, so I asked Dion if she could ride and he got off.
I don't know if this is good or not, but had he not gotten off voluntarily, I would have taken him off in an attempt to teach him how to share.
The little girl rode hard and I could just see her breaking it. After a couple of minutes, I said, now it's your sister's turn. The 5-year-old rode even harder and I freaked out. She got the thing to leave the ground.
So I just said, "Sweetie you are riding him to hard. You have to get off of him now."
Her sister immediately ran over and got on.
I watched Dion, and he let her. At this point, he was more interested in the guy on the riding lawn mower.
Later on, the older child ran home and came back with ice cream cones, one for her and one for her sister.
I don't keep that stuff in my home, so Dion didn't have one, but man did he want one.
In my head, I thought, "Where was Dion's ice cream?"
I know it was wrong, but here these kids were in my back yard, sitting on my kid's toys and eating ice cream.
Something just seemed wrong with that picture.
Then when Dion wanted to get on his own hobby horse, the little one had the nerve to cry and push him.
How dare she!!!!!
I removed her (kicking and crying I might add) and placed my son there - as if to say, "Take that!!!! How's your ice cream now??? Huh??? Huh??!!?!
I know that they are kids and in all honesty, they were doing what kids do.
But how do I teach my son how to share when there are some times I don't want him to share? Am I a snob? Have I become a snob?
Sharing was a big problem with me as a pre-schooler.
My mom would fuss as me something awful if I allowed someone to play with my toys. She used to say that if that toy is going to break, (first I had better not break it, but if it were) I had better been the one who broke it.
"If they break it, do you think their parents are going to buy you another one???!!" she used to yell.
I so desperately wanted other childrens to play with me and my toys because I wanted them to like me and to be my little friends.
But my mom was adament about about the "no sharing" thing.
There were a select group of my cousins that she allowed to play with my toys. My cousin, Jell, was one of them. I played and played and played a lot with my toys and I had many of them into my adult life.
But now that I am a mother, I understand my mother's logic.
I do want Dion to have playmates and to share his toys, but the snob in my says he can only do that with a certain group of kids.
If I do that, will he have the same longing feelings that I used to?
Am I doing the right thing? How do I teach him to be a selective sharer or should I at all?

Happy Birthday to me!!!!!

This is a bad picture, I know, but I look so happy here with my sisters and nieces.
Plus, it was the only one I could find at work.
But I think the smile fits.
I should be happy.
Today is my birthday!!!!!
Yeah to me!!!!
My birthday and my son's birthday are seven days apart.
When he gets older, the month of May is going to be a busy time for us with birthday celebrations and Mother's Day.
I know some people look here, but don't sign. But if you look today, please add a comment to say happy birthday!!!!!I'm not above begging.

Off the wagon

Dion is off the sippy cup!!!!!!
No more washing sippy cups, those horrible, hard-to-wash stoppers, no more trying to dig in there to make sure it's clean.
I'm finished.... er... I mean Dion's finished!!!
I've been giving him a cup for a while now, but with almost non-existent liquid in there to minimize spills.
On Tuesday, my daycare provider said, don't bring Dion a sippy cup anymore because he knows how to drink from a cup.
I'm so proud of him. He's becoming a big boy.
Maybe now my water bill will decrease.

Happy Cinco de Dion

You woke up today and with a smile on your face, you ran to the bathroom, pushed open the door and said, "Mommy, eat, eat."
Then you grabbed your battery-operated toothbrush and started sucking the bristles in what you would say was your attempt at brushing your teeth.
It's something you've done hundreds of time, but today was the first time that you did it as a 2-year-old toddler.
Happy Birthday, baby!!!!!
I know at this age, your having a birthday does not mean nearly as much to you as it does to me. Right now, it's just another day.
But for right now, it means so much to me - so much that I don't want to share it all with the World Wide Web. There are some things that should remain just between mom and child.
But what I will share is how fast time moves and how quickly things change from moment to moment, day to day, month to month and year to year.
I remember last year this time playing with you as you stood near my bed. The top of your head barely reached the top of my mattress.
Now, you are head and shoulder above it. You've grown 10 1/2 inches in a year. How is that possible?
You are so independent wanting to feed yourself, attempting to dress yourself. You love pulling on and off your shoes. You've learned to take your arms out of the car seat. You are even playing on some big toys, within reason. I'm still very concerned about your falling.
Tomorrow I will throw you a birthday party at Chick-Fil-A. You'll eat nuggets, ice cream, cake and fries with about 10 of your little friends.
When I first began planning this, I really wanted something that the other parents would ooh and awe about. I wasn't focused.
But now I am. It's all about you having fun.
And based on what I'm planning, I think you will.
Lots of food, a little structure and lots of fun.
I know that you like the play area at Chick Fil-A and baby's it is all about what you like.
You have changed so much, but you have also changed me so much, too.
Thank you, my sweet boy, for being such a sweet boy.
Folks used to say that about you - you know, that you were a sweet little boy - but I didn't get it then.
Now I do.
Being around you makes people smile - a smile that you greet me with each morning.
Happy birthday baby.

Martha would not think that my home was a good thing.

If I were in a bad accident today, I would be more afraid of someone walking into my home to retrieve some personal items for me than I would be of whether I would live or die.
If I live, what would people say about HOW I live?
Oh, the shame of it all.
Let me be honest---I love to think of myself as Martha Stewart's half-sister whom she knows nothing about, but who keeps an immaculate home on a meager....very meager budget.
But in all honesty, I'm more like the half-sister of that fictional television character Lamont Sanford from the Sanford and Son.
My home is a mess most of the time: papers on the dining room table; dishes in the sink; unexplainable stains on my carpet; something sticky by the refrigerator; and my worst nemesis - the laundry.
I really, really do value a clean house. There have been times when I guzzle down cup after cup of coffee to give me the fuel I need to clean every room in the house until it's spotless.
Man, you should see how I beam when that grout and tile in my bathroom shine.
Why can't folk come by unexpectedly then and ask me if they can use the bathroom?
I love how my house looks, feels and smells after I get in to that kind of cleaning mood.
But apparently, I don't get into those moods nearly enough.
Right now, I have three baskets full of CLEAN clothes in my bedroom.
Washing them does not seem to be my problem. Getting them folded and returning them to a hanger and a closet does.
How do those mothers who have spotless homes do it? Do they have maids? Are they taking meth?
Wait... do I smell urine in my bedroom? I think my son has ditched a diaper somewhere in here.
It's probably under all of those clean clothes.
I have to get better at this. I don't want my son to think that this is the norm.
Saturday, he walked into my room as I was frantically going through the baskets, pointed at me and said "Nasty."
I taught him that word in hopes that would deter him from digging in his nose. Who knew he would turn around and use it on his sweet, unorganized mother....(sniff, sniff... I need a tissue...)
But I have got to figure out how to keep my clutter under control.
Before becoming a parent, I used to say that my house was a mess because I was depressed.
Well now, I'm not sure what is coming first...
The messy house or the slight depression because I live in a messy house.