Christmas Bombs

My mom loves Christmas. She always has.

When I was little, once Thanksgiving passed, Christmas officially began. Out came the boxes and boxes and boxes of garland, ornaments, Santas, elves and mistletoe (fake, of course).

Every shelf, stand and empty space in our smallish home was decked out in Christmas regalia. We had Christmas rugs and placemats. Christmas wreaths and bows! Everywhere you looked, there was a Christmas decoration.

My mom was always very particular about how our Christmas tree (fake, of course) looked, too. She sat on the couch and handed my brother and I ornaments one by one and directed us as to where to place them. Then she redecorated it for days making sure it was just so. After putting tinsel on strand by strand and forbidding us from touching it, she sat and marveled at the wonder of her work.

After a few years of this, my brother and I tired of being told where to place each ornament and we refused to help (which is what she wanted in the first place). We began to remark, as we got into our teenage years, that she exploded a Christmas bomb while we were at school the day after we returned from Thanksgiving break.

I vowed that when I would never decorate to the extent my mom did. No way, Jose. All I needed was a tree and a few ornaments and who cares what it looks like anyway? In fact, the first few years RxMan and I were together, we didn't even put up a tree or a wreath.

Then I had a child. I wanted Christmas to be magical, right? So, we got a tree. And some ornaments. And a wreath.

The next year, we got some more ornaments and some electric candles for the windows. Oh, and stockings! And stocking holders.

The following Christmas brought a bigger house and the need for some more wreaths (windows, duh!) and snowmen. And candles! And a tree for Claire's room.

Now, years later, we have a large tree and 2 smaller ones in each of my kids' rooms. We also have two other tabletop ones scattered around. Snowmen cover all of my stands and perch above my cabinets, which also house a collection of holiday village pharmacies. We have two sets of stockings and various other Christmas decorations scattered about.

I hung my head in embarrassment the first time my mom proudly said, "Looks like a Christmas bomb exploded in here, Tone!"

It does, I admit.

I have become my mom.

God help me.

But, in my defense, I don't direct my kids on where to place every ornament just most of them . And I try not to rearrange the ornaments after they are placed on the tree. We don't use tinsel (a cat and a two year old, get it?) and Liam can't keep his fingers off the tree.

So, I am my mom- the decaf version.

See:

What's In A Name?

Kellan got me thinking about names with this post.

Toni is a fairly common name these days. When I was a kid, though, the only other kids named Tony were boys and that always drove me crazy. In my family, it was sort of customary (for some strange, unknown reason) to name daughters with traditionally boy names. I have an Aunt Tomie and a cousin Terri, among others.

People called me Tonya and Judy (!?) a lot. I never had pencils with my name on them. Until I was doing driver's ed, though, the whole Toni name was little more than an irritation.

When the elderly instructor was calling role, she paused at my name. "Toni D.....?"

"Here."

"Sweetie, could you come up to the desk, please?"

"Uh, okay," and approached the desk, puzzled why I was being asked to come to the desk two minutes after the course began and before she had finished calling out the names of the other students.

"Toni, I need you to write your real name on this list."

"That IS my real name."

"No, sugar, your god-given name. The one on your birth certificate."

"That is it. My name is Toni Lynn D..."

"No, honey, your Christian name. What your mom calls you when you are in trouble."

"No, I get it," I am growing frustrated that this old lady is insinuating that I didn't know my real name at sixteen years old. "My name is Toni. THAT is my NAME."

"Well, you're wrong, dear. Tomorrow bring in your birth certificate and we will sign you back up with your real name. That is something that we need to ensure is correct or you won't be able to drive."

Well, duh.

Much to the old hag's dismay, I did, in fact, know MY NAME. It was, surprisingly, Toni on my birth certificate- not Antonia or Antoinette, as she suspected. She informed me that my name was "simply ridiculous" and my mom "must have hit her head" before naming me.

Incidents like these really stuck with me and influenced the decisions my husband (who goes by initials and is called every wrong group of them imaginable- most offensively, O.J.) and I made when we named our children. While I love the trend of naming both boys and girls last names (like Riley, Cooper or Taylor), I was not setting them up for any of this confusion.

So, what trouble has your name caused you??? Or your kids?

Irony

I am married to a pharmacist and I hate medicine.

I really hate medicine.

I will wait for hours before taking a couple ibuprofen to clear up a headache.

I will suffer with sniffles and stuffiness for days before taking Claritin.

I rarely carry my asthma inhaler with me.

Now, I am fighting the doldrums and just can't make myself go to a doctor and see if I need to be medicated.

For some reason- okay, I know why and it all goes back to the people who raised me- I equate medicine with weakness. And medicine that helps with issues such as depression the doldrums and anxiety? Well, those are for the weakest of the weak! Those meds are for people who can't deal with life and all that that entails!

Pish! Posh!

I am strong. I am woman! Hear me roar!

Yeah, I've been doing a lot of roaring and it is at my kids and husband. For no good reason other than that I feel like I am walking around on eggshells- all. the. time. I also feel like I am just about the worst wife and mother on the planet.

But, the hardest thing for me to deal with is that I have little reason to feel so crappy all the time. I am happily married. I am healthy. I am going on vacation in 17 days. My life is really, really good.

But, still....

I can't shake this sense of impending doom. The vacation is causing some anxiety as it will be the first time Liam has slept away from home. Also, the family who we are supposed to travel with may or may not be going. This isn't a big deal (because there is a perfectly good reason) but I am left feeling unsure and up in the air and it is causing me a lot of concern because I just don't know what is happening. It is also a trip of about 700 miles one way. And, I am worried about Liam's traveling and that we are going to die in a car accident.

You know- little things.

So, I go to visit the troll who is my gynecologist on Thursday for our annual visit and I am really going to try to bring this up to her. She, however, is not the most understanding or empathetic lady in the world so I don't know if it will get me anywhere but I will try to talk to her about it....

Maybe...

Yeah, probably not.

'Cause I'm the pharmacist's wife who hates doctors and pills....

Absorbed

I have fallen off the face of the blogosphere.

And as much as I would love to regale you with tales of an exotic vacation or a birth, I cannot.

Nope.

I have just not felt like blogging.

I have been around- lurking at most of your places. I know, shame on me for lurking.

Truthfully, though, I am feeling a little quiet.

As I sit here and think of a friend who just lost a parent, I am taking stock of all that I have to be thankful for and have decided not to feel guilty about my absence because life truly is too short, friends.

So, I haven't forgotten any of you; I have just been trying to relish every last drop of sweetness that the summer has to offer.

To quote Arnold the Governator, "I'll be back...."

Just Call Me Amy Winehouse

I, too, am an addict.

My name is Toni.

And. I. Am. A. Lip. Balm. Addict.

I am.

I must have something on my lips at all times that is moisture releasing. If my lips feel even the slightest bit dry, I freak out and have to find something to put on them. My preference and most favoritest lip balm is Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm but in a pinch, I will use Chap-Stick.

Like any good addict, I have my stash these $3 lip balms laying all over my house in case of a dry lip emergency. But, of course, there are none to be found anymore because my monster son eats them when I am not looking.

Yes. He. Does.

He eats my minty fresh lip balm and leaves the empty carcass for me to find. Now, I love the kid but messing with a girl's Burt's Beeswax? That may just be a one way ticket to an orphanage for the little man.

You see, I have religiously applied Vaseline, Chap-Stick, even hand lotion (in a pinch) to my lips 'round the clock since I was a tween so it really gets me tweaked to not have my stuff when I need it.

And I do. Need. It.

I cannot bear having chapped or sunburnt or chaffed or dry lips. Nuh-uh. I need them to be soft, supple and moisturized!

At! All! Times!

Excuse me. I must run back to Wal-Mart and buy some more lip balm to hide from my son.

Or he I may die.

Unmotivated

That one word sums up me right now.

I am completely unmotivated.

You could say lazy, too, but I am trying to be more kind to myself.

Ahem.

It seems that when my spring quarter of classes ended on June 14, my drive and ambition flew clean out the window.

Along with it went my blogging ability.

I love to blog. Okay, I love to read other blogs and blog so that I can feel a part of the cool crowd.

I had plans for summer. I was going to twitter. I was going to blog- every. day. I was going to take my children to the lake.

For the most part, I have sat and watched my butt get bigger Liam play.

And, you know what?

I am loving every. single. minute.

But summer is melting as quickly as those yummy freezer pops! And, I haven't accomplished any of my lofty goals so I am turning to you....

Ask me a question! Hit me with your best shot!

Inspire me! Motivate me!

Help me get off my butt and start blogging again!

Puh-lease!!!!!!!!!!!!

No Rabbits Were Harmed For This Post

Who knew that when I mentioned I hadn't been feeling well for several days that the pregnancy questions would arise from you silly bloggers?

Not me for sure. See, pregnancy is SO not on my to-do list right now. In fact, I am trying to talk RxMan into going to see the saint doctor who makes sure his little boys will never swim again.... The only child this family will have will come from the loins of a woman across the pond or at least way south of the border- 'cause my loins?

They are closed. for. business. FOREVER.

Yep, that little bundle of boy that I was blessed with nearly eighteen months ago has caused me to swear off the whole reproducing thing for good.

When I was expecting him, I thought oh, three is the perfect number of children. We should certainly have just one more after this little guy. Shuh- right.

The person who said two is easier than one? Yeah, C.R.A.Z.Y. And the idiot (me!) who waited 6 years to get pregnant for her second child? She's flippin' crazy too because it is completely like starting over only you don't have to buy the crib.

For me, the seven year age span has been a blessing in many ways: Claire is a huge help. She doesn't get jealous. She is understanding; she is uber independent. But there are pitfalls: they will probably never be really close. I lost all the independence I had just gotten back.

I could go on. And on. And on. But the simple fact:

I. AM. NOT. PREGNANT. Thank you, Jesus!

I simply have hurt some muscles in my chest and have something called costochondritis, which is much better than the heart attack or blood clot that was originally suspected (and definitively ruled out). *giant sigh of relief and prayer of thanks*

So, thanks for your well wishes and any baby mojo around here is sent out your way with much pleasure.

Retrospective

I sat down almost a year ago and began blogging. A friend and I started around the same time; she to update friends on the happenings in her midst-of-divorce life, including the highlights and lowlights of dating. I thought I could entertain the masses and make a quick buck or several hundred.

Well, a year later, I have spent way more time and money (inadvertently) through blogging than I will probably ever recoup. I've learned some things along the way, though.

Blogging is not easy. It takes a lot of time and dedication to get a devoted audience of readers and, frankly, I don't have the time to dedicate to it. My son freaks completely out when I approach my PC or get the laptop out. And most of the time I have free must be devoted to my course work right now if I ever want to finish the friggin' degree.

It takes a lot of work. I like to write; I am a skilled technical writer. But your blogs? Wow, they knock my socks off! Some of you are just wicked funny. Others are incredibly talented photogs. There are a few of you who are both. Me? I am neither a particularly witty writer nor a photographer.

You have to have some technical know-how. And me? Not so much. It took me until 3 weeks ago to figure out how to post the haiku friday logo on my posts. Seriously. I can surf the internet and use Word but this blogging stuff? Most of it is way above my head.

And, I don't Twitter. I know, I know. AFF says I must in order to grow my readership. I have tried but do you really care that I just took a shower and am now watching the dust bunnies crawl under the stools at my breakfast bar? I do intend to make a concerted effort to learn this Twitter stuff over the summer when I am not in class (did you hear the hallelujahs surrounding that? No class for 3 months! Woot!) but I am doubtful.

Some days when I do sit down to blog it is sort of with a heavy heart. I want people to find my stuff funny or touching or worthwhile. I want the comments. You know what I mean. We all start for different reasons but the comments? They're a blogger's crack.

So, for now, I blog to stay in your lives. I love reading about your kids, in-laws, your trips. Truth be told, I know more about your lives than I do about many of the people whom I see on a regular basis. Blogging has become a community for me and that is the main reason I stick around. And this community that requires no zip code, no taxes, no real names? I am glad to consider myself a little part of it...

My Cup Runneth Over

Mother's Day dawned with my husband reentering the bedroom, reminding me that I had to stay in bed while Her Highness made breakfast for me, to be served in bed. So, I tarried in my room, moving from the bed into the chair. I listened, through a shut door as my son screamed, whined and demanded attention in all sorts of foreign language to my husband, who ignored him. The door was flung open and my children and husband burst in, shouting "Happy Mother's Day!"
As my son and I wrestled for the glass of juice (no spills, but he totally won), my daughter beamed with pride at the egg and toast she had cooked for the first time on her own. I was given a new charm for my Pandora bracelet, new Crocs sandals and a picture craft made at school by my daughter, as well as cards both homemade and store bought.






Unfortunately my husband worked today, so he left us on our own. I'd like to report it was a great day but, alas, it was not. Church was difficult and tiresome and my son decided to skip his afternoon nap. That sucked. I was planning a nap this afternoon, too. *sigh* While I wrestled, physically and mentally, with an exhausted, cranky, biting sixteen month old, every part of me screamed, "It's not fair! It's Mother's Day!" But, fair or not, this was my day.

As I watched my kids play in the bath together, as the day waned in to evening, I realized that even though I didn't get the pampering all mothers deserve EVERY day but especially today, I am so richly blessed. I have a husband who adores me (and I him) and a spoiled, lovely (inside and out) daughter and a cute, mischievous son. My kids are healthy. My parents are alive and healthy. I have a home: a lovely, spacious home. I have so, so much to be thankful for. So, I have decided I will not greet my husband with a barrage of gripes and complaints but a smile and a thank you for the nice gifts, his love and our children.

I hope that you found a little peace, love and happiness on this day.

Happy (belated) Mother's Day....

How I Met My Honey...

How did I meet my husband? Ahh, what a story. We were both stranded in an airport during a large snowstorm and there was only one room left at the only hotel near the airport and... No, not really.

We worked together.

We both were employed by the same national pharmacy chain. He was a rookie pharmacist and I was a pharmacy technician turned manager trainee. We met at a store where he was training as a new pharmacist with the company. I hung out there a lot in my off time (loser, I know) because many of my friends worked there. One evening I stopped in for a quick visit and he was there and our eyes locked and the rest is... Nope. Nothing so magical. One evening I stopped in for a visit and met him and thought, he's kinda cute for a nerdy pharmacist. (That is also what I wrote in my journal that night, too.) I hung out until closing time and we ended up walking to our cars together and I gave him every chance in the world to ask me out or make a move but, alas, he did not seem even a wee bit interested.

So, I went home and thought little of him from that night on. That is, until I was asked to go work in a town about an hour and half from where I was living at the time. I knew from the grapevine that this is the store RxMan also worked in. He seemed really nice and at least he was a semi-familiar face and close to my age. I phoned him at work and asked him some questions about the area (I was going to move there) and he was utterly clueless as to who I was. I guess I made quite an impression, right?

I moved into my new digs (a dreadful little apartment with scary neighbors but all I could afford on my meager salary) on Thanksgiving Day and began working the next at my new store. RxMan and I worked together quite often and, as a former tech, I was a big help to him in the pharmacy. We made plans, only as friends, to go to dinner a few days after I started at the store. I was interested in him but got the impression he was not; friends worked for me because I was new to the area.

We went to the Olive Garden and ate like pigs. (Seriously. He was a friend, not a date so I didn't worry about it.) We talked and laughed and really had a great time. I thought he was a really swell guy and was going to make a great friend and I was thrilled with that. Then we went back to his really, really nice and safe apartment and watched Independence Day and drank an awful lot of alcohol.

Alcohol and two people in their early twenties? Yeah. You know where this is going, don't you?

I remember doing shots and remarking that there was no way I was going to be able to drive home even though it was barely a mile away. He assured me I could sleep on the couch. Again, the alcohol told me that he surely wasn't an ax murderer or serial killer.

Then we were standing in his tiny kitchen and we locked eyes and the next thing I know he kisses me. Really. It was one of those fireworks kisses where your stomach dances and your heart races and your breathing becomes shallow. It was really a great kiss.

I stayed that night. (Not on the couch but no hanky panky either. I swear!) In fact, I didn't ever sleep in my dingy, scary apartment again.

And that is how I met my husband.

For more stories like this, go here.

Haiku Friday: Birthday Edition!

Three decades plus three
After thirty two hours
I entered world

Nineteen inches long
Weighing 7lbs. and 8
My parents so proud

My birthday is on
Saturday! Oh, happy day!
I'll be thirty-three

Apron Strings

You know what I hate?

I hate that even though I am nearly 33 years old and a wife and mother, my own mother can reduce me to a sniveling, pimply adolescent with one sentence.

"Feeling sorry for yourself today?"

Yeah, that'll do it.

Especially after I have been waiting for her in a restaurant for 20 minutes, at a time that she demanded, regardless of my own needs and wishes. My mom and I have a complicated relationship; but maybe everyone has a complicated one with their mothers.

Mine is complicated because I am not the favorite child. I was for a brief four years when I was the only child in our young, little family. Then, my brother was born. The first grandson on both sides of the family and the first boy in thirty years. Yeah, it was like Jesus was born all over again.

My brother was a cuddly, loving, mischievous child. I was a moody, distant bookworm. I always felt like a square peg in a round hole in my family; I just didn't fit.

Then, I grew up and moved away for a few years, which helped my relationship with my family tremendously. My mom and I are usually pretty close. We speak most days. We now live within fifteen minutes of each other.

Occasionally, the tension from the past rears its vicious head and it did yesterday. I am sick. I am tired. And, I am menstruating. Not a good mix.

My brother and his family live with my parents, which could be a whole 'nother series of posts about things I hate, and this is a source of conflict between my mom and I.

The thing that got me yesterday was that my mom had baked cupcakes and taken them to my niece's school for her birthday. She then took her out of school and spent the afternoon with her. Nice, right? It is. The problem is she doesn't do things like this for my daughter. She picks my other niece up from the sitter three days out of five.

Coincidentally, this is the same sitter that my son goes to twice a week for three hours. Do you see where this is going? Yeah, she leaves my son there, even though I am usually minutes behind her to pick him up; in fact, we often see each other there. Nice, huh?

Every so often, I just can't hear it anymore. I can't listen to the things my mom does for my nieces, whom I adore. I'm jealous, I am. My kids are wonderful but because they don't reside at their address, they are somehow less important. Less special. Less.

This pisses me off and I try to tell my mom. Usually, though, it comes out wrong and then she says things like, "Feeling sorry for yourself today, Toni?" And, then, I cry because I am still at heart that misfit of a child who wants her mom's affection and attention.

My mom isn't all bad. She is very fair with material items that she buys for all the grandchildren. She does love my children. She would come in a second if there was an emergency or a desperate need.

But I want her to not wait until there is a need. I want her to want to see my kids because they are mine. I think she should try even harder to see my children because of the time she spends with my nieces. She doesn't, though, and it hurts. But, we are at an impasse. She sees my hurt as jealousy and irrational. She doesn't recognize that my feelings are at least a little justified. She just sees me as a whiny, grouchy kid looking for a reason to feel sorry for myself.

And, yes, I know we need therapy. I begged for it as an adolescent. My parents, though, don't believe in that kind of money wasting stuff. So, I bottle up this anger and hurt and it bubbles up now and again to little avail. *sigh*

You bloggy friends are just the best; thanks for listening.

Momma Gone Wild

For once in a long time, I didn't play it safe this weekend.

Despite my son having lots of sleeping issues right now, which I am 99% sure is teething (yippee!), I bit the bullet and left him and my daughter home with a sitter on Saturday evening so my husband and I could attend my friend Joanie's surprise 40th birthday party.

I almost didn't go. I was so afraid the little monster, I mean, darling would wake up and cause the poor 17 year old sitter all sorts of hell and I would be forced to return home anyway that I nearly canceled. My husband said, "he'll be fine and, if not, we can be home in 20 minutes".

So, I threw caution to the wind and reluctantly relented.

And I am so glad I did. It. was. a. Blast!

There was wine, a band, wine, food, beer, karaoke, conversation, wine, NO CHILDREN, dancing and a little wine. And I partook of it all.

And it was so good.

After the second drink, I didn't even care if the little monster, I mean, darling woke up and screamed until my boobs and I returned home. Not even a little.

After the fourth drink, I was dancing, singing and making all sorts of new friends.

After the sixth drink, I forgot I had children.

And, after the eighth drink...well, suffice it to say, I shoulda stopped at six.

The good news? My husband is still speaking to me. The puke came off the carpet and out of my hair. And my kids survived. without. me. until after midnight!

That was the best $30 in sitter money we have paid in eons.

Thursday Thirteen: Things Grown-Up Toni Would Tell Teenage Toni

1. Resist getting bangs!
They are so hard to grow out and once you get them, you'll never get rid of them. Resist!!

2. Don't drive so fast.
You're not a great driver; slow down. You're going to have a couple really, really bad accidents and if you go too fast, you could get badly hurt.

3. Don't be so quick to burn bridges.
I know that being a teenager is all about being impulsive but friends are hard to make as you get older and there is really something special about friends made in childhood (Holla, Suz!).

4. Don't be such a slacker.
Use high school as a time to learn how to study- or at least take notes and manage time. College will be much easier with these skills. It is hard to believe that you won't always be one of the smartest in a room, but it happens and college is all about studying and time management.

5. Take Home Ec.
You don't really get pregnant from the water in this classroom. This course will come in handy as you grow up to be a mediocre cook at best so you need all the help you can get!

6. Don't worry about not having boyfriends.
They don't get your wit and opinions but, just wait, in a few years, you will meet a MAN who will appreciate all of your quirks!

7. Treat Russ better.
This guy will be your first boyfriend. Don't treat him badly by making fun of him saying "I love you" and for being sweet to you. Besides the fact it makes you look terrible to your friends and classmates, it comes back to bite you in the, er, arse. See #8.

8. Don't get drunk and watch Tombstone with Russ.
This would be the biting in the arse mentioned in #7. Beer + alone + horny teens + revenge = broken heart for 19-year old Toni. Resist the urge to just get it over with; it is a special thing and should at least be remember without a Bud Light-induced fog around it.

9. Try and get along better with Grandma Dixie.
When she gets sick, you will be devastated and realize how important she really was. This one is hard because you are both so hotheaded but give it a shot. She won't be around forever.

10. Run for student council, try out for volleyball; think outside of your box!
Don't worry about losing so much; it seems like this is such an embarrassment but just trying is so much more rewarding than always wondering 'what if'.

11. Don't peg those pants.
It looks so bad and stupid. It is just not a good fashion decision; trust me.

12. Hairspray is not a fashion accessory.
I know in the late '80s and early '90s, big hair was still in at PHS but, seriously, it ain't pretty. Really. Not. Cool.

13. High school is only a blip on the radar once you leave.
It is hard to imagine but, once you graduate, all of the drama that defines high school seems so trivial and juvenile. Enjoy this carefree time because it is the end of childhood and the beginning of a pretty great life to come.

This tongue-in-cheek list was inspired by Brad Paisley's song "Letter to me", in which a letter is written to the younger version of the speaker's self. Want to join in on Thursday Thirteen?

So, what would you tell your teenage self?

How Did I End Up Here?

When I was a kid, way back when, I never thought of myself as being someone who would be a SAHM/student at thirty-two years old. It's true. I had these grandiose, LA Law-type dreams of where I would be at this age and, let me tell you, none of them encompassed living in my hometown raising two kids, still working on my first degree. Uh-uh. I was going to take the world by storm, pardon the cliche. What happened?

Well, life happened. I went to college with little idea as to what to be and found that beer was way more fun than class. I made really cool friends who taught me how to bong beer, shotgun beer and do shots. Lots and lots of shots. These same friends also introduced me a time or two to the area Police (just for questions about others, longtime friends) and lots of campus security. For a girl who left high school with great expectations (see the literary reference there? Clever, huh?) and lots of potential, I was headed nowhere fast. Really. Fast.

As a child of an alcoholic, I recognized that it wasn't normal for a previously non-drinking person to be able to keep up with the 25 year old career frat boys in drinking games. Nor was it normal to not be really hungover after doing so. I was also a little embarrassed by my dismal performance academically. So, after 3 semesters at this university, I came home and attended the local branch of Ohio University.

I still did not do well. I took a job with the local newspaper and it absorbed insane amounts of my time, taking away from my studies. I should be honest here, though, I wasn't interested in school at the time. It required a lot of time that I had never had to put into school work before. I was a good student in high school and did little to get the grades I had. This does not translate into higher learning, even for us seemingly intelligent folk. So, being fairly lazy, I just bombed away in school. Horribly.

Eventually, I dropped out altogether. Surprised? I was. Surprised. And embarrassed. See, I was the kid in high school who was not only going places, I was really vocal about it. Obnoxious, even. Always, I swore to myself (and my dad, who took a great deal of stock in my going to college) that I would return and get a degree. Any degree. Just finish!

Well, when I took my sabbatical from college, I worked a handful of awful jobs and met my future husband and fell madly in love. (Gag me with a spoon, right?) Well, I did. We were in a great hurry to marry and begin a family. So, we did. Then my excuse for not returning to school was Her Highness. Who was going to take care of her if I were in class? Then, there are always financial concerns. How could I justify taking that money from my family when I had done so poorly in the past?

Truthfully, though? I was scared. To. Death. I was only getting older. I didn't want to be the old person in class because those people are always obnoxious. I also worried about fitting in and looking terribly out of place. Mostly, though, I worried about failing. Again. I just didn't know if my fragile self-esteem could take another blow like that. I still thought of myself as "smart" but what if, gasp, I wasn't really? What if I was just lucky in a mediocre high school?

But, eventually, RxMan encouraged and poked and prodded and insisted and I relented. I now love school. As I stare down graduation, I worry about leaving the safe cocoon that has become my forever education. Should I go to grad school? Can we afford it? I also really don't know what to do with this degree that I am pursuing. I want to write but who really makes any sort of living doing that? And, am I talented enough?

But, this all began with How Did I End Up Here? Well, through a series of choices that weren't always great, it is true. But, honestly, I am pretty happy overall. I am a much better student this time around and appreciate the opportunity to learn way more than I did as a twenty year old. I love my children. And my RxMan. Is it the path I foresaw? Lord, no. But, man, I wouldn't have it any other way.