Sam's Scrapbook Volume 2

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Fear

People deal with fear in different ways. For example, where my husband is a fighter, I'm a flighter. I remember once when I was around twelve years old, I was hiking with my best friend, Jean. We heard a strange sound, thought it was a bear, and immediately responded in our own way. Jean froze. She could not budge from where she was standing. I bolted. I can still remember her yelling for me to come back. Some friend, right? But can I help it if when scared for my life, I run? And let it be noted that I did eventually return to help her, eventually.

There is one thing in our home that brings great fear--the vacuum. I don't know what it is about the vacuum, but it is the most feared creature in the history of our family. And I've noticed that different family members respond to their fear of the vacuum in different ways. Gimli used to hide out whenever the vacuum came out. Then when the vacuum was resting quietly, Gimli would pee on it as if to say, "You may have scared me, but this is what I think of you." Maybe Gimli saw too many of those Calvin stickers on the back of trucks in his lifetime because that was his common reaction, whether he was angry or scared. And I'm not talking about like when dogs pee on the carpet because they're scared. This was intentional, calculated. Gus, on the other hand, will also hide out when the vacuum fires up. However, he is jumpy and edgy and runs from room to room. And sometimes, I think just to prove to himself that he isn't a coward, he will hide around a corner and then jump out at the vacuum and bark at it. If you've ever had a 120 lb. dog jump out at you from around the corner and bark, then you would understand why I almost have an accident every time he does it. Sam loves to squeal and run away from the vacuum. He will run and then come back to egg on the vacuum and then run away again. And then how does he deal with his vacuum fear? When no one is looking and the vacuum is quiet, he simply dismantles it.
If anyone in this house should be afraid, it's the vacuum!

Mother's Day

I can't believe we're already into May! Maybe it is because we just had snow last week. Oh well. The trees are still blossoming and the tulips still blooming, so I guess I can deal with the weather too! So I'm a little behind on blogging about life these days, but I do have one great accomplishment--I finished the Volume One scrapbook of Sam's first year (one hundred pages only covered the first six months!), and I'm almost done with Volume Two! Yay! I've been creating the scrapbooks on an on-line service called Shutterfly. I love it. While I've done scrapbooking in the past the old-fashioned way with different colors of paper, fancy scissors, stickers, and good ol' creativity, it is a lot of work. It takes a lot of time. And to be completely honest, I'm not as artistic as some other people are at creating scrapbook pages. I guess you could say I have my own unique style. Anyway, with Shutterfly it's just download pictures (which are all digital these days anyway), drag, and click. There are so many different formats and options, and just this past week they have some really amazing new features that they've added that make things so much easier and more exciting. Little Arliss' book is going to ROCK! I know I'm sounding like an advertisement here (hey, maybe Shutterfly will cut me some more deals like they did with my Christmas cards when they hear how highly I speak of them (because, obviously I'm so important and all)), but I just received Sam's first book, and it is amazing. The print quality is excellent, and the price not too bad. It was about $100 for the book. If you've ever been to a scrapbooking expo, you know that $100 is child's play in the scrapbook world! And I like that if I wanted/needed to make another copy, I could with no hassle at all. For example, one of the gifts we gave to the grandma's for Mother's Day this year was a project. I've designed this Grandmother book that they can go on-line and fill out details all about what they were like when they were little girls, how they met grandpa, their wedding, and anything they want to say to their grandchildren. My grandma made me a book when I was a little girl, and it is one of my most treasured belongings. And we can make the book and print off copies for every grandchild. Without too much work, we can make individual books for each grandchild. I think it will be really neat. In fact, I'm thinking of creating a family history book through Shutterfly. Anyway, I digress. I will end this tangent just by saying that you can check them out at www.shutterfly.com.

Mother's day this year was very special. Nic took care of Sam so I could sleep in (to the grand old hour of eight o' clock). Then Nic made one of my favorites, well, Arliss' favorites, crepes, for breakfast. Arliss loves crepes with fresh strawberries and whip cream. (His list also includes hot fudge sundaes, Cheetos, and corn dogs). Then we got ready and went to church with Nic's mom. She is such a sweetheart. I realize more and more how lucky I am to have such a wonderful mother-in-law and to have such a good friendship with her. I thought everyone was friends with their mothers-in-law and would hang out with them on a regular basis, but after talking to some of my friends, I've found out that that isn't always the case. Nic is such a momma's boy, and I worried when we first got married that I would never meet the standard that she set, but she is such a loving person. She just took me under her wings as a daughter and friend, and I love and admire her so much. When nothing else works, she is the only one who can talk some sense into her son. In fact, she is the only one who really knows how to deal with her husband and sons. They all have the same genes and can be a little hot-tempered and stubborn sometimes. She knows just how to smooth things over and get them back in line. I remember once, when we were first married, we had this big fight, and Nic went over to his parent's house. His mom listened to his complaints and then sent him right back home to me. I think she said something like, "You've said what you needed to say, now go home and tell your wife you're sorry!" She is truly an angel!

After we went to church with Nic's parents, we went to our church. I ended up substituting in the sunbeam's class because their teacher didn't show up. The sunbeams are three to four year olds, I think. I had three kids in my class, and they were so cute. Our lesson was 'I am thankful for my hands'. I love the simplicity of the lessons. I think we all need to remember the basics that God has blessed us with our hands, our eyes, our ears, our bodies, and everything that we have, and we need to have gratitude for all that we have. I remember about six years ago I used to teach one of the younger classes, and I would come home in tears every Sunday. I would get so frustrated because I really didn't know how to deal with these kids. I remember one time I was trying to give some lesson about Jesus and the boys all decided that they were cats and would only answer with 'meows'. They spent the entire lesson crawling around and licking their chairs. I had no idea what to do, and was so upset by my failures as a teacher by the end of the day. I'm proud to say, that I've learned a few things since then. It was like deja vu on Sunday when the three little children decided that they were kittens. Except this time I was able to work it into the lesson--cats don't have hands; aren't we glad that we have hands and can do things cats can't do. And I got my little kittens to clean up the room at the end of the lesson by offering them kitty treats (pretzels). They all gave me hugs before they left, and I felt good about things. This simple personal success was a great mother's day present for me. I felt energized as a mother and was left with the belief that maybe I can do this motherhood thing after all. Such beliefs can be fleeting! I think I will always have this fear that after all of the time, work, heartache and tears that it took to become a mother, what if I'm not a good one. And sometimes I think I put high expectations on myself and don't allow myself to complain about anything because, this is what I wanted for so long, and I fought so hard for this, I better shut my trap, step up to the plate, and hit a home run. But then I realize that I need to allow myself to just be a normal mom. The fact that I had to struggle and fight for motherhood doesn't mean I have to be perfect. And it certainly doesn't make puke or poop smell any better. I just need to be grateful to be a mom with all of its ups and downs, and remember to be grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who is always there for me to help me to be the best mom that I can be.

After church, we headed off to my parent's house to have dinner with my family. Dutch Oven--yum! Yum! We then spent the rest of the evening with my family. Let me just say here what a great mom that I have. My mom and I haven't always seen eye to eye. In fact, I think we butted heads my entire teenage years. But I've really come to appreciate what she has done for me and to see the good things she does for others all of the time. I remember I used to get so annoyed because after church it would take almost an hour to get her out of the building. She had to talk to so-and-so and this person and that person. I would sit in the car and fume or just walk home. I realize now what a great quality it is that my mom really cares about other people and their lives. And a lot of the talking she does is bragging about her kids. She just loves to talk and that's not necessarily a bad thing. I get so shy sometimes and wish that I could just chat away with people. But too often I get all tongue-tied and awkward and don't know what to say. My mom just talks to anyone and everyone. And I love to see what a wonderful grandma that she is. Sam is her only grandchild so far, and so he is spoiled rotten. But I love how involved my parents are in his life and how loved he is. I don't think my children will ever feel unloved in this life with our family cheering for them and supporting them.

Anyway, that was my mother's day. It was a wonderful, busy day. Nic had my blogs printed and hardbound for my mother's day gift. It was such an awesome gift. He did my Infertile Myrtle blog and this blog up to end of 2010. It was a wonderful experience for me to look back over my experiences over the past few years. It was especially tender for me to read over passages from mother's days of the past. I read about my first official mother's day last year, about the mother's day when we announced that we were having a baby (we'll never be able to top that gift to the grandmas!), and I read about mother's day when I was in the midst of infertility. It has truly been a journey full of twists and turns. I remember the mother's day the year before we got pregnant. I was struggling, and as we were heading to Nic's mom's church, I was attempting to eat a Go-gurt (you know one of those yogurts in a tube). Well, as we were driving, I managed to squeeze the Go-gurt too hard and yogurt exploded onto my face, on my dress, and in my hair. I remember just sobbing. And it wasn't because of the yogurt. That was just the last straw. I just wanted to be a mother so badly. Nic and I laugh about the yogurt now, and I'm not allowed to eat Go-gurts in the car, but I will always remember that heartache. And now here I sit, a baby bouncing around in my round tummy while I type, and a beautiful, sweet little boy taking a nap in his room. How am I so blessed? But just like I had to learn to not always ask 'why' in my trials, I need to also learn not to ask 'why' in my blessings. And, looking back, I realize that I felt the tender, comforting love of God in the hard times just as much (maybe a little more) as I do in the good times. I don't think I would change a single mother's day!

The rest of Chapter One

Before you continue reading, please remember that this is a young adult novel still in rough draft form! =) And, Angie, any similarities to real life people or situations is purely coincidental...=)

It is also around eighth grade that everyone starts to hit their growth spurts. The boys come back from summer vacation taller than the girls (finally!), and the girls have their own growth spurts in different areas. Though I don’t believe for a minute that Nikki Jones really filled out that much just over a couple of months. She left seventh grade, flat as a pancake. She came back in eighth grade with her T-shirt stretched over some very large curves that cause male students and teachers alike to run into inanimate objects like walls and desks. Talk about making mountains out of molehills! I don’t know what kind of parents buy that for their daughter’s fourteenth birthday! The rumor is that Nikki’s dad is a doctor and his best friend is a plastic surgeon, so he got a good deal. As long as he saved money, I suppose it’s all good.
As for me, I’m short, really short. I used to be taller than most of the boys in my grade. I think that was in second grade. Then the boys and girls kept growing, but, me, I stopped at the whopping height of 4’11. The other kids love to point out my height too, especially the boys. I have been called a midget, a dwarf, and every March, someone is going to ask me where I keep my pot of gold. I am so close to breaking that 5’0 mark! I drink a lot milk, eat a lot of protein, but the only growth I’m getting is in the chest area, and no thanks to Nikki’s dad’s best friend either. I read books and hear girls complaining all the time about being flat, but, let me tell you, being ‘well-developed’ (as my mom likes to describe it) is no cup of tea. Clothes never fit right. Have you ever tried to find trendy clothes for short and squatty? I had to start wearing a bra in fourth grade. Fourth grade! It’s humiliating. I feel bulky and top heavy and fat. I wish I looked more like my best friend, Cari. She’s thin and petite. She always looks so well put together and pretty. Her silky auburn hair doesn’t frizz like mine. She has long legs and a tiny waist, and her clothes fit her just right. My mom usually has to hem all of my pants. Have you ever had to wear hemmed jeans? It is so obvious, and half the time mom doesn’t get the measurements right, and I end up with high waters. I usually like to borrow flannel shirts and sweaters from my dad. He’s sort of a big guy and his shirts are baggy enough on me to hide any curves. It drives my mom crazy. She wants me to wear my own clothes, like the pink, ruffled shirt she bought for me for the new school year. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that shirt. The circus would probably take me away as a performer if I did wear it. To make matters worse, I have braces and acne which flares up whenever it is really, really important that I look good. Could matters get any worse?
As for my place in the middle school hierarchy, I’ve found that if I just keep quiet and keep to myself, for the most part, I can get through the day unscathed. I tend to be on the shy side, but I work hard in school and try to do what is right. I like to think of myself as dependable. Teachers tend to either like me or not notice me at all, which is fine as long as I’m off the radar. I have two best friends, Cari and Julie, and we do everything together. We are all very different from each other—Cari is into sports and dancing, Julie is into singing and drama, and me, well, I’m a writer. But somehow we came together and became best friends. We’ve been best friends since third grade. I used to have these friends that were a little rough around the edges and I thought Cari was kind of prissy. I would make fun of her that she had to dust off her seat before she could sit down, but in third grade we were in the spelling bee together and had to study together all the time. I discovered that Cari was actually really nice, and she could spell like no other. We became inseparable from then on. Julie’s family moved into our neighborhood at the end of third grade. We were just getting ready to begin summer vacation, and Julie’s mom was afraid that because Julie didn’t have the chance to come to school, she wouldn’t be able to meet any friends. Julie’s mom came to my house with a plate of cookies and asked my mom if she would ask me to be Julie’s friend. I reluctantly (meeting new people is way out of my comfort zone and a person should always be wary of a mother-arranged friendship) went with my mom to meet Julie. I was so nervous, but Julie and I hit it off right away. Then Cari and Julie hit it off, and by the end of summer, we were a trio. It’s nice to have friends to run the gauntlet with you. Somehow the blows sting a little less. Our little trio isn’t part of the ‘cool kids’ group, but we’re not out of the running either, not like Jessie Sutherland who was caught picking her nose and eating it in fifth grade. That’s the problem with living in a small town, everyone knows everything about you from the day you were born. To this day, Jessie still swears that she has dry skin and that she had just itched her nose and then scratched her lip. Needless to say, she will never enter the ranks of Cool-dom. To us, Jessie’s story is a cautionary tale. We still have a chance as long as we make no mistakes.
So with my height issues and top issues and running the gauntlet everyday and being so close to being ‘cool’, you can see why I was so upset when my mom announced, two weeks into eighth grade, that we were going to start giving Sarah a ride to and from school. Don’t get me wrong, Sarah is a nice girl. And I’m her friend, sort of. I just don’t want the whole world to know it. Does that sound bad? Well, wait until I tell you a little more about Sarah, and then you’ll really think I’m an ogre. My mom says the politically correct way to describe Sarah is physically and mentally handicapped. Some of the kids at school call her a retard. Sarah is tall and gawky. When she moves, she looks like a pile of blocks about to fall down, and she does fall down, a lot. She always has scabby knees and elbows from her many face plants. You know that scene in the cartoon Bambi, where the young Bambi is trying to walk on ice for the first time? Well, that’s Sarah on solid ground. It doesn’t seem to bother her though. She just gets up and begins lunging and lurching forward again.

Sarah has the mentality of maybe a six year old. Her speech is slow and slurred, and usually I have to listen to her for a few minutes before I can understand what she is saying. She is in the eighth grade by age only. She has her own classes at school, but comes to some of the regular classes like P.E., art, and home ec so that she can learn to interact with her peers. Sarah’s family doesn’t have a lot of money. They live four houses down from my house. Their house and yard are always run-down and poorly cared for. Siding has broken off, weeds are growing in the front yard, rusted bikes and car parts, though the family has never owned a car, are scattered across the drive way and front lawn/dirt patch. The city is always getting after them to clean up their yard. Some of the neighbors say their house is an eye sore in our neighborhood. Once a year, some neighbor will get ambitious and organize a service project to clean up their yard. The whole neighborhood takes an entire Saturday and lays down sod or paints the outside of the house or pulls weeds. A few months later it looks like no one has touched it in years. I hate to say it, but Sarah’s family is just plain weird. Sarah is an only child, but I wonder if her parents even know that they have a child, especially a child with special needs. Sometimes Sarah comes to school in the same clothes the entire week and her hair is rarely combed. Often, Sarah smells really awful, and I know she hasn’t taken a shower in at least a week. Her mom is this timid woman who rarely comes out of the house. When she does emerge from her home, she doesn’t look at or talk to anyone. She has blonde, scraggly hair and a drab face and could blend into the wallpaper if she wanted to. Sarah’s dad gives me the creeps. He is constantly changing from one part time job to another. Currently, he is unemployed. He is bald, has beady eyes, and is convinced that the world is conspiring against him. While his wife avoids making eye contact with anyone, everyone avoids making eye contact with him because even the slightest hint of eye contact, and he will take the next 20 to 30 minutes of your life to tell you about his latest conspiracy theory.

Despite her physical, mental, and family challenges, Sarah has such a bright outlook on life. She gets so excited about the littlest of things. I gave her a piece of gum one day, and she almost shook my arm off trying to say thank you. She does this squeal when she’s really excited and will hop up and down and clap her hands. She does this often because she is always excited about something or other. I don’t think she really understands just how bad she has it. She always has a compliment for you when she sees you. She loves to run her hands through my hair and tell me how pretty my hair is. This bugs me, but I still let her do it. I like being around Sarah, it’s like hanging out with my five year old sister, but sometimes I feel awkward and don’t know how to act around her. Sarah thinks everyone is her friend and likes everyone just the same. She doesn’t know that people make fun of her. She doesn’t understand that sometimes people are laughing at her not with her. This one time, last year, these older boys convinced Sarah that it would be fun if she would dance on top of the lunch table for them. She climbed on top of that table and danced away, elbows and knees jutting out, legs kicking out awkwardly and all these boys were gathered around the table hooting , clapping, and hollering things, “Yeah baby!” “Work it, baby!” Sarah was in high heaven. Luckily, a teacher noticed what was happening and put an end to it. The boys got in trouble, but kids still talk today about how hilarious it was when Sarah danced on the table. Sarah might not understand how other kids pick on her, but I do, and it makes me so angry. I hate how those other kids treat Sarah sometimes. I just want to punch all of them. Why do they feel like they have to pick on someone like Sarah anyway? I hope they can outgrow all of this by high school. If not, then I’m seriously worried about the world we live in.

Now, before you start thinking of me as a saint, as some crusader for the handicapped, let me be honest. While it infuriates me to no end to see Sarah being teased and harassed, I never do anything to stop it. You’ve got to understand, my own existence in this middle school is precarious at best. I have a reputation to build, and the road to being part of the ‘in’ crowd is a rocky one. So don’t judge me, when I say that sometimes when I see Sarah coming down the hall, I duck my head and hope she doesn’t see me. If she latches on to me at school where everyone can see, I might as well pull up a chair next to Jessie Sutherland in Outcast City for the next five years.

This is why, when my mom announces the new carpool situation, I tell her, “But mom, we can’t give Sarah a ride because…because…because sometimes I have to go to school early.” It’s a lame excuse, but all that I can think of at the moment.

“I’m sure she won’t mind going early some days. We’ll just let her know beforehand.” Mother logic is difficult to fight.

“But, mom-m-m-m!” That’s all I’ve got. Sign me up for the debate team!

“Besides, Sarah needs a friend at school, and you’re such a good girl, Janie, I know you’ll do what is right.”

I hate when parents do that. They put the ball into your court. “I know you’ll do what is right.” Where do they learn these things? Is there some kind of class called Evil Parenting 101 that every parent is required to take before they can have children? I wish I could explain to my mom why I don’t want to give Sarah a ride to school, but, to be honest, I am ashamed of the why and would hate to see that shame reflected in my mother’s eyes. I slink off to my room to devise some sort of plan of how I can ride in the same car as Sarah to school, exit the same car, and somehow lose her before we get to the front doors. Maybe I can convince my mom that my locker is at the back of the school and that it would be easier if she dropped us off in the back parking lot. The only problem with this solution is that all the doors are locked except the front doors, and we would have to then walk all the way around the school to get inside. Perhaps, I could just start walking to school. It’s only four or five miles away. Yeah right. I picture myself dragging my weary, frost-bitten body through a winter blizzard, my sweat-soaked hair frozen to my face. Finally I arrive at school just in time to hear the final bell of the day ring and then I am trampled by a horde of frantic-to-escape students rushing out the doors. Finally, I come up with a plan to tell my mom that I’ve joined the science club and that I have to be at school half an hour early every day. That way we’ll get dropped off while a majority of the other students are at home still getting ready for school, and no one will see us. I can feel the bags under my eyes already. This is going to be a really long year.

The next day, my plan seems to be working. My mom buys into the whole science club story. While I hate to lie to her, I tell myself that sometimes a girl’s got t o do what a girl’s got to do. We pick Sarah up at 6:50 a.m. Her clothes are mis-matched, and while she doesn’t smell too bad, her hair is oily and stringy and badly in need of a good washing. My mom gives Sarah a strange look and then quickly recovers with a huge smile. “Hi, Sarah! How are you this morning?” My mom chirps, far too chipper for this time of day.

“Hi-uh, Missezz Yarson. I good. Hi-uh, Janie. Your hai-wa is so pwetty!”

I’m slouched down in the back seat trying to get a few more minutes of shut-eye. “Hi, Sarah. Thanks.” I grumble and then close my eyes again.

I’m about to completely zone out when I hear my mom say, “Sarah, do you think you could come to our house a little earlier each day? We could play beauty shop and do your hair up all nice and pretty!”

Sarah claps her hands. Her volume rises with her excitement, so she’s practically shouting when she says, “Surwa, Missezz Yarson! I will come at six oooooo’clock!”

Sarah is going to be at our house everyday at 6:00 A.M. so that my mom can play beauty shop? I let this sink in for a moment. Could my life get any worse? If any of the other kids find out about this, my life is over. I resolve to have a good discussion with my mother about this tonight. I will prepare a solid argument during my English class. What was my mom thinking?! I slouch down further and pretend to have not heard the conversation.

My plan goes much more smoothly after that. My mom drops us off at school. I manage to lose Sarah as soon as we enter the building. Luckily, she is a person of habit and immediately heads for the special education classroom. The school is completely deserted this early in the morning, so I park myself at a lunch table and pretend to study. When the first busload of students bursts through the doors, I casually mingle my way into the group and make my way to my locker where I wait for Cari and Julie, just like any other regular day.

In English, I prepare a well-thought out, well-written argument of why we should just mind our own business and leave Sarah alone. It is some of my best work.

At lunch, I absentmindedly listen to Cari talk about some amazing volleyball slam she did in P.E. and Julie talk about some boy band that she is absolutely in love with (for the week, anyway). Eventually, they notice my lack of attention.

“What’s up with you?” Cari asks, stealing one of my tater tots.

I push my tray towards her. “Eat ‘em while they’re still warm.”

“Are you in lo-ove?” Julie teases. She knows that I have, in fact, been in love with Scott Peterson since the fifth grade. However, I’m not sure Scott Peterson even knows that I exist. Nothing new there. But someday, the stars will align, and he will look into my eyes, music will start to play, and he will realize that he is madly in love with me. Someday.

“No. It’s nothing. I just, I don’t know.” This is conversation at its finest.

“Wow. That totally made sense!” Cari says as she wolfs down the last of my tater tots.

I don’t want to explain my situation to them because I know I will sound like a complete jerk. I shrug. “No, it’s just that my mom has gone all Annie Sullivan on me.”

Julie’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “Wasn’t Annie Sullivan Helen Keller’s teacher? What’s wrong with her?”

Nothing. I think. While Annie Sullivan is now considered a saint and a hero to much of the world for her patient and loving work with a wild, deaf and blind Helen Keller, I bet she was picked on in middle school. Out loud, I say, “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

My friends just shrug. They know me well enough to know that they’re not going to pry anything out of me when I’m in one of these moods.

After school, I stall as long as I can. No need to exit with the crowd. I am walking out the main door with Julie when we hear it. Honk. Honk-honk. Honk-honk-honk-hooooonk-honk. It sounds like someone is attempting to play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on a car horn. Julie and I look at each other and burst out laughing. Some of the kids walking out of the building with us also start looking around and laughing. And then I see the worst thing I have ever seen. It’s so terrible that I want to look away but I can’t, you know, like, if you were to come across a terrible car accident and you know you should look away but you just can’t. Right there, in front of the entire school, is my mom’s mini-van. Sarah is sitting shot gun and honking the horn with great gusto. As she honks away on the car horn, she is laughing maniacally. And to my complete horror, my mother is doing nothing to stop this spectacle. In fact, she is laughing too. I can feel a deep, crimson/purple blush spreading up my neck and across my face. For a moment, I think that maybe I can mumble something about forgetting a book in my locker and go back into the school before they see me. But then, Sarah spots me. She stops honking the horn, and , to my horror, leans out the window and shouts, “He-e-e-e-e-y, Ja-a-a-a—anie-e-e-e-e!”

I want to die right then and there. Is thirteen (almost fourteen) too young to die of a heart attack or stroke or maybe just unknown causes, a.k.a. complete humiliation? I just stand there, frozen to that spot on the sidewalk. Then Mason Johnson bumps me and snickers, “Hey, it’s the retard-mobile! I though Janie rode the short bus, but it looks like she’s moved up in the world! Isn’t that your ride, Janie? Isn’t that your retard-mobile?” The kids around us start to laugh at me. When did the entire school show up for my humiliation? Because it definitely feels like the entire school is standing around me, laughing at me. In the corner of my eye, I think I catch a glimpse of Scott Peterson walking by. Forget stars aligning, now I just wish a black hole would appear and swallow me into oblivion.

Mason Johnson is such a jerk. He has always been a bully and always will be. I want to say something mean and cutting, but all I say is, “Shut up, Mason.”

I am waiting for Julie or someone to stand up for me, but Julie just mumbles a quick good-bye and disappears. Some best friend! Though I hate to admit it, I probably would have done the same. Now I feel a rage rising up within me, replacing my embarrassment. I shoulder past Mason, stomp up to the van, open the door, and toss my backpack into the back seat. I throw myself into the back, buckle me seatbelt , and slam the car door shut. Mom and Sarah, all fun and giggles, greet me, but I just growl, “I really don’t want to talk to you guys right now.” Mom can see that I’m upset, but Sarah is oblivious, as always, and tells us about her wonderful day of school all the way home.

Once we get home, mom approaches me like a lion trainer approaches a ferocious, unpredictable lion. I half expect her to hold a chair out between us. “How was your day?” She asks.

I make no reply. Instead, I pour myself a glass of milk.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Talk to me.” The fact that mom is acting so innocent only makes me angrier. She is clueless.

“That was so embarrassing, mom!” I finally blurt out.

“What was?” Mom thinks for a moment, drumming her fingers on her lips, and then the realization hits her. “Oh, you mean, when Sarah was honking the horn?”

I refuse to dignify her lack of thought with a response. Instead, I just glare at her. I know that I need to wrap this conversation up quickly, because if I stand here much longer, I’m going to start crying. I want my mom to see my wrath not tears.

Mom sighs. “I’m sorry, Janie. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Sarah was so excited waiting for you, and it was fun to watch her playing songs on the horn to get you to come out of the school. It’s just sweet how much she looks up to you, you know.”

The tears are getting closer. The dam is going to break. I decide to turn up the anger. “It’s not just that. It’s the rides and the whole beauty shop thing…and, well, you have your own kids, you know. You could try taking care of them.” I wish I could have stopped those words from coming out of my mouth, but they just burst out. I don’t mean them. I certainly know they aren’t true. My mom is some kind of super-mom. She quit her career of nursing, when I was born. This is a woman who went through college to become a nurse, worked long hours, was really good at what she did (from what I’ve heard), and then just gave it up to be a stay-at-home mom. Now her focus and her pride is being a good mom for me, my nine year old brother, and my little sister. And here I am, attacking her mothering skills.

I see something flash in my mom’s eyes, and I know I’ve hurt her feelings. But then she just licks her lips and says in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, “I know you don’t mean that. I understand that you are upset. I think that Sarah needs a little extra love and care, and I don’t think it will be such a sacrifice for our family to give that to her. Now, I think you need to go up to your room until dinner and think about things for awhile. Get your head on straight.” Mom always tells us to ‘get our heads on straight’ when we are acting really stupid.

I grab my backpack and stomp upstairs to my room. Once I get to my room, I am tempted to slam my door, but then I remember how much trouble I got into the last time I slammed my door, and decide against it. I close it gently and fling myself onto my bed. I pull out my well-thought out argument from my notebook, crumple it up, and toss it in my garbage can. Then I release the flood gates and let the tears fall.

A Snippet from the Book I'm Writing...

This is the beginning from the book I'm currently working on. Let me know what you think so far!

I read somewhere that some Native American tribes used to make prisoners-of-war run the gauntlet. However, there was no running involved. It was slow, grueling, excruciating…a prisoner-of-war had to walk slowly between two lines of people, young and old, with clubs and rocks. You had to keep walking while people on all sides of you pummeled you with clubs, rocks, and their fists. If you made it through the gauntlet, you were a member of the tribe. Some made it through the gauntlet with injuries that healed over time; Others were scarred for the rest of their lives; And some didn’t make it at all. Sounds brutal, right? If you ask me, it sounds like middle school. I mean, have you ever attempted to walk down the halls of a middle school during the five minute class break? It can be brutal. Forget about tardies, most of us are just happy to be alive.

In middle school you are a part of the gauntlet many times. Sometimes you are the one running the gauntlet, just hoping to survive. Sadly, sometimes you are the one holding the club, swinging away at someone else. I wish I could say that I have never done anything to hurt someone else, but let’s face it, I’m thirteen (almost fourteen)—I think it’s in my DNA. I mean, we all come into middle school as these wide-eyed kids. The halls are so big, the cold, metal lockers, terrifying, the lay-out of the school, confusing. We are all scared and awkward together. We still say things like, “Do you want to come over and play after school?” and sometimes we accidentally call our teacher “mom”. By eighth grade, we are hardened soldiers. We’ve seen it all (or so we think). We make fun of the new little kids coming in, forgetting that it was us once, not too long ago. We wouldn’t be caught dead asking a friend to come play, instead, we say, “Do you want to hang out?” Calling your teacher “mom” would be devastating to your middle school survival, so we avoid talking to teachers altogether. By eighth grade, it’s like you lose your innocent and naïve outlook on life, and you realize that it’s all about survival. You do what you got to do to survive because, hey, it’s a jungle out there.

The Morning of the 3 P's

This is from yesterday:

This morning has been brought to us by the letter P and by the number 3...
It all started with a stinky diaper this morning. No big deal. Then we had breakfast and after that it was time for a bath. Well, while Sam was taking his bath, he pooped (P #1). He hasn't done that for a long time, so I was caught by surprise. I quickly got him out of the bath, rinsed him off, and took him to his room to get him dressed for the day. While I was getting him dressed, he puked all over himself (P #2) and thus needed another bath. Unfortunately, I hadn't cleaned up the bath tub yet, so I had Sam in the bathroom in his birthday suit while I tried to hurriedly clean up the P #1 mess. While I was cleaning up the bath tub, Sam escaped, went into the hall, and peed on the wall (P #3). What a morning! Needless to say, it took us an hour and a half just to get Sam ready for the day!

Oh Baby!

Yesterday we had the usual doctor appointment. I have to admit that I am a total doctor-junkie. Granted I don't like just any doctor, I'm into OB-GYN's! Don't worry, I'm not deranged or anything, I just love going and hearing my baby's heart beat. I like hearing a professional tell me that everything is looking good. It's addicting! And after next month's appointment, I will start the every two weeks appointments. Am I getting that far along already?

So how does this pregnancy differ from the last one? Well, while I'm doing much better now, the first trimester was a little more rough than before. Granted, I don't compare to the horror stories out there--I rarely even throw up--but I'm a bit of a drama queen and not a good sick person, so it seems end-of-the-world to me sometimes! With both pregnancies, I've had problems with my hips. Many nights my hips will wake me from a dead sleep, and I flip-flop all night like a fish out of water (or a politician, haha). During my first pregnancy, I purchased a body pillow, named Phil, that helped quite a bit. This time, Phil just wasn't doing it for me, so I purchased one of those giant 'S' shaped Boppy pillows. His name is Bob. Bob has been a life-saver! I'll still get some pain in my hips every once in awhile, but most nights I sleep very well thanks to Bob. What can I say? The hips don't lie! Poor Nic. Sometimes he has to share a bed with Bob, Phil, and Henry (my heating pad). But I always make sure I give him a kiss good-night before cuddling up with the rest of my guys!

The biggest difference is, well, I'm BIG! I remember having a little baby bump and thinking I was so huge with the first pregnancy. This time, I'm five months along and look more like seven months. This lady at church asked me if it was possible that I might be having twins. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take a comment like that! My theory is that when Sam was in the womb, he set up a really nice bachelor pad, complete with couch, love sac, big screen T.V., and possibly a wet bar. The new baby (whom we call Little Arliss) saw the 'push here' button, pushed it, and voila! Pop out condo!

So why do we call the baby Little Arliss, you ask (perhaps with concern that that might be the name we are planning on using)? Well, that is what my parents were planning on naming me before I was born. They were dead set that they were having a boy, but, fortunately, I surprised them and got out of being named Arliss.

Little Arliss is quite the active little fellow. I first felt him move on March 20th. I love feeling him punch and kick and do cartwheels. It is the best feeling in the world! Nic even felt him move a couple of weeks ago. It was one of those tender moments. Nic had his head on my lap and was talking to Arliss and all of sudden Arliss gave him a little punch on the cheek. Nic was so excited. "Was that the baby?" I nodded. I think it was a great bonding moment for Nic and the baby. We are so excited for when we'll get to meet this little guy. It will be here soon enough. Though I have to admit, I also get a little anxious on how I'm going to manage with a toddler and a newborn. We'll just have to wait and see!