I am Michelle D. Carter

I wake up this morning to the reality that I’m not as young as I used to be. My body just doesn’t respond well to my weekend warrior activities. My body is aching from staining the fence yesterday. It hurts to move my shoulder and wrist, not to mention the blister on my thumb. I’m almost 2/3 done with the job. Next time, I’m going to figure out how to spray it.

I’m lying in bed, knowing that getting up is going to be painful, and reviewing the list of things I need to do today. I usually go to the gym in the morning. However, the house is trashed because I was outside and the kids were inside. There are balloons covering the dining room, art projects thrown about the house and dirty dishes and laundry to wash. I conveniently talk myself out of going to they gym.

I get dressed and slowly limp downstairs. DAMN IT DOG!! There, lying in the middle of the living room, are two piles of dog poop. To add insult to injury, they were not the easy-to-pick-up variety. They were loose.

I called Tim at work. “Did you see what your dog left for you?”

 ”Yes, I did.”

“Why did you leave it for me to pick up?”

“I wasn’t in the mood to pick it up.”

“Like I am!”

I gather my tools – plastic bags, plastic gloves, paper towels and carpet cleaner. I make it through the first pile, on to the next. I’m not certain if it was the fragrance or texture, but I was getting extremely close to my limit of doing this job and keeping my stomach contents. Come on, get it together, you have to finish this without puking. A few more dry heaves and I get around to getting it cleaned up.

Don’t think you’ve gotten away with this, my sweet hubby! I don’t care that you have to work all day. Go ahead and ignore the mess “your” dog made. I’ll spend the day thinking of ways to take my vengeance. Maybe I’ll put the bag of crap in his car so it’s nice and ripe for him when he goes to work tomorrow.

I didn’t say that I’m stronger (or the better person) every day.

Boys are just a different breed and mine are typical boys. They like to rough house, wrestle, tease and taunt each other (and their sister too). Some days it doesn’t matter how many times you tell them to stop, they keep messing around until someone gets hurt.

Knowing how they behave as brothers, twin brothers no less, we put them on different soccer teams. Because they play 3v3 soccer, they have the same coach. We’re fortunate because he is great with kids, has three boys of his own and understands how squirrelly five year old boys can be.

However, when the boys’ teams play each other, chaos is unleashed. They consistently push each other, wrestle, etc until the coach, Tim and I are yelling at them. The coach, Shawn, is awesome in dealing with them. He’ll put them at opposite ends of the field to help curtail their orneriness. You would swear they were magnets, drawn to each other. Somehow they still find each other.

Last night they had a game at 6:30 then almost an hour break before the 8:00 game. This is a new sports complex and isn’t very spectator friendly. After almost an hour trying to protect yourself from misdirected soccer balls that are rocketing at you at 80 miles per hour and trying to keep a group of 5 years old boys in check, tension levels were high. Let’s say I’m at DEFCON 4.

I’m sitting on the bench next to the coach’s wife, Mandy. We were talking about how all the boys were not into the game. I see Alex push Andy to the ground. As Andy’s regaining his composure, I look over to see Alex still taunting Andy. For unknown reasons soon to be all too clear, Alex has his hands placed firmly on each side of his shorts. Seconds later, they were down. He had mooned his brother right there on the soccer field.

I shriek, “Oh My God!” And try to hide my face.

Mandy turns to the field to see what she missed. “What?” She sees the little round white butt. The hysteria begins. “I saw bare.”

I didn’t even know what to say. She asked if it was just something Alex liked to do or if both of them found joy in airing out their back-sides and embarrassing their Mother. That’s an easy question. They both do it. It doesn’t matter to them. See, being open with your body is coming back and kicking me in the butt.

For most of us, learning to deal with kids doesn’t happen overnight. We’re given years of opportunity to prepare for their future exploits. The lessons start off easy with simple things and progress as they age. In their own way, they are slowing making me stronger. I’m just worried what they’re preparing me to handle.

Regardless of what Tim or some of my close friends may tell you or show you in photographs, the boys did not inherit this skill from me.

ANDREW JON! You know you are in trouble when your Mom yells at you using your first and middle name. Andy is a thumb sucker. 

Alyssa never sucked her thumb. She never had a pacifier. Alex sucked his thumb but was able to stop on his own. If Andy could permanently have his thumb in his mouth, he would be one happy camper. I’ve received lots of advice. Most said they or someone they know sucked their thumb until 4th grade or sometime later in life, and all is well now.

OK, whatever. This is MY son. I’m the Mom and I decide what is best for my kids. He needs to stop! There are lots of different tools out there claiming to stop the habit. You name it, we’ve tried it. The fingernail polish didn’t slow him down one bit – his thumb immediately went into his mouth. Band-aids and tape, he’d sneak off by himself, remove the obstacle, then return proudly displaying his accomplishment. The more I fought, the more he protested. We found the thumb-guard online. Guaranteed or your money back. Basically it’s a pliable plastic that fits over the thumb and hooks on the wrist with a hospital band. A little pricey, but with the money back guarantee, you can’t go wrong. We were off to a great start. Though it looked like a torture device and generated dirty looks from the self-appointed judges of the “Parent of the Year” contest, I didn’t care. He wasn’t sucking his thumb.

Finally, something was working.

Until… he figured out he could use his teeth to stretch the plastic device enough to get his thumb out, get his fix (he just couldn’t kick the habit), then use his teeth again to place it back on. Andrew Jon!

After talking to the pediatric dentist, it was time for an appliance. He’s already “open,” meaning his top and bottom teeth don’t meet (see picture), and if it continues, it will lead to a speech impairment.

The dentist made plaster impressions of his little mouth and added spacers to make room for the $500 dental appliance, known as the “retainer.” We called it that because Alyssa has a retainer and thought it would be easier for him to understand. Yeah baby, he can’t get his thumb in there now.

A couple days later, the whole appliance fell out. I don’t think the assistant used enough cement. After another trip to the dentist, his retainer was back in place. OK, now SUCCESS, finally!!

Andy never complained about the device. He couldn’t manipulate it or take it out. It wasn’t fun watching him eat. He was constantly sticking his fingers in to remove the food that was caught in it. It was very similar to seeing a plumber pull out the soupy, shredded remnants from a clogged garbage disposal. Again, I didn’t care. It was working. His attempts to suck his thumb had long since subsided.

Until… approximately four months later, I was outside working in the yard. Andy comes running out yelling at me, “I want this retainer out right now! It’s hard to eat.” His first complaint ever about it.

“Are you done sucking your thumb?”

Without a response, he runs back into the house only to return moments later with part of the device in his hand.I reach into his mouth and can feel rough edges where it had been attached. Fearing his tongue will be sliced to shreds, we immediately head to the dentist’s office. They have NEVER had one break like that, EVER. Only my son! We decide to keep it off for now in hopes that he’s overcome his addiction.

 ”ANDREW JON!” Here we go again!

“What?” as he quickly removes his thumb with the orneriest grin ever.

“Keep it out or I’m calling the dentist.”

About a week later, the call is made. The dentist is out for the next three weeks. Great, just great. Plenty of time for the addiction to become full fledge again.

The appointment is approaching, I’m excited, Tim bursts my bubble, “You aren’t going to have that thing put back in, are you?”

“Excuse me!” I’m trying to keep to my guns, but in reality, I had been caving all along.

“It’s such a pain for him to eat.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. He’s also a lot better now than he used to be. At least when I yell at him, he keeps it out. Give me some time to think about it.”

The next day I get Andy alone and decide to discuss it with him.

“Andy, do you want your retainer back in?”

“Yeah.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, will the dentist be mad at me?” The dentist has had a few stern conversations with him about his addiction.

“Well, he won’t be happy and he’ll probably share that with you.”

“NO, I don’t want it.”

“OK, let’s see how you do. You’ve been doing much better and as long as you don’t suck your thumb, we’ll keep it out.”

“OK, Mommy.”

It’s been about two weeks and I haven’t seen his thumb in his mouth since this conversation. Yeah Andy!! You’ve overcame your addiction. You are stronger!!

I have always tanned very easily. I’ve been told that a great Grandma was a full-blooded Indian – I guess the politically correct term is Native American. I was told this by my biological father, a.k.a. the sperm donor. The trust level there is nil. However, due to my skin tone, there may actually be some truth to this.

As long as I can remember I’ve been a sun worshipper. Every year I would get a new swimsuit because I would be at the pool for several hours every day and wear it out. I still feel I need a new swimsuit every year. This drives my hubby crazy – just one of the many things I do.

One year I laid out in the sun so long, I fried. I was so cooked that my face blistered. Being a true sun-worshiper, I was back out the very next day. I had to, you know, to get my back side, to even out. At least I had brains enough to put a shirt over my blistered face. At least I’ve got some logic to my insanity.

Being home with the kids this summer has provided the opportunity to re-live my younger days of subjecting my skin to the almighty sun. I always put sunscreen on the kids. I’m very cautious about applying it on them. I certainly don’t want to get any on me. I go to the extreme of scrubbing my hands to get the sun screen off my hands and anywhere else it may have splattered. Then I slather myself up with the Dark Tanning Oil.

 (Photography by the wonderful Alyssa Anne Carter) (Model Alex James Carter)

I’ve heard:

* What a great tan!

* I wished I had a tan like that!

* If I stayed out here all summer, I still wouldn’t have a tan like that.

* You get any darker, you’ll be able to check the minority box.

* Wow, look how dark you are!

Let’s see how many of them want to be me when I dying of melanoma.

All the wrinkles and leathery skin from too much time in the sun will make me look tougher, right? Wait, I’m trying to be stronger, not tougher. If you have any to spare, please send me some common sense and a bottle of sunscreen.

Being a Mom means you have to set boundaries for your kids. You do this to keep them safe. I have heard on more than one occasion, “Mom, your mean” or “I hate you.”

Last night, Tim took the boys to soccer practice. Alyssa was at a friend’s. I got a little me time. I’m working on the computer when I get an email from Tim. It says, “Remind me to tell you about this later, ‘Mommy’s the mean one, right, Dad?’”

I’m running through the day’s events and trying to think of whom I made mad this time? Alex did get sent to his room for not listening to me. He wasn’t too upset though.

I’m a very impatient person. I call Tim. “So, what have I done this time and to whom?”

“Alex. He said ‘Mommy’s the mean one, right, Dad?’”

While he was in complete agreement, Tim didn’t want to throw me under the bus so easily. He probed a little, “What?”

“Mommy’s the mean one.”

“Could you be a little more specific? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“On the show, Mommy’s the mean one.”

Oh, they were watching Little Mermaid. Last year for Halloween we dressed up as the cast from the Little Mermaid. I was Ursula, the MEAN sea witch. Tim was King Triton. Of course, Alyssa was Ariel, the little mermaid. Alex was Sebastian.

Andy was supposed to be Prince Eric. However, when it came time for him to put on his costume, he threw a fit. His was basically pants, shirt and a wig. Alex had this cool costume with pinchers, etc. Feeling like rotten parents, we had to get him a replacement costume. At the last minute, Tim and Andy went to the store to get something with a water theme. I was anticipating a fish or a shark. No, they returned with a duck. I don’t remember a duck in Little Mermaid, but Andy was happy.

Sometimes you’ll be called Mean Mommy when you’re doing what’s right to make your kids stronger. In the end, it will make both of you stronger.

Yesterday morning I was helping Andy put on some anti-itch cream. He must be one sweet kid because he always ends up with lots of bug bites and typically they are on his genitalia. I was putting the cream on his finger and he was applying it.

“Mom, has any babies come out of me?” They know that at one point they were in my tummy.

“No, babies can only come out of mommies. But, boys are needed to make the babies. When you get older, we’ll talk more about it, OK?”

“OK.”

Whew, dodged that bullet. Actually, I want to be honest with my kids. I don’t want them to be ashamed and I want them to know that they can always talk to me about anything. My problem – how to keep things age appropriate and not share too much information.

I recently read How to Talk to Your Child about Sex by Linda and Richard Eyre. I loved it! It really helped me put things in perspective for them. They recommend Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle. In my opinion, it helped to discuss proper terms and in a way they can understand. I had the talk with my daughter a few months ago. Because this is new to her, she still comes and asks questions. She is learning from me. That’s what I want. Mission accomplished. I am stronger. 

I HATE having summer colds. They are the worst! Mine started on Tuesday. I hate feeling run down and in a fog. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Every five minutes I’m blowing greenish-yellow snot out my nose.

I was supposed to go out with friends last night. Sorry Annette! I couldn’t even muster up the energy to take a shower, let alone have a cocktail. I would much rather be drinking and suffer with a hang-over. At least I would have some fun before the exploding head.

Instead, it was dinner at McDonald’s – an excellent way for the kids to burn off some energy without tearing up the house. I convinced them to pick up their mess they had created during the day in order to go to McDonald’s. We rented Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. It entertained the kids. I got to lay and wallow in my anguish.

I hope to start feeling better over the weekend. Then I’ll feel stronger to resume normal blogging.

It began my sophomore year of college. I’ve never had many serious relationships. In fact, just one I can recall. Men weren’t beating down my door to take me out. I was working for my Dad, as I did throughout college. They told me about his reputation before his first day with the company. It is amazing how little it takes to get a girl to ignore warnings, do things she knew was wrong and fall for his lies. We’ve all been in a place in our lives where we’d do almost anything for someone who made us feel special. Does it make my actions justified? HELL NO! That’s just how it happened.

His “innocent” flirtation started immediately. It didn’t take long for things to become intimate. We spent a lot of time together and I thought he truly cared about me. He would tell his wife that he was working and would even sneak out of the house after she’d fallen asleep to spend time with me. Ultimately, he was just selfish. He wanted to make certain I didn’t have time to go out and meet other men. Someone who would take me away from him. He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t do to him what he was doing to his wife.

My parents caught us once. They had stopped by my apartment one evening. His truck was parked in front. I answered the door in a robe. It doesn’t get much more obvious. I was read the riot act: What are you doing? You know better? We told you about him? Do you think we are talking just to be talking? Do you really think he’s going to leave his wife? It’s going to end and end now!

I DID think he was going to leave his wife. After all, I was different than the other affairs he had. I was special. Boy, was I naïve!!!

Our relationship continued until I graduated from college and moved to Kansas City. Approximately six months after I moved, I finally decide to end it. He kept saying he was NOW ready to leave his wife. After all this time, I decided I didn’t want him. Thank God something finally went off in my head!!!

As you could imagine, things got a little ugly when he realized he was no longer in control. I don’t want to get into the details, but things ended with my Dad negotiating the exchange of an opal ring he’d given me for some Polaroid snap shots of me.

He still works for Dad. My Mom has seen his wife wearing the ring. I know you are not going to believe this, he’s still cheating on her. Once a cheater, always a cheater, especially this one!

It’s not something I’m proud of in my life, but it did make me stronger!

Zoey is a stray dog that a friend of a friend found in January. Kathy, our friend, called to see if we wanted a dog. I said NO! She describes her as a really good dog with a sweet disposition, is house-trained, and bakes the best muffins. OK, I’m exaggerating about the last item. With the exception of a small white spot on her chest, she’s an all black, lab-mix. Kathy would keep her; but her dog, Bella, and Zoey just don’t get along. 

I tell Kathy she needs to talk Tim into it. I know him well enough to know he’s going to say no, regardless of who asks. As always, I’m putting all the pressure on him to be the “bad cop.” The kids can explain to their therapist that it was their Father who deprived them of a normal childhood by not allowing them to have a pet.

Since we were tentative about the entire situation, Kathy suggested that we take the dog on a trial basis. We’ll tell the kids that we’re watching the dog for Aunt Kathy. We didn’t want to get the kid’s hopes up in the event it just didn’t work. I think Kathy missed her calling in sales.

She took Zoey to the vet to get her shots on the way to drop her off at our house. He estimates that she’s around 2 to 3 years old and weighs almost 50 lbs. She’s had a litter and doesn’t appear to have been “fixed.”

The kids couldn’t be more thrilled they are watching a dog. As expected, she is a little timid. Her most recent living arrangements included two weeks under a pine tree. The couple who originally found her had cats and couldn’t let her in the house, and a couple of days shacking-up at Kathy’s where she was the new kid, who couldn’t get along with her bunk-mate, Bella, who had the home court advantage and is about 25% larger.

We think she must have been abused by a male because she tends to stay away from men, including Tim, as much as possible. Things were going very well. She is great with the kids, hasn’t chewed-up anything and always goes outside to do her business. After a couple of days of watching her, we ask the kids if they’d like to keep her. It was silly to ask the question, we knew the answer. YES!!!

Once the decision was made and the kids were settling into their new role as owners, the dog that was too good to be true began to display her other, darker side. Imagine, if you will, the canine version of Linda Blair’s character in The Exorcist, with two additional legs and no projectile pea soup…

It was her third evening in our home; Tim headed upstairs to begin our usual evening routine and found her sitting on our bed. Our previous dog, Hallie, spent nearly 11 years with me, all of which were spent sleeping in the same bed with me. It’s almost impossible to extract things from my bed. For a while, Hallie, Alyssa, Tim and I shared a bed. It took a one-way trip to doggie heaven for Hallie and nearly 5 years to get Alyssa out of our bed. I wasn’t letting all that work go to waste. Zoey is not sleeping on our bed. This is one issue where Tim is thrilled that I came to my senses.

He tells her to get down. She growls at him in full defense mode with fangs out and the hair was standing straight up on the back of her neck, or was that the hair on Tim’s neck? Since she obviously has issues with men, don’t we all, and I have the best rapport with her, Tim shrieks for me. I go into our room, look into her big brown loving eyes, point to the floor and tell her in a firm voice to “get down.” She immediately jumps right off. Meanwhile he’s still whimpering about red eyes and her head spinning around. I’m thinking the two of them need to spend some quality time together so Zoey can learn that Tim is the Alpha dog. Or at least let him think he is.

Within a couple of minutes, she’s back on our bed again. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it, I say to myself. I repeat my actions of a few minutes early. This time, I get the snarling, barking and hair standing up. I tried to get close so I could “assist” her to the floor. She attempts to sink her pearly whites into me. What the hell?! I call for back-up. With the kids safely sheltered in their rooms, we flank her with the only escape route leading downstairs. After assessing the situation, she takes the opportunity and runs downstairs and straight into her crate, where she spends the night.

Kathy hooked us up with the local “Dog Whisperer” who agreed that Zoey was attempting to assert her position as Alpha dog and probably did experience trauma as the result of abuse from a male. He recommended that we keep a leash attached to her collar even while she’s in the house. It would enable me to get her off the bed (or Tim’s throat) without getting too close to her. Either he performed an over-the-phone dog-whispering-exorcism or she’s an extremely bright dog. It took her a couple of weeks to muster the courage to go upstairs and other than hurdling the end table to flee the vacuum, she’s never attempted to get on the furniture.

She’s been with us almost six months and sleeps by my side of the bed at night. She still barks at Tim all the time. Not too long ago, the kids were in the basement when Tim got home from work. Zoey started to bark and I heard Alyssa hollering, “Daddy’s home!”

The kids take her for a walk almost every day. They do a good job. Zoey must like it because she’s always excited to have the chain out and ready to go. She’s great with ornery boys. They try to ride her like a horse, lay on her like a pillow and she takes it all without a complaint.

She’s still a very freaky girl! But she’s our dog and we love her. Her nickname is Zorita, Chiquita Banana.

I don’t know what you’ve been through Zoey, but I hope you realize we love you and that makes you stronger.

PS – Tim, you really don’t need to sleep with the Cross under your pillow.

Alex is the artist of the family. That kid could sit for hours and hours, drawing, coloring, doing any kind of art project. Last May we drove to Disney World and what a trip it was. We stopped and picked up some colors and paper to entertain the kids. Alex colored until he had every piece of paper covered.

So I often hear, “Mom, will you help me?” Lately it’s been, “Will you make me a heart?” While trying to empower him more (or just get him to leave me alone after making 20 hearts), I tell him, he can do it.

“No, I can’t.”

“Sure you can, you already have the bottom part, and the top is easy. See, it’s like a butt.” As I’m drawing two little humps and saying, “butt, butt.”

The giggles begin and he tries it himself with success. I see lots of butts, oh, I mean hearts in my future.

Empowerment, it will make you stronger.