Sometimes You Can't Go Back...

And sometimes you just shouldn't. I was thinking of this the other night when our family went to the library. As I was looking for a good book to read, I came across my all-time favorite book. I haven't read it in years, so I snatched it off the shelf and hurried to check it out.

When I got home I mentally prepared to dive into this classic. And then I remembered the banana debacle.


For years, I used to tell Mark about how when I was a Girl Scout we used to make these amazing Banana Boat desserts when we would go camping. I explained how they were the most amazing dessert....ever.

You have to try it, I told him. He bedgrudgingly agreed--as he so often does. So we made them. And in one bite my childhood began to unravel. Do you have any idea how incredibly gross a warm mushy banana with scorch marks on it is? Even if you do cram it full of chocolate chips and marshmallows.

So now I'm scared to death to turn to that first page. I'm afraid it won't be as good, or that after all these years I'll see things in a completely different light.

But part of my new journey has been about pushing forward--despite my doubts and fears. So I'm digging into the book. The banana boats, though, I'm perfectly happy leaving in my past.

I'm So Vain

And, yes, this post is all about me. It is, after all, my blog. (If you didn't get that reference, shame on you. Now click here and educate yourself.)

One of the side effects of Copaxone is a permanent indentation in the skin at injection sites. So, let's see, daily injection, 7 injection sites, for, oh, the rest of my life. That more or less equals more dimples than a golf ball. In short, thanks to these shots, I've got a better shot at gracing the cover of Golf Digest than Sports Illustrated.

And that's what was on my mind the other day when I went bathing suit shopping. As if that isn't torture enough, trying to find one to cover my dents made the excursion even more challenging. Especially one that doesn't look like my grandma's bathing suit. And it's not real easy to find the style to the left anymore.

I know, I know. After four kids you would think I wouldn't be bothered by a few dimples on my body. But I am. Maybe it's because I can cover my stomach. Covering both my arms and thighs at the same time is a bit more challenging. And, let's face it, we women care about our appearance.

I did manage to find a suit with a cute little skirt, but it's not long enough to cover most of my thighs. So if you happen to see me floating by you in the pool this summer wearing capris and a T-shirt, please don't judge. It's only a temporary solution until I can buy me one of those fancy, dancy olden days bathing suits seen above.

What I Learned From Circus Camp

Anyone who knows anything about me knows how much I despise the circus and, more specifically, clowns. So imagine my horror when Alex informed me that he wanted to go to....wait for it...Circus Camp. (Yes, there really is such a thing.)

Of course, as any good mother would do, I begged him not to go. He stood strong, though, and I was reminded of a very valuable lesson. That is, that even though I gave birth to these kids, have raised them, pay A LOT of money for them and want them to stay little forever, each day they are growing into their own little people. They have their own likes and dislikes, interests and dreams.

I remember what that felt like--spreading your wings and finding your passion. My mom and dad stood by as I tested the waters with soccer, softball, water polo, dance, art class, theater and singing among many other activities. And I very clearly remember what it feels like to have your mom say that the story you wrote about a waffleiron that attacked a kid at breakfast was brilliant.

"Your going to be a great writer one day," she would say every time I brought her my latest story. She believed it, so I believed it.

So that is why I begrudgingly wrote the check. This isn't about me. It's about Alex finding his way. Alex, my shy one, my worrier. The boy who hates trying new things and meeting new people. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. After all, what better way to step outside your comfort zone than to learn to plant a pie in someone's face. Yep, sometimes being a mom means stepping back and watching your kids find their own way--even if that path takes them to Circus Camp.

Random Thoughts While Walking

When I walk, I think. I can't help it. Sometimes it's about what I have to do for the day, sometimes it's about this blog.

This morning was no different. So here are some random thoughts I had on my walk.

* The phrase "Slow and steady wins the race" is a lie. Slow and steady will get your ass picked up by the race police and carted to the finish line--past all the fast people--in the cart of failure and shame.

* Dumping water over your head during a race makes you look cool. Doing it on the street in your neighborhood--no matter how hot you are--will only make you look weird.

* Painting your garage pink is always a bad idea. No matter what era or for what reason, it will never look good...ever. (See, I warned you they were random.)

* When you are walking and cars drive by and wave/honk, it is impossible to identify who is doing such waving/honking. So just wave back regardless of whether you know them or not.

* I wonder how much the fine is if you get caught peeing in the woods because you couldn't find a bathroom.

* Those "special" socks that help prevent blisters when you run/walk now make perfect sense to me. Too bad I'm too cheap to buy them.

* Raccoons are not cute animals when they're alive. They're even uglier when they're dead and bloated on the side of the road.

* Doing that special biker wave when you pass bikers apparently only applies if you're on a motorcycle. If you do it to them while you're walking they just kind of glare at you,which doesn't seem very nice or friendly to me.

*Walking/running is REALLY boring--same songs on your Ipod, same routes, etc. I'm not sure why people do this for fun. That being said, this Princess marathon better be as cool of an experience as I'm working it up to be. Because if I endure all this and it's not, I'm gonna be seriously honked off.

So those are my random thoughts for today. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

Reality Bites

The other day, when I was having a particularly horrible day, I got an instant message from my big sister just checking in. (Bad move on her part, unfortunately.) After I barfed up the details of my day all over her she wrote back: "Hang in there. You are strong."

Strong--definitely not a word I'd use for myself these days. Scared, broken, frustrated, exhausted or overwhelmed--now those are words I can resonate with. Strong I can't.

My body hurts. My spirit's broken. I'm mad, I'm scared, I'm frustrated. Thanks to the arrival of summer, I'm having trouble finding time to walk. (Heat exacerbates my symptoms, even if only temporarily.) I can't recall the last day I felt good. And no matter how many inspirational songs I put on my Ipod, how many "you can do it" kind of quotes I surround myself with, or how much I want or need to do this princess marathon, the reality is I kinda know it’s not going to happen.

Strong? Nope. Not me. Not now. But maybe tomorrow will be better.

Are You There God? It's Me, Susan

And with all due respect to Judy Blume, this post has nothing to do with my period. But it does have everything to do with you, God. And some serious questions I have.

When I first started this whole MS thing, I--like probably every other person who has anything wrong with them--prayed for it to go away. Not me, not now, not ever. Please, God. It was worth a shot, I figured. Every saint in the Catholic Church needs two official miracles. So why can't I be one of them?

Over time I came to peace with the fact that I wasn't going to pray my way out of this one. (Of course, John Paul II still needs one more, but I suspect some of the things I've said about him in regards to the sex-abuse crisis might get me passed over.) But I prayed nonetheless. I just didn't know what I was praying for.

I've prayed for roses from St. Therese, but thanks to me saying how much I think they're a rip off I don't see those very often. I've even tried St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes. And again nothing. I've prayed to every connection I have in the communion of saints that I can think of. Obviously, they either weren't as holy as I thought, or they don't have an "in" with you.

So, O.K., God. Could you please help me out. What am I supposed to pray for? Strength? Patience? Understanding? What is my journey about? What am I supposed to learn? Or am I supposed to teach someone else something? A little help, a little direction would be most appreciated.

Amen.

Oh, and tell John XXIII I'm a big fan of Vatican II and think he got the shaft when they moved his tomb for JPII. (He still needs another miracle, doesn't he?)

It’s All About Perspective

Last night when I was doing laundry, I came across this ratty old t-shirt. It’s an undershirt, actually, and it belongs to my son. Well, it was originally my dad’s. One night when we were at my parent's house and the kids got a bath and didn’t have any PJ’s, my dad gave it to Alex to wear home. At the time, I’m absolutely certain that my dad didn’t realize what he was actually giving my son.

Now let me back up a minute and give you some background to this story. You see, my mom is amazing when it comes to laundry. And, much like her cooking, no matter how hard I try to copy what she does, I fail. My laundry never looks as good as hers (which could have something to do with the fact that it often lays on the table in the laundry room for days). And, as my children so often point out, it NEVER smells as good as grandma’s.

But back to the t-shirt. Since the day my dad gave Alex that shirt, he has worn it over and over and over again to sleep at night. When it was dirty he would return it to my mom to wash for him. He said it didn’t smell right when I washed it. Nowadays, since I started using the same fabric softener as my mom I can get away with washing it--sometimes

For a brief moment when I grabbed it off the pile to fold it, I considered retiring it to the rag bin. But something stopped me. Sure it's  torn, old and ratty looking. But it matters to my son. For him it isn’t just a t-shirt he wears to bed. It is something his grandpa gave to him. It reminds him of grandpa and it smells like him. In short, he has a whole different perspective on that t shirt than anyone else--including me.

If I’ve learned anything over the past couple of months, it’s that perspective matters--A WHOLE LOT. How you choose to look at things can make a huge difference in your attitude. But the tricky part is that it is a choice. One you have to make every day. Some days I’m better at seeing the glass half full--I walked 4.5 miles. Other days I fail miserably--I couldn’t run those 4.5 miles. Today I choose to see things in a positive light. How about you?