I’ve been reading what others wrote about me.

People wrote some really nice stuff.

They thought I was incredibly nice and inspiring.  They thought I was full of hopeful dreams and bright beliefs.  They thought I was sweet and loving.

They were wrong.

I rub body parts and demand nudity.  I believe there is no such thing as failure.  I think every thing can be made into a reason to laugh. I think it’s important.  Sickness.  Death.  Handicap.

I appreciate everyone’s attempt to be nice.  To make me out to be something special.

But I’m just boring me.

Plain old boring me.

In my underwear.

The not-clean ones.

Things have changed since i woke up from the coma.

in good ways – I managed to miss all of winter.

in bad ways – I’ll  pay to see the new Twilight movie.  Oh,  I’ll pay.

And in ways that break your heart into tiny little pieces – Peyton cried because mommy wasn’t all fixed by the hospital.

It was one thing for my parts not to work at the hospital, that was expected.  It was wrong for it to be happening at home.  And she did have a fit.  An ugly one.  One that got her in trouble with her daddy for being nasty to her mommy.

It took a talk.  From the broken mom.

Pete rolled my chair into her room.

Are you mad?

Are you scared?

Are you sad?

Are you afraid?

She was.  All the above.

How do you tell a six-year-old that it all takes time?  That things will get better if not perfect.  That it’s ok to be afraid but you have to be hopeful too.

And you tell your thirty-six-year-old too.

Why no one should ever…I repeat…EVER…offer me a PTA position.

Cause I just might take them up on it. And then?

Armageddon.

Or at least the school version of it.

Dear 2009-2010 parents,

I sure appreciate your misguided voting to elect me as your new PTA president. We are instituting a few possibly-not-totally-approved-by-administration  changes to the way this year’s PTA is going to be run.

1.  There will be no more fundraisers involving magazines, wrapping paper, candles or candy. The only fundraisers that will take place under my reign will involve practical, common sense things that everyone’s going to buy anyways and will involve the least amount of inconvenience: toilet paper, deodorant and tooth paste.  Bonus is? If someone is NOT using these things in a sufficient manner, {and from the number of you that are missing what should have been permanent teeth, this could take a good deal of our stock} you can buy in bulk.

2.  Administration wants better parent turnout at the meetings?  Two words: OPEN BAR.  I cannot promise we’re going to get anything accomplished, but the possibility for blackmail photos being taken are worth at least one or two bake sales.

3.  Any and ALL disagreements will not be voted  upon in a civilized manner. They will be taken care of in the only way two adults SHOULD handle a conflict of minds: in the parking lot, bare knuckle brawls. DONE.

4.  Failure to respond to PTA emails or newsletters will be taken as an assumed commitment.  Should that commitment not be fulfilled, we will take that to mean you are forfeiting your vehicle’s tires and they will be taken in lieu of your participation.  All four of them. On all of your vehicles. Wherever we find you.  And make no mistake, we WILL find you.

5.  Those parents that take it upon themselves to be snobby, elitist, or social-mongers will be SHOT.ON.SIGHT.

Well, I think that just about wraps it up.  Looking forward to a great new year.

GO TIGERS!

************************************

I had a bit of an incident this week.  I wrote about it over at Aiming Low, but I do use some of my grown-up language, so don’t read it if that offends you.  I’m talking about you, Dad. Really. I mean it!

My kids started school today.

I KNOW! We start wicked early but that’s a really good thing because OHMYFREAKINGHECK do my kids need to be around some other kids.  And out of my butt hair.

Thursday was open house at their respective schools…the girls at the same elementary school and Nathaniel at *gulp* middle school.

I am blown away by my children and the awesomeness they dribble into my life every day and I am going to give them to these people for large chunks of every day and there are just things I WISH I could say to them…these teachers….the people who are going to impact the changes in my maturing babies.

So, instead of marring my children’s reputations RIGHT off the bat, I will leave my heart here.  These are the letters I would love to send their school.

Dear Middle School,

Today as my son, entering sixth grade, makes his way through your halls I worry.  I worry for my boy that looks so grown-up in my eyes until I see him standing next to the gargantuan eighth-graders you apparently grow like redwoods around these parts. He looks small. He looks vulnerable. He looks so very young.  Keep him safe.  Help build in him the confidence we try to instill at home…the strength of heart to recognize the moments when standing firm against things that are wrong are most important…the love of learning that can only be fostered through challenge and encouragement.  And if you could get those eighth grade girls to maybe bind those boobs of theirs, that would be much appreciated. HOW is a boy supposed to concentrate on algebra with all that…errr…bouncing going on?

Dear Third Grade,

Please hug Rachael.  No words, no public acknowledgement means more to her than a simple hug that says “You did a good job.”  She will hold onto the memory of that hug and keep it for the moments that she is struggling.  My girl has the best laugh, but she also has the softest heart…so if you could maybe watch out for it, I would be eternally thankful.  This is the age that girls start to get mean…catty…those learned attributes that make me want to shake the pearls off some mothers.  I am trusting you to protect her as best you can, while still allowing her to stand on her own two sturdy little feet.  She’s a talkative little beast, so please be patient, I don’t know where she gets it she comes by it honestly. I hope that you are able to see the light in her beautiful eyes and laugh with her. And don’t forget the hugs.

Dear Kindergarten,

I hope someday you understand the gift you are being given.  YOU get to teach one of the most incredible children you will ever lay eyes on. I know all parents think that, but Peyton is a very special little girl. She’s not your average kindergartner.  She has been through more in her five years than most of the teachers walking the halls will ever know.  You don’t have to handle her carefully…she’s strong.  You don’t have to worry about her…I do enough of that on my own.  She knows she’s different from most kids…not in any way she could ever define, but she knows it.  Please don’t let the kids make fun of her hair….her scars…the little differences that make her awesome. I will not be crying when I leave my girl at your door, but I will be shredded into a million little pieces inside when she walks away.  My pride in her so large it will threaten to burst. So, when I tell you I am giving you one of my most prized gifts, you’d better take care of her.  Don’t make me use my loud, grown-up voice.

Just between you and me.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’ll be watching the clock, straining towards pick-up time.