Ignorance.

I am usually good about ignoring other human beings thought processes on Social Media.

I can scroll past an offensive picture with just a nose wrinkle or a shake of my head.

Whatever.

People have their own opinions and make choices on how they want to view them.

That is another reason that I am happy to be living in america.

(Where we can over flow our social media sites with selfies and not be afraid of getting our noses cut off for it.)

On the 4th of July I saw a picture posted of a woman standing on our Flag with her fist up.

I read the dialog and just stared, biting my tongue but really just too busy preparing for our 4th of July parade to say anything.

It wasn't until yesterday, over french roast coffee and through several yawns that I became fucking furious at what I was seeing and so I have titled you and others like you "Ignorance." 

That is your name now.

Dear Ignorance,

You have endorsed killing and hatred.

You have posted pictures of a woman standing on our countries flag and while you have tried to spew "thoughtful" and "Intelligent" words about it. 

You have missed your mark.

I find it funny, (and when I say funny, what I mean is disgusting) that many people who abhor this country have no issue with letting it feed their family. Provide themselves with an education and help to pay for their child's daycare.

When you post pictures of a woman standing on the flag, what I see, is a woman standing on the neck of my father. Who fought for this country and couldn't talk about it.

My sister, who did the same and my brother who is currently active.

Until you strap on and step up. Miss me with your unintelligent bullshit and be thankful that you live in a country that will feed you when you are hungry. Educate you when you are un-knowledgeable and allow you the freedom to form your own fucked up opinions.

Dear Ignorance,

Ask me what I am and I will tell you that I am A woman, a mother, a teacher, a Queen of everything, An american.

I do not say that I am a white woman. I do not hashtag whitelivesmatter. 

Can you even imagine? 

That is disgusting.

My life matters, so does yours and that woman is standing on american soil, raising her fist up in protest. Her life matters too.

Her life mattered to my Father.

all life matters. dumbass.

Can you be so unintelligent as to look at what is happening in the world, and endorse it?

To DARE to cast judgment on the pictures of a police officer holding a man down in a way that is ...wrong to you?

Can YOU please share a story on how YOU disarmed a man, the "proper" way.

Have you asked a man to drop his weapon and have him keep coming, not feeling the taser because his body has an 8 ball of methamphetamine running through it and he is twacked out to a T?

Do you put your life on the line each and every day hoping that you will return home to your children in one piece? To feel like you have a target on your back and the world is filled with angry snipers ready to take a stand against "THE MAN."

We are raising up the future. And I have done MY best to instill a moral compass, love of country and respect for their fellow human beings.

NOT white human beings. NOT black human beings. But ALL human beings.

In my house, there is no separation. WE are colorblind.

In my house, we love one another as God wants us too.

And do you know how I do that?

I model it. I show it. I put down the flagstones that my children will walk upon.

Your words. Your actions. Your opinions matter.

They hear. They see and they form small opinions based upon your bigger ones.

It is easy to sit on our couches and forget the men and the women who make it safe for us to feel comfortable enough to bad mouth everyone.

I am not saying that your issues, are non issues. But how are you fixing them by encouraging rage and spreading hatred

Is this country perfect? no. But what are YOU doing to change that?

Finally, be you all of one mind, 

having compassion one of another,

 love as brothers, be pitiful, be courteous:

Not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing:

 but contrariwise blessing; knowing that you are 

thereunto called, that you should inherit a blessing.

#FURLARIOUS

My Wednesday workday was not a bad one. Hectic yes, bad...naw man.

A bad day is when you step in SURPRISE shit, fall down in the rain, (breaking your bosses umbrella) and frantically making sure your Ralph Lauren boots didn't get scratched in the process.

But Wednesday was full of creative thinking processes and working together as a team.

It was also taco night.

Every night, when I walk in the door, both of my children greet me and ask about my day. They then sympathize with me when the beast is being beastly (they usually take his side) and pat my head when I am whiny. (They half-roll their eyes) and Emma hangs around while I prepare dinner.

"So mom. Taco's tonight?" Emma smiles and hops up on her feet.

I don't even know WHY Emma gets so excited for tacos. She basically eats cheese inside of a freshly cooked taco shell, but whateves.

"YES! Tacos." I nod and immediately start to disrobe. 

"Was it a good day?" Emma asks.

"Yes. Busy but good."

"We could always go to El Rosal. you know, so you don't have to cook."

My daughter is a genius. She also enables me to not cook sometimes. (Which makes her a geniusy-er genius.)

"YES! I need Mexican food in my life."

So off we went and Shane drove.

I have been going to this El Rosal for 17 years. When I sit down, they know what I order. When I ask for a Dos Equis...I'll be honest. She looked at me funny.

"A beer?" She asks.

"Yes." I nod

"Ooooookaaaaaay." and she walks away to get it.

Listen.

I don't drink. 

And when I do, I can only have like...a sip. (I am pretty sure that I have an allergy to alcohol.)

The waitress clunks a huge glass stein in front of me, complete with an itty bitty lime wedge.

"What the fuck is that?" I murmur. In awe of the gigantic-ness of it all.

In the world of beers. This was a goliath.

"That is your beer." Shane dryly answers. Looking at me like I am a retard.

"But it is HUGE!" I say, sliding it up to my face and taking a gulp. 

I am not going to lie here. I am not a beer connoisseur, but it was delicious...so I took another gulp.

"Try it!" I slide the mammoth monstrosity over to Shane and he shakes his head. "TRYYYYY it." I insist. (I have no guilt about it (ish)

He does and gags.

"There is no accounting for taste." I say and take my third gulp of the night

We continue chatting (The children were pushing each other back and forth and snapping pictures) and I took my fourth and final gulp.

Then it happened. 

While telling the kids about my day, I pick up my napkin because my nose is itching something fierce.

It doesn't stop itching.

"Here we go." Shane leans over and murmurs to Emma.

"Yep." She replies staring at me.

"What? What are you saying?" I rub my nose vigorously and beam mom looks at the both of them.

"Nothing mama." Shane singsongs at me and laughs.

Shane is always laughing at me.

Shane is a Bully.

"Is it hot in here?" I ask. My face feels like it is on fire.Literally on FIRE and I begin to fan myself.

"Nope." Shane replies, laughing. Emma shakes her head and daintily dips a fry in ketchup all the while staring at me.

"Mom?" Shane questions

"Yes."

"Are you ....tipsy?"

My eyes narrow and I giggle. Because something comes over me whenever Shane accuses me of being TIPSY. 

It's like...a mix between furious and hilarious. Furlarious. That's how I feel.

I push back my plate, grab my purse and stand up. "Let us go assholes." (Apparently I also talk like  badmouthed royalty when I am furlarious.)

I don't remember much about the ride home, except wishing I could have gifted someone the rest of my delicious mug of beer,  the children staring at me and my being very impressed that I was such a cheap drunk.

#momguilt

The other day a parent at work and I argued over who was the worst mom in the world.

"I need to take a picture of this summer calendar. I haven't yet. It's because I am a bad mom." She shook her head and snapped a picture.

"No, No. I am a horrible mom. I don't even make my kids dinner every night."

"Psh. I got that one beat....One time.."

And it went on.

In reality, If motherhood was measured in the amount of laughter our house held. Then I would win mom of the year.

As it is, my sink always has dishes, my living room always needs to be vacuumed and FORGET about my yard.

(Literally...don't even drive by.)

If you do, you will see a couch that is still sitting there from when I got my new one. And I don't even blame MYSELF.... I blame the taste of my neighborhood tweakers.
(Like seriously? Don't they know how comfy that couch is? Why haven't they taken it?)

So it is sitting there like magic will one day make it disappear. Or my children, if they would only listen to me and garb themselves in black at midnight and walk it two doors down.

Also, as a back up plan. I have HUGE ideas for that couch at Halloween time. So. If it stays maybe I will try and pretend that I wanted it too.

Right now, as I type, my neighbors are outside raking their yard and sweeping their outside carpet. (I guess it's a thing.) while glancing over at my yard in disgust.

I have yard shame. 

Enough to feel sorta bad about it, but not enough to go outside and join them in early morning raking.

Don't they KNOW Jesus wants me to sit on my butt on Sunday?

I always have good intentions in the morning, when I am energetic and hopping down he steps to work. "Okay, tonight I will work on the yard for an hour." I say to my deflated rose bushes and dried up grape vine.
But as I slug my way in the gate, up the stairs and into my home I ignore my earlier intentions and focus on whats REALLY important. My butt on this couch.

I have noticed that almost everyone has mom guilt. It just comes in different forms.
Working too much mom guilt
Stay at home mom guilt.
Fat people mom guilt
shopping addict mom guilt
I have an asshole kid mom guilt

All KINDSA guilt.

It is a fact that I don't beat my children. I don't smoke the ganja nor do I sleep with men and sneak them out my window (anymore). We women are too hard on ourselves. This I know.
And even though I try as hard as I can, to ignore the mom guilt as flawlessly as I do that couch outside, i just cant kick it.

Because whenever I do, I feel too guilty.

Beanies guide to Common sense Parenting 2: LET them fail (OR resting mom face)

I have a good friend, who tells me that there is no such thing as common sense.
And while he makes a good point and looks pretty while he does it, I still disagree with him.
I nod and smile while he argues his point because that's what you do to boys (and pretty things)

Common Sense (yes I googled it) means to "have good sense and sound judgment in practical matters."
So when I talk about common sense, this is to what I am referring too. (Also known as not being an fucking idiot.)

In my opinion it is our Job, as parents to create successful adults who will become leaders in our communities. To use their abilities to rationalise and react in a manner that will reap rewards or benefits for the good of themselves or their community as a whole.

And how do we do that as parents? Just how do we 'raise up' grown people who can think for themselves and foresee their outcomes using common sense and the abilities that we have nurtured in them.

The answer is simply stated, albeit intensely hard to do at times. You let them fail.
But you do it in a safe and protected way.
As our children grow up, we are to give them more and more space, until they are navigating through life on their own, and with good morals and standards of living, or more importantly, thinking.

From the time that our children are born to the time that they leave the house, every SINGLE moment, is a learning moment. Every trial no matter how trivial can be learned from. And sadly, when that moment passes it can never be recaptured. It starts small.

When Shane was 2, he was infatuated with our box fan. He would stare at the blades moving and creep closer and closer to it with every day that passed. Finally, I found him reaching out to it with his teensy tiny fingers.

What do you do?

A) Unplug the fan and hide it away in your attic until the child has left your home?

B) Demand that he NOT touch it and tell him he will be in big trouble if he does (Which, incidentally almost GUARANTEE'S that he will touch it.)

C) Recognize that there is a learning moment here.

First up: Teaching. It is our job to teach our children about life and everything in it. It is NOT our job to keep them from experiencing said life. Even at the cost of a cut teensy tiny finger.

"Shane, those blades will hurt you if you put your fingers in there."

He looked up at me and pursed his lips.
Children do NOT think with adult brains. (duh) they think with brand new brains that do not know (hopefully) much hurt, pain or consequences.

I turned the fan on low and walked back into our teeny weenie kitchen.

Soon enough I heard the fan stall and my son howl. He was holding his fingers and crying. I walked over, cuddled him and looked at the damage.

My heart was beating in my chest. Being 19 years old and the mother of a 2 year old, did NOT make me wise. I wasn't nor have I ever been a wise person.

 I simply wanted my son to trust what I have to say, and I KNEW that trust has to be earned and shown. Not told.

"What happened?" I asked him (Like I didnt already know.)

"The fan huwt me!"

"How?!" I gasped, (Being a parent is also acting)

He pouted and pressed his face into my chest.

"Did you put your fingers in there?"

He nodded into my chest, crying because the fan hurt his fingers AND his feelings.

"Yes. The fan will hurt you if you put your fingers inside of it." I reiterated.

So, what did Shane learn from this moment? He learned that the fan was a fucker. But more importantly, Shane learned that when his mom warns him of something, maybe he should listen. He also learned that it was okay to fail in front of me.

You can TELL, YELL and scream something at your children. But it is more important if they learn it for themselves.

Don't ever say "SEE? I was right!" To anyone.

That is just unpleasant and unintelligent. Yes you were right, you also just cost yourself the respect and admiration of the person (child, spouse or friend) that had a learning moment.

Basically your low self esteem just ruined it. YOU feel better about the situation. Everyone else just thinks you are an ass hat.

Our pride is not as important as theirs is. We are already adults. Who gives a damn if we were right. It is so much more important for them to feel safe failing.

As Shane grew, sometimes it was very difficult to let him fail. But I did.

When he was 12 years old and in Jr.High I took my first child development class and I learned all about positive discipline. "This is an actual thing?" I said to my teacher. She nodded and reiterated "This is an actual thing."

Basically it teaches your children to be aware and accountable of and for THEMSELVES.

It is not YOUR job as a parent to bundle up your child (past the age of 5) for a cold day. It is your job to let your child know that it is cold outside.
Let them decide if they want a jacket. If they choose not too, and they get cold...they will not die and they wont forget it again.

It is not your job to make sure your child eats all of their dinner. It is your job to provide dinner. If they go to bed hungry, they will NOT die, and choose to eat more the next night.

Do you see what I am saying here? Each one of these things is a learning moment. And it is IMPORTANT for your child to experience them. Make their own decisions about their warmth level, hunger level ect. Small stuff.
And once they learn how to make decisions about small stuff, Like what to wear on Tuesday, they will be able to handle bigger decisions and repercussions.

When Shane was 13 he was failing a history class.
I called him into the kitchen (RESTING MOM FACE firmly in place) and presented his report card. "Let's look at your grades."
We looked at them together and he winced when he saw the F in history.
"I'm sorry Mama." he said

"Don't be sorry to me, these are not my grades. They are yours."

He nodded.

"Are you okay with this F?"

"No."

"So what should you do about it?"

He thought about it for a moment "I will go to my teacher and see which assignments are missing and try to make them up." 

"Sounds like a plan."

"Are you mad at me?" he asked. Shane could never stand me being upset at him.

"You did not fail ME. You failed History." 

Shane ended up not being able to make up the grade in that class and as a natural consequence he had to take it again.

"UGH I have to take that history class AGAIN!" He vented to me one night over dinner.

"Why?"

"Because I failed it."

"And are you going to fail it this time?"

"No way." He answered, determined. And he didn't. He passed the class and learned a lesson. Work smart not hard.

Was I worried? Of COURSE I was! However, Shane learning this natural consequence was more important then ME making my self feel better by piggybacking my son's way through his education.


As our children grow up, it is important that we teach them how to made decisions about their own lives. Despite how others may think it looks.

When Emma was in Kindergarten, she dressed...like a train wreck.
 Sequence skirts overlaying jeans, a striped short sleeve over a plaid long sleeve and she always, ALWAYS wore cowboy boots. (We had them in every color.)

One day as we were leaving the school campus, her kindergarten teacher chased me down. "Mrs.Elam!!!!" She waved to me. I stopped and smiled. My smile slipped once she said what she needed too.
"Um...we notice that Emma's shoes are always on the wrong feet."

I glanced down at Emma, and sure enough..they were.

"Okay." I waited

"It's just...maybe you could fix them before school?" She smiled hopefully.

"Emma dresses herself." I stated

"Well...we are worried that she will fall."

"If she falls, she will switch them."

"Well, they MIGHT hurt her that way."

"If they hurt her, she will switch them." I looked down at Emma who was holding my hand and clomping her hot pink boots against the cement.

Her teacher smiled uncomfortably at me.

"I don't understand. Is Emma's boots interfering in her learning while at school?"

"Well no. Emma is the brightest child in her class."

I smiled "I am sure her boots are the brightest as well. Have a good day."

Did I make Emma switch her boots? Naw man. Naw. However the school DID call CPS on me.

When they showed up at my door, I was shocked. Embarrassed and more then happy to show them Emma's pink princess room stuffed full of clothing and every shade of boot available in Modesto.

When they left our home they apologized and promised things would be wrapped up quickly.
It was.

The most important parenting advice that I have ever given out, or will give out is this: Let your children fail. But be there for them when they do. Be a guide in their crazy life. Be a teacher and let them learn lessons.

Show them that it is safe to fail around you, that you will not rub it in their face when they do, or demand that they should listen to you. (because they won't EVER after that.)

Be a calm presence in the face of childhood. And Perfect the "Resting Mom Face"

ALL of the time.

One of my favorite things about having older children is...well....there are many favorite things about it.

When my children were small I use to worry about the day when their belief in Santa Clause disappeared in a haze of bloody booger meatball and teenage angst.

Luckily that never happened.

The tables have changed and I truly believe that my children go through with all of the family traditions and expectations for me. I am the one who is catered too.

"Santa is coming tonight Mama. Aren't you excited?" Shane said to me in between spreading the reindeer food and laying out the cookies.

He also patted me on the shoulder, sort of child like.

Waitaminute.

I am pleasantly surprised at how amazing it is no longer having small children in the home.

Once upon a time, I thought that teenager-dom would include slamming doors, rolling eyes and children running out on me at every opportunity.

My ex-husband once caught me on the floor in our living room crying when Shane turned 5.

"What is wrong?"

"Shaaaaane! He is growing up too fast!" *sob sob bitchfest and cry*

"Well that is a good thing!" He insisted

"A GOOD THING? How is that a good thing?"

"Well....." He thought for a moment "..... think of the alternative. If Shane stopped growing up...then he would sort of be dead."

*GASP!* "HOW is that comforting asshole?!"

"Well....Aren't you glad he is growing up now? Growing up is a good thing...being dead...not so much."

At that, I distinctly remember clutching my 5 year old son to my chest and sobbing into his bowl cut hair.

"Mom. I don't want you to cry. Wanna play Zelda?"

"Yes." I sniffed. And off we went to play.

Later, I did thank my husband for pointing out my ridiculousness.

"Thank you. You were right. Shane is much better 5 then dead."

" It's okay. You were right to cry too. That's what good mamas do."

(See what we did there? We were a good married people.)

My ex-husband had a point, and from then on whenever I got sad from my children growing up too fast, I did indeed think of the alternative, cuss him out in my head (because he was right) and celebrate the fact that Shane was 10...then 15...then 20.

I take great joy in my children being old. Yesterday I bought Emma a desk for Valentines Day and didn't feel the need to prepare it in a grand gesture for her.

"HAPPY VALENTINES DAAAAAAAY!" I squealed to her when she popped open her eyes and saw her huge new fluffy puppy and desk. (I am not one who believes in gifts on Valentines Day, but meh...she needed a desk.)

"THANK YOOOOOOOOU!" She exclaimed with delight and began opening it and assembling it. 

"Wan't help?" I offered.

"Nope. I want you to relax."

Once Shane woke up she wandered up to him "Happy Valentines Day! Help me with my desk?"

Together they sat on the floor and worked on it. Shane cussed. Emma navigated the instructions and I called over every now and again with "DO you need help?" and "It looks wobbly to meeeee!"

(Which got me even more ugly looks from Shane and caused them to whisper at my expense.)

I loved it.

On Saturday, I braved 10 different stores to find Emma's Superstar ADIDAS that were sold out at 9.

I kept referring to them as A-Dee-Dee's and the children laughed together and patted my shoulder with kind condescending tones and "It's okay mom. I love my A-dee-dee's." and "I'm going to ROCK these A-dee-dee's on Tuesday like you don't even know."

I know what Adidas are and I certainly know how to pronounce them. (My high school boyfriend and I had a matching pair!) However, I receive immense joy letting my children think that I don't know what I am talking about ALL of the time.

#Fully flawed.

Acceptance is the first step to practically everything.
Drug abuse, bad parenting, grief and even clothing addiction.

I know, because I googled it and everybody knows that Google is the smartest thing in the world. Google is on every cell phone and even housed in a pair of specs.

Heck,

Google maps even caught me sauntering into Buhach Preschool a few years ago huffing and puffing like a Sasquatch. (it's true..you can Google it.)

...anyway. I accepted a long time ago that I am a flawed human being. Fully flawed.

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

#Flawedandfalling

Take last night for example...

At 5:47 I rush out of the lobby, excited to lock up the center and get my weekend started (because let's face it, a Netflix binge is in my future.)

At 5:57 pm I limp inside of the lobby with my (Juans) now broken umbrella shaking in my fist.

"What! What happened to you?!" At first Preeti is SO concerned.

"I fell! I fell down the steps!" I lifted my skirt to show her my knee. "You know when you're old (and fat) you don't even realize that you are falling until it is over." I then reenact my falling.

"Oh my God....Are you okay?" She smiles.

"Yes asshole."

"Oh myyyyy Gawwwwwd." She laughs. "I am sorry to laugh."

"Friends are supposed to laugh when you fall. I can't WAIT for you to fall. I'm going to shit myself laughing at you. Look at my knee!" I whine and limp off to text Juan about his broken umbrella.

I sort of fold it back up and prop it in place. "Maybe he wont notice that half of it is crunched." I murmur to myself.



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

#Flawedandfailing

Emma tells me that I intimidate her friends.
"But I am the nicest person in the entire world!" I state.

"Just look at you! With your hair and clothes. Not to mention your red lips. YOU are intimidating."

I huff off. Worried that I don't look as nice as I feel inside.

On Wednesday Morning I was driving Emma to school. We pick up 2 of her besties on the way. It is usually so early that I never have time to talk to them, PLUS, I do the whole 'I am just going to drive and not embarrass my daughter' thing.

Well THIS Morning, Micheal was late to wake up and late to hop in the car.
What's a mom to do? Make conversation of course!
"Hi Gynnifyr." I turn and look at my daughters best friend.
"Hi." She smiles shyly.

SIDENOTE: Gynnifyr is ADORABLE. I love her and her freckles and blunt bangs so much, but usually I try to stay "chill." (chill is what my daughter says is quiet)

"Do you have a boyfriend Gynnifyr?" I question, noting that Emma's face is falling in the review mirror.
"No." she smiles and looks out of the window.

"Good girl. Boys are stupid. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you like girls? Sometimes that happens." I ramble.

"No!" she turns red while Emma's face glowers at me in the mirror.
"Uh oh." I murmur and turn back around.



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

#Flawedandfullyaware

I am addicted to clothing. (See? I have accepted it. Which is the first step.)
The problem is...I don't really want to fix it. Unless fixing it means going to a shopping spree.
I am actually MORE addicted to men's clothing and follow several sites on the Instagram.

I love a fancy man in fancy clothes. Bespoke suits...*shudder

Talk fashion to me...please.

 'You had me at Prt-porter' is a shirt I would gladly wear.

The problem with me is my inability to keep my hands to myself when it comes to feeling clothing of items that I am drooling over.
The bigger problem is when Parents realize it and ask me if I want to touch their jacket, scarf or god forbid purse.

Uh oh they are on to me. I think while gladly feeling the texture of their jackets.

The other day Jana plunked her purse on the desk in front of me. "I got a new Bestey. Wanna smell it?"

"Bitch." I murmured to her and picked up the purse angrily. "Of COURSE I do." And I smooshed it to my face for a whiff.