Once upon a time there was a mistress named Momo who had two kids and a second set of kids who liked to do things like drink toilet water, eat squirrel poop and steal hamburgers right off the grill. That second set of kids are of the canine variety, though it is true that Momo’s daughter also drank toilet water. Just that one time.

One day, Momo had the opportunity to attend a pet-blogging conference where she could meet a lot of wonderful writers, and pet owners, and companies with representatives who might just know what you can put on one dog’s food to make the other dog stop eating its poop.

Momo’s dogs were quite happy about this event! They were hoping that mistress Momo would bring home some treats, and some more treats, but more than anything they hoped she would come home and just throw the dang ball already.

The End.

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I can’t really begin to tell you how much I love Old Navy. For real. Like I would marry it. You can’t beat the cuteness, you can’t beat the price and you can’t beat the quality. Enough said.

Well, no. It’s not enough said. Because recently, I decided it was time for me to get some new clothes. I didn’t get myself much of anything for fall or winter and had cleaned out my closet which ended up looking like Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

So, I walked into Old Navy with $100.00 and here’s what I walked out with.

This cute, green shirt.

This soft, breezy and super-comfortable skirt.

Three pairs of flip-flops. One gray, one blue and one orange.

Some stylish, cargo-capris.

A cozy, long-sleeved tee shirt.

Two stainless-steel, water bottles…because the two I already have weren’t enough.

And a crisp, white polo shirt.

And, after buying TEN items, I still have some money in my pocket! Which is why I think I want these shoes.What am I talking about? I need these shoes! Right? Right? Good. I’m glad we could all agree.

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My son was having trouble falling asleep last night. His room was hot, as it usually is, after having the sun shine through his window most of the day, so I told him to climb into my bed where there was enough of a cross-breeze to keep him comfortable.

I lied next to him and watched him drift off. After a few moments of sleeping peacefully, he experienced that sensation of falling where you gasp and your entire body jumps. Then he settled into his pillow and dozed off for the night.

That sensation is called a hypnic jerk and my son used to experience them a lot when he was young, especially when he was sick. And, he was sick all the time.

In the mere seconds it took for his body to jolt, my mind traveled from watching a typical kid going to sleep, to the very ill child I used to know. His hypnic jerk not only shook his body, but shook my memory as well.

I thought of the heart monitor that went off constantly and the sound of him gasping for breath as his nasal passages filled with the contents of his stomach. I remembered watching him play with toys in a hospital crib, three hour long appointments with neonatologists and geneticists and him crying in pain because we just couldn’t get his meds right.

I thought of him weighing 13 pounds on his first birthday and how his GI doctor was this close to putting him back on tube feeds because of it. I remembered therapy sessions where he didn’t do anything but lie there because he simply didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

I thought of his heart diagnosis, his surgeries, and his struggles with eating, crawling, walking and talking.

I remembered everything.

I was reminded that all of those things are deep inside the boy I know now. He is tough, yet parts of his body are still weak. He is strong, but he is very small. He is smart, but still talks like a three year old. He is healthy, for now.

Although his struggles are much easier than they once were, he still faces an uphill battle each and every day.

I needed to be reminded of that; to know that he tries his best and has to work twice as hard as an average kid. I have been trying so hard to make him typical that I have forgotten that he, quite simply, isn’t.

My son is different. He is one of a kind and I wouldn’t want him any other way, even though I forget that sometimes. He is a challenge, but that makes his accomplishments all the more special. I needed to be reminded of how far he has come.

Thanks for the jolt, buddy.

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Holidays make for interesting conversations around our house. Trying to explain the importance of July 4th became so challenging that I simply started referring to it as, “America’s Birthday”.

Lent was also a complex discussion, but nowhere near as tough as the triduum (the three holy days before Easter). Throw in a Resurrection and you’ll have one confused seven year old.

I thought I did my best. Before we left for Holy Thursday Mass, I told my son that he would see the priest wash the feet of some chosen parishioners. I think this is one of the most beautiful and solemn ceremonies we have. It is a touching thing to be reminded that Jesus did this for his disciples.

My son, however? Not so solemn. Because when he smelled incense and saw smoke rising near the altar he turned to me and asked, “Mom? Is the priest making people’s feet stinky?”

Then at lunch yesterday I was sure he had grasped the meaning of Easter when he enthusiastically announced, “I can’t believe Jesus is risen!” Then he took a French fry and drew a picture of the Crucifixion in his ketchup.

Maybe all of this is my fault. I couldn’t help but think so when I was downloading pictures last night. We took the kids to the park on Saturday for an Easter egg hunt where kids were dressed in their spring finest. My son, however, was wearing a Napoleon Dynamite shirt…with cinnamon roll swiped on it. Clearly, he was not happy about this. Or, he had to poop.

And, despite the fact that I have roughly 80 wicker, one cloth and at least three plastic Easter baskets in my basement, my son was using a plastic bag. Note to self: Plastic bags are not good for egg hunts which have 6000 eggs disappear in 20 seconds. By the time you get the bag open, the eggs are gone and then you have a very sad, seven year old who only got one egg.

Not only am I lousy at explaining holidays, traditions and what is not acceptable to draw in your ketchup, but I also stink at egg hunt preparation.

My poor kid is doomed.

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