My eight year old son has many oddities, however none is quite as evident as his fascination with skin. He loves to touch people and the older, the better. The upper arm flab of elderly women is his clear favorite.

My boy has had sensory issues from the start. As an infant, he hated to be held and only due to countless hours of occupational therapy did that change. Now he can’t keep his hands off of people.

He has always been able to obtain this tactile fix because he is so small, but what people don’t realize is that he’s really just a miniature man. The lady who lets him climb all over her lap forgets that he is an eight year old in the body of a toddler. The kid gets away with murder, I tell you.

We have recently started some new therapy. We brush his skin, we do joint compression and other exercises which are helping him keep his hands to himself. As he always has been, my child is a work in progress.

Most of our friends and family know they have to set boundaries and I do my best to keep him away from bikini clad women. Though, that isn’t hard because I’ve been doing the same thing with my husband for over 15 years. Practice makes perfect, I always say.

We tell my son that everyone has a bubble and that he is not allowed to get close enough to pop it. I sound like I’m off my rocker when I see him eyeing a smooth shoulder or a college co-ed in short-shorts and I act preemptively saying, “Bubble. Bubble! BuuuuuuBBBBBBLE!”

Of course, there are times when he’s bound to fall off the wagon and we are quick to tell him that it’s not okay to invade someone’s space. But, there are still occasions when, oh…let’s say, he might lie on top of our friends’ eight year old daughter. Hypothetically.

Okay, not hypothetically.

We told him that it was unacceptable for him to lie on top of his friends and that you can never touch a girl without permission. This is when his big sister chimed in and said, “Yeah! You can go to jail for that!”

Which is why I shouldn’t have been surprised at my son’s reaction when we ran into my brother-in-law the other night. My brother-in-law the police officer.

At least we know my kid has one redeeming quality…he is honest to a fault. Which was clearly evident when he pulled me down to his level and whispered, “Hey, Mom. You should probably tell him that I lay on girls”.

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Exactly three weeks from right now I will be on my way to New York City. By myself. On a train.

I will have nine hours to do as I like. I can listen to music, get a drink from the dining car and write. I can even read a book without interruption. Gasp!

Maybe the clickety-clacking will sing me to sleep. Though, I hear the scenery is beautiful on this trip. I may not want to miss it.

I am thrilled for the opportunity to travel through small towns and end up in one of the biggest cities in the world. From the mid-west to the east coast. From apple orchards to the Big…well, you get the idea.

As much as I would love to share this ride with my family (my son would likely explode due to overwhelming joy) I am excited to have an extended amount of time to decompress and relax. I picture myself leaning against the window and watching the hills roll by. Sigh…

And, so help me, if there is a talker sitting next to me I’m going to have to throw them off the train.

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My family is Catholic and that means that summer festivals are upon us.

If you have never been to a church festival you are missing out. There are rickety rides that are run by slightly inebriated carnies and there are games where your kids can walk away with fine prizes like Chinese yo-yos and rubber ducks. Together these will only cost you twenty tickets!

There are local musicians, beer trucks, bratwurst and gambling. The air smells of cotton candy, bug spray and sweat. Mmm.

And, when it gets late in the evening, there are teens and preteens running about. Well, they’re mostly just standing in large packs and their hormones are doing all the running.

As much as it pains me to say this, my daughter is a preteen now. I keep telling her to stop growing up, but she won’t listen to me. Typical.

My daughter is such a good kid, and is so studious and smart, that yesterday, I heard my husband tell her to, “Put down your book and play Mario with me!” but, she is still a girl. I know for a fact that she has a crush on Taylor Lautner. I totally caught her watching The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lava Girl the other night.

Given these facts, I don’t think I was out of line when I questioned her the other night about her intentions when we visit these festivals. I sat her down and asked, “So, are you going to be walking around in clumps of giggling girls this year? Are you going to be following the boys wherever they go?”

She replied, “Why would I do that? If you follow the boys around you just get less time on the rides.”

See? I told you she was smart.

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In case you don’t know much about good music, I will tell you that the title of this post comes from the song, “Shattered” by The Rolling Stones. Also if you didn’t know that, then we can’t be friends.

Shattered is the way I feel when I go shopping for dresses. I hate shopping for dresses. Especially when I have to find something. When I don’t have money, or when I don’t need anything, there are gowns virtually diving into my shopping bag. I have no idea how it happens.

But, when there is an upcoming occasion where it’s imperative to look cute…oh, say like a conference in New York….ultimately, I end up dissappointed. I have said before that I am not a petite flower. It is hard to find stylish, dressy clothing when you’re the size of Gigantor.

Therefore, I was skeptical when Shabby Apple wanted me to try out one of their dresses. I first began drooling over Shabby Apple when my bloggy friend, Bossy, spoke of them, but let’s understand something, shall we? My body doesn’t look like Bossy’s. At all. I was really worried that I would get a dress and not even fit in it, let alone look nice.

Then I saw the dress on a model and was surprised to see that she looked just like me! Only with brown hair, gorgeous cheekbones, well-toned arms and slender hips. As you can imagine, this completely reassured me not at all.

But, I went for it and look at me! I have a waist and my arms fit in the armholes and I look like I have a neck instead of a stump of chin! I love this dress. It’s stylish and breezy and I can’t wait to wear it in New York.

Finding a dress I like isn’t even the best part of this, because Shabby Apple donates 5% of their net dress sales to a charity that helps women in poverty worldwide. Each Shabby Apple dress comes with a hang tag with a personal story from one of these women. I cried when I read mine, and I wasn’t even hormonal.

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