Yesterday I read another sad story about a 12 year old girl who committed suicide after being bullied on social media. My heart broke. Again. This is my bullying story:

Just after I turned seven, my mom remarried and we moved from our two-bedroom townhouse to an affluent suburb. I started 2nd grade with a classroom of children I had never met.

I remember one boy being a playground bully – picking girls up while forcing his friend to lift up their skirts. We ladies learned to wear clothing with legs and those two boys didn’t come back for 3rd grade. And, I recall someone making fun of me when I first came to school with glasses. The teacher overheard, made him apologize, and that was it.

I don’t remember ever being bullied after that.

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Though we didn’t have social media, there were still ample opportunities – and ammunition – for kids to pick on me, especially in my teen years. When my mom and step-dad divorced in 1985, we moved back to a two-bedroom townhouse. My friends lived in enormous homes and drove expensive cars, while I arrived at school in a ’77 Cutlass which would eject the tape cassette and launch it into the back seat if you went over 55mph.

Because of the divorce, I had to live with my older sister for my junior year of high school. I was extremely depressed and scared. In turn, I made a lot of horrendously bad decisions. Note to my daughter: THIS is why you get lectured so much. Because I was a stupid teenager. You’re welcome.

My senior year, I dated a man who was controlling, manipulative, and abusive. My friends didn’t call me dirty names, though. They gently tried to steer me in the right direction. No one made fun of me. They could have turned their backs on me, but no one did.

No one ever said anything about our tiny apartment with no air conditioning. No one ever called me poor because I had to go to work every afternoon after school. No one ever hurt my feelings or made me fell less-than.

I don’t know how to make these sad stories stop, but I know that not every school is full of bullies. My high school was full of the richest kids in town who didn’t want for anything. They weren’t snobs. They were awesome.

Maybe we should share more GOOD stories about the GOOD kids who are there to hold up people like me; a lost, frightened girl who had to grow up too fast. I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have survived those years without that support. I would not have survived.

Let’s make the stories of strength and friendship go viral. Let’s make sure that the kids who do the right thing are celebrated and that the ones who don’t, aren’t. We can’t stop telling the tales of those who were bullied, but we can start sharing more stories about the ones who weren’t.

What do you say? Are you with me?

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I read this post today and I feel the need to tell Heather that she is not alone in her imperfection and that her flaws are what make her human. We are not just our Facebook photos or Pinterest boards. We are real people with real issues. I could write a series of blog posts on medical bills alone. Also, zits at 42. I could tell you all about that.

So for Heather, I’m sharing some of my recent non-spectacular moments:

• I yelled at my kids today – like loud enough that the neighbors could hear. It was the result of two hours in the car, their constant bickering, 5:30pm traffic, and a stinkbug.

•  I gave myself a manicure while on Ambien. Again. It wasn’t pretty.

• There is a package of toilet paper sitting on my dresser. My dresser is not near any of the toilets.

• My kids eat mac & cheese from a box at least once a week.

• I suffer from pretty awful anxiety and insomnia. I grind my teeth, I pick my cuticles, I constantly shake my legs, and as soon as I get up in the morning I start thinking about how much I want it to be nighttime so I can go back to bed. Life is hard. But, it could always be harder and if I didn’t laugh about the crazy circumstances I wouldn’t be able to function.

• Sometimes I get wedgies.

• My son loves his new school, but he’s been punched twice and pushed to the ground by a high-school kid and it scares me, because I don’t want to have to hurt any children.

• This is a conversation I had with my son today:

Me: You can NOT send your status updates from the “Pocket Frogs” app to my Twitter account. I’ve told you that before and if you do it again, you will never, ever get to play another game on the iPad. Understood?

Him: Never? But, what if you’re dead?

check it out? I can’t even pronounce it.

• This is a conversation my son had with his County Developmental Disability Coordinator when she asked him (kind of ridiculous, but mandatory) questions about his self-care:

Coordinator: Do you shave yet?

Him: No, but I have a little mustache. And, I have a very, very hairy back.

• I ran three miles today and I had to stop ten times.

• I prefer to show people that I’m flawed, because then I can exceed their expectations. Sometimes. My house can never exceed expectations because it smells like burnt coffee and dog feet.

Now it’s your turn. Tell me something real.

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I have been thinking about this post for weeks – months, actually. Words twirl about in my head, one after another; mulling, and brewing, and boiling until my body becomes an animated version of itself and steam shoots from my ears. I hear a whistle as if my brain is a factory, closing for the day, and my body is dirty, tired and gritty from all the work it had to do to keep the factory open, working, resourceful.

And, the words – the hot, steamy, messy words – can’t be written down because they have become condensation on the walls. They slide and drip to the floor until they’re in a jumbled pile at my feet. I see them there, a mess of black letters spelling anger, sadness, fraud, sorrow, trust, love, faith, conviction. I move forward and they stick to my shoe.

I try to wash them away, but they won’t take leave. They are glued in this spot beneath me, always at my feet with every step I take. I need new shoes, I think.

The new shoes are shiny and clean; there’s no blackness on the soles. They give me blisters, but my toes will adapt. I wiggle them. I go for a run. I try lots of new things in my shoes and they become comfortable and I forget that I ever had anything but these which fit me so well.

Until one day when I’m standing at the stove and feel the words in my head again. Child, wrong, sad, hurt, boy, belief, family, ignorance, CHILD, CHILD, CHILD. It happens all over again and I think, I will never be able to write a post with all this muck.

So, I don’t.

I let the steam leave my head, wipe down the walls and buy new shoes, hoping that someday their comfort will be enough.

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When I define myself I don’t ever say I’m a mommy-blogger. I’m a mom, but I’m also a wife, daughter, niece, cousin, employee and a whole lot of other things which don’t, individually, make me who I am or this blog what it is. I’m more of a hodge-podge blogger. Look at that! I just created a niche!

But, today this little girl started high school and I am feeling 100% mommy.

First day of first grade.

You hear it all the time; enjoy it when they’re little, they grow up so fast, time flies, blink and they’re grown. I’m here to tell you that it’s all true. In four years – God willing – she’ll be off to college and I don’t how my heart will stand it.

First day of high school. I won’t even comment about the socks because that’s how they wear them these days. Kids!

So just for today, go ahead and call me a mommy-blogger. Just for today, I only want to talk about my daughter and how wonderful, smart, and funny she is, and how amazing it has been to watch her grow from the 2 lb. 9 oz. preemie who fit in her father’s hand.

Just for today, you can call me whatever you want as long as I get to be her mommy a little while longer.

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