The World of Author/Mom Alicia Murphy!

All the “stuff” we women do is endearing.
All the “stuff” our husbands and children do
is quirky. Weird. Annoying. Pet-Peeve-Producing.
Hee hee hee …

The fact that my husband doesn’t like a second sheet
(in addition to the fitted sheet) on the bed is
nothing to lose sleep over (no pun intended).

I have little peccadillos that I’m sure annoy my
husband snd kids. And trust me, they’re quirky peccadillos.
I’ll share them with you, but first let me tell you what
they’re NOT:

1) An aversion to eating the crust of a sandwich.
2) An aversion to eating anything that isn’t nailed down.
3) The need to have the TV remote within 6 inches of my
right hand, left hand, or any other bodily appendage.
4) The need to bring reading material with me when it
is time to poop.
5) The need to hear the play-by-play when someone asks,
“Did they win?”
6) A problem with my food touching on the plate.
7) A problem with rubbish collecting in my car (do I like it?
No. But there is no “problem” with it).
8) Difficulty wearing clothing with tags attached to the collar.
9) Difficulty wearing clothing at all.
10) A fear of “reduction sauce” on a restauant menu.

We women have to put up with a lot. So do our men and children,
I guess … But their hardships are mild based on the fact that,
again, we women are SO endearing.

Now I will share with you my little idiosyncrasies … IF I can
think of any … Bwa ha ha ha ha ha …

Christmas is 6 months from today. No shopping
this afternoon, though. Each year on June 25th,
I surprise my kids with a Christmas celebration.
We pull out a few decorations & toys, drink hot
chocolate, decorate cookies with Christmas sprinkles
and watch Christmas movies. It’s a fun “tradition”
I hope they’ll always remember when they think of
summertime. Today it’s most ironic, because the
outside temp is a scorching 91 degrees (no scarf
necessary).

As we sit here watching “The Grinch,” I feel
like I should play him in the movie. Aside from my
green complexion and pot belly, I’ve been in THE WORST
mood all day. So un-Christmas of me. I had a HUGE
situation with one of my children this morning; a
HUGE behavioral issue that had to receive a HUGE consequence.
So, the kid is spending the afternoon in his room rather
than being part of the fun. I’m heartbroken, because he loves
Christmas – and everything that comes with it – more than
anyone I’ve ever known. He lives for getting out the decorations
and taking in all the joys of the Christmas season, so this would
have been an awesome day for him. When he found out what we were
doing downstairs, he was devastated. It’s funny how you think a
consequence will teach your children a serious lesson … But sometimes
their punishments become our own.

I have work to do tonight (that’s right, my evil, grinch-like streak is
far from over). The boy will be waking up to a letter from Santa Claus,
who, as we all know, can see how we’re behaving ALL YEAR LONG. Old Kris
Kringle is NOT going to have holly, jolly words for the young lad. Santa
could never be mean, but he can be “firm,”(keep it clean, folks), can’t he?
Maybe he’ll even mention coal …

Better luck in six months, Dude (and Mom!). Hopefully the REAL Christmas
will be a better experience than it’s half-birthday. Happy Ho, Ho, Ho to me…

How many of us have realized that if we knew how
awesome (or un-awesome) our married lives would
turn out, we’d have had a lot more fun being single?
It’s true one way or the other. I can remember being
so anxious to find “Mr. Right” and so frustrated because
he was nowhere in sight. As I was about to turn 30, I
panicked and got engaged to the wrong guy. I won’t go into
the disturbing details, but he was awful. Thank God I had the
sense – and the courage – to walk away … No, to get the
HELL out of there.

On Wednesday, my husband and I will celebrate our 9th
wedding anniversary. Before we were married, the priest who
would be officiating at the ceremony spoke to us about being
realistic. He asked us if we felt that our “romantic love”
would ever fade. We both said no. What HE meant by romantic
love was the physical relationship. My idea of romantic love
was being the 80-year-old couple holding hands while walking
into the diner together to catch the Early Bird Special.
Unfortunately, both interpretations of “romantic love” can
fade a bit over time.

It’s been a hectic 9 years …
4 pregnancies, 3 children (we lost our first at the end
of my first trimester), 2 houses, 568 bottles of chardonnay,
job layoff, formation of a new medical practice, 3 goldfish
won at the Wilmington Italian Festival a year ago and STILL
LIVING, many new friends made, old friendships grown stronger,
weight gained and lost, happy times, sad times, and a ton of
memories.

In general, my husband and I have a very easy relationship.
We rarely argue (because he knows my word is THE word … Only
kidding. Seriously). We see eye-to-eye most of the time, and when
we don’t, we simply agree to disagree. Things are always more
complicated when kids come into the picture. There we were, a
pediatrician and an elementary school teacher-turned-stay-at-home-
mom, both with very definite ideas about how kids should be raised.
And suddenly it wasn’t so simple. Kids don’t come with instruction
manuals. There’s no “right way.” We just have to do what works for
us, our relationship, and our kids. We may never figure out the
parenting puzzle, but the journey is a fun (and always interesting)
one to take together.

We may not always be happy with every part of our married life or
our parenting world, but we can accept that every part of life comes
with challenges … And this acceptance can make us happy. It’ll never
be perfect, but the “happily ever after” is all about keeping things real.

I’ve written a book for parents called
(m)OTHERHOOD:Insert Humor Here and
recently submitted it to an agent, asking
for representation. These days, you need
an agent to get published (unless you’re
famous, which I am not … yet). The
frustrating thing is that it’s just as
hard to gain representation as it is to
get published. But I digress …

I submitted my proposal about a month ago,
with the knowledge that I won’t receive an
answer for 3-6 months. Tired (already) of
waiting, I found a publishing company that
sounded like it’s seeking the kind of book
I’ve written. When I looked at the company’s
website, I found that they seem to have an
interest in parenting books. Good sign. Another
thing I noticed is that they look for “a more
wholesome style.” Hmmmm … Wholesome. Suddenly
I began to question whether these editors would
appreciate my writing. What exactly IS a “wholesome
style?” If, theoretically of course, I started my
book by saying, “So you just peed on the stick and
were told by the home pregnancy test that you’re
going to be a mommy! Congrats! Bottoms up!” Would
that fall short of wholesome? How about referring
to people who judge others’ children and parenting
skills and calling them “Clueless Asshats?” Does
that fall into the “wholesome” category?

I get that there is a time and place for …
not-so-wholesome talk … It’s just that the “F” word,
if properly inserted, can automatically make a sentence
more enjoyable. We also have to consider the audience
of the book: young parents. While some may opt out of
the sailor-mouth style of speaking, it is true that
ALL young parents can relate to the nightmare connected
with the kid who takes too much confidence in a fart and
craps his pants. ALL parents can appreciate knowing that
they aren’t the only ones whose kids pick their noses in
church and then have nowhere to put the boogie. Okay, I
guess I’ve answered my own question. No, my book isn’t
wholesome by any stretch of the imagination … But it’s
real. And I sure as heck hope that some agent or editor
will take an interest in it. If not, I’ll be really
EFFING pissed!
Have a wholesome day now, y’all.

* Early-morning snuggles with all 3 of my kids.

* Seeing that the number on the scale was a pound and a half higher … the sign
of a fun, celebratory weekend (… Okay, maybe the smile was more like a smirk).

* Dropping 2 of my 3 kids off at camp for the morning (hey, I’m human).

* Having three hours to spend just with my 7-year old.

* Not holding said 7-year-old’s hand in a parking lot because I didn’t want to
embarrass him … then feeling him reach for MY hand.

* Watching my 7-year-old search high and low at Toys R Us for something he could buy
with the $1.70 of his own money he’d brought with him.

* Picking up my younger 2 at camp and knowing from their faces that they’d had a blast.

* Seeing my children have fun on their new Slip-N-Slide.

* Seeing the looks on my neighbors’ faces when I went apeshit on my boys for misbehaving
on aforementioned Slip-N-Slide.

* Pulling a white (not gray … W H I T E) eyebrow out of my face this afternoon
(if I didn’t smile I would cry).

* Tuning into an old episode of “Little House on the Prairie” on TV and finding that my
kids loved it. “Ma always said don’t play ball in the outhouse” … Huh? Oh, wait …
wrong rerun.

* Thinking of my husband’s reaction when he learns that our children (boys especially)
enjoy a good episode of “Little House on the Prairie.”

* Reading my daughter her bedtime story.

* Hearing my 4-year-old say, “Mommy, I’m sad because Daddy has a cold. I want him to
feel better.”

* Blowing off my workout despite the extra, weekend-induced pound and a half.

* Blowing off that glass of wine tonight … Detox is good.

* Thinking of a good night’s sleep, in order to have another fun, busy, apeshit-
provoking, smile-producing day tomorrow. Zzzzzzzz …

Father’s Day! Special day for dads…
They don’t have to cook (as usual).
They don’t have to clean (as usual).
They get their choice of TV shows and
have control of the remote (as usual).
We make sure they have something they
like for dinner (normal).
We make sure the kids don’t drive them
crazy throughout the day (normal).
Hmmmm … As I see it, EVERY day is
Father’s Day!

Thanks to all the dads and husbands
out there … We couldn’t do it without
you.

No, really … I’m serious …

Mr. Weatherman is calling for thunderstorms and hail to hit our area soon.
Have you ever noticed that hail somehow makes a storm more fun and less
frightening? There’s something humorous about watching little (or big) balls
of ice fall from the sky and bounce all over everything on the ground. Hail
is like the comic relief of a storm … It’s the chuckle in the midst of an
annoying situation. It’s like being in the middle of a heated argument and
the person with whom you’re bickering suddenly stutters or loses his point.
It’s like trying to cope with the wailing temper tantrum of your 3-year-old
when lo and behold, in the middle of a loud scream, he farts.
I may try to present this hail-as-comic-relief idea to my 7-year-old, who is
heartbreakingly terrrified by storms. Not sure how it’ll go over …
I guess if all else fails, I can just … stutter.

I just saw on the news that a “Saggy Pants Ban”
has been passed at the New Jersey shore. No saggy
pants allowed on the boardwalks. Does this
include the saggy diapers of babies and toddlers?
The sand-filled, saggy bathing suits of school-age
kids? The saggy Depends of senior citizens?
… Speaking of senior citizens, the ban is only for
saggy PANTS, right? I mean, are saggy boobs frowned
upon? What if saggy Grandma Wiggins wants to take her
adorable but saggy-diapered grandchild for a walk on the
beach? Will she and the kid be yanked from the sand for
Public Sagginess?

These are the things that keep me awake at night…

My 4-year-old asked me out of the blue today, “Mommy, is there TV in heaven?”
My first thought was, “I’m sure Daddy is hoping so.”
Instead, I answered, “I don’t know, Bud. I’ve never been to heaven.”
My son looked at me curiously and asked, “How about food and drinks? Do they
have those in heaven?”
Again, I said, “I don’t know. I haven’t been there … Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering,” my little guy said.
I knew where this was coming from.

Last night, my friend and her husband dropped their two boys off at our house
so they could go to the viewing of their 43-year-old sister-in-law, who lost her
life to cancer last week. While we were eating dinner, my friend’s 5-year-old son
suddenly said, “My aunt died.”

“I know she did, Buddy,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” he asked. “You didn’t kill her.”
“I know,” I explained, “but I’m sorry she died.”

At this point, my own children asked what we were talking about.
I told them that their friends’ aunt went to live in Heaven with Jesus.
“Her is watching over me,” their little friend said with a smile.
“Yes, she is,” I assured him.
The children talked about all of the people their aunt would be watching over,
including Santa Claus. Their innocence was adorable … Their lack of ability
to understand why this happened matched my own. This woman leaves behind her
husband and five children, ages 9, 9, 7, 4, and 3.

I attended the funeral this morning and wiped my eyes as I watched the
family follow the casket up the church aisle, led by the husband, who held
his 3-year-old daughter in his arms. Heartbreaking.

The entrance hymn was “All I Ask of You,” with the lyrics saying, “All I ask of
of you is forever to remember me as loving you…” As I sat through the mass, I
couldn’t help but wonder how my husband and children would remember me if I should
die early. I would hope they knew that they were my whole world, and I would want
my children to be able to say, “Mommy made everything fun.”

This afternoon, I couldn’t stop hugging my kids. I played with them; laughed with
them; sang with them. I jumped on a trampoline with them. I painted my daughter’s
fingernails and read her a book while they dried. I giggled with my boys about silly
things.

Yesterday I posted my concerns about keeping my kids busy all summer. No more panic.
Just fun. Laughter. Joy. Songs. Memories.

Will our summer be free of getting-on-each-others-nerves-ness? Absolutely not.
But will I keep things in perspective and continue to count my blessings? Absolutely.

This summer is for you, Debi and Bob, Kristen and Larry.
God bless.

Okay, raise your hand if you’re panicking about how to fill the next 75+ days with fun and hilarity for your kids. I have BOTH of my hands in the air. There. I admitted it. Sheer panic.