In My Mind I've Gone to Carolina...

Is it too soon to start packing for our beach vacation?  We leave on July 1st.  I guess it's too early to pull out the suitcases, but it's never too early to begin anticipating.  That time in Hilton Head is, by far, my favorite week of the year.  I look forward to it more than Christmas morning, spring break, or Mother's Day.  Bob and I have been going there for close to 20 years, but the tradition was started years before that by my mom and older siblings, who began their annual trip close to 30 years ago.  When they first started vacationing there,  I was caught up in finishing college, working and getting married.  I heard about Hilton Head, but was just too busy and, I'll admit, a bit self-centered (as all young adults are), to take the time and spend the money to get there.  Living in New York back then, South Carolina seemed like a million miles away.  We had beaches on Long Island, why drive 15 hours to Hilton Head? In 1991, A few year after we were married,  Bob and I moved to Atlanta.   Finally, there was no reason to miss the family vacation.  Only a five hour trip by car, it was finally time to see what all the fuss was all about.  And we have not missed a year.  Well, check that, we have missed two.  One when I was 9 months pregnant with Danny (I ended up calling Mom in Hilton Head to announce his birth), and one year I was dealing with a colicky infant (my dear, sweet Sam) and the family decided to try a new spot in North Carolina for a change of pace.  They had a great time, but the next year went right back to Hilton Head and haven't looked back. 

So what exactly is the fuss?  Well, the beaches are beautiful, certainly.  The ocean water is warm, so much more comfortable than the chilly waves we rode growing up on Long Island.  In Hilton Head, there is no need to inch your way in for a swim, grimacing as the water hits your belly for the first time.  Just grab a raft, walk right in, and float your cares away.  There is so much to do, if you choose to have an active vacation.  Fishing, jet skiing, biking, shopping.  The kids love the trip down to Sea Pines, with the ride on the trolley, time spent on the playground shaded by the huge trees draped with moss, and a hike to the top of the lighthouse (when it's not too hot to bear).  Then there is the fact that summer in Hilton Head is meant for families.  In any parking lot you will see license plates from everywhere from Texas to NY, and you know that these folks probably make this same pilgrimmage every year.  Some babies have their toes dipped in the ocean for the first time here, and grow from toddlers to teenagers to adults, maybe continuing the tradition with their own children.  

For me, mostly, it is about family.  Take away the beautiful ocean, the sea breeze, and the view from the balcony of our condo, and it is still a magical place.  Because it is the one week in the year that we can be together, and we choose to commit to that regardless of what else may be happening in our lives.  There have been years when it was nearly impossible to pick a week that worked with everyone's schedule.  Negotiating, compromising, grumbling at one another, we would finally settle on a week and mark it on our calendars.  Family is precious, and with each passing year I appreciate more and more these bonds that ground us and remind us of all of our blessings.  We are spread throughout the country and keep in touch by phone calls, emails and texts, but this one week is sacred.  There are barbecues, cocktail hours, and family "meetings" held on the sand, in a circle of beach chairs.  There are sister jogs in the morning, starting at 7 am before the sun is too high in the sky, and maybe a bike ride later for bagels.  Time to reconnect and renew, talk more deeply and with less interruptions.  It passes so quickly, from the joyful Saturday evening hugs at "lasagna night" to tearful farewells and "we ought to do two weeks next year" lamentations as we pack up to leave.  As we drive over the bridges with last glimpses of dreamy blue water and low country landscape, we return  back to our lives in different corners of the world.  I always cry a little, sometimes for a few miles, but it helps to know we'll be back next year.  That is a promise we make to each other and to this place that has captured our hearts. 

           Summertime, and the living is easy (sort of...)

School is coming to a close.  Danny had his last day today and Sam will finish after a half day tomorrow.  It is time.  The kids are tired of the early morning rush, the homework, the school lunches and the bedtime rules (which are not nearly as strict as they should be).  As a mom, it is always bittersweet, these last days of school.  I am happy for the boys; they work so hard in school and deserve this ten-week hiatus.  For Sam, especially, school is a daunting task.  Everything from the peer relationships to the sitting still is a challenge.  Home is his safe place, where he can be himself and not be reprimanded for every little infraction.  So my heart is happy for them and it is great to put their backpacks away, throw out old school supplies (why exactly did we need to buy so many spiral notebooks anyway?), and toss away the school lunch menus.  We will no longer have to rush inside in the evening to get the bedtime routines started, and there will be time to watch fireflies twinkle in the woods.  We will wear pajamas long into the morning on some days, eat late breakfast, or none at all, and see where the day takes us.  That's the sweet portion; here's the bitter.  What are we going to do all day????  And when am I going to have time to fit in my Target therapy?  Every mom knows the joy of a trip to Target with no kids in tow.  Maybe a stop at the cafe for a diet coke and popcorn (my very own bag!!)  before beginning a leisurely stroll up and down the aisles with no particular destination.  Somehow the cart fills up and while we know we will use everything we are buying, we still feel a bit guilty.  I find myself  wondering what exactly was so fabulous about these new sunglasses and nutmeg candle anyway?  Something about the lighting at the store, or is it the khaki pants and red shirt uniforms that have some sort of hypnotic effect on me?   At least I bought the economy-priced laundry detergent to justify my other splurges.  Summer is a time when mom's vacations end and the work begins.  We wonder how the days ever passed so quickly when the kids were in school because on a summer day we may look at the clock and be shocked (and horrified) that it is only 11 am.  We may get psyched up for a trip to the community pool, pack up the car, and arrive bright and early, only to find out that it is closed due to a toddler diaper leak (seriously, this happens quite often, and I am sure that toddler's mother has her photo posted on the wall of shame at the rec center). Oh, yes, the days are long, and suddenly we become quite envious of our spouse and his departure for work at 7 am, lunch out with colleagues, and damn him, adult conversation!!  We wonder what exactly we were excited about as school drew to a close.  But somehow, the days pass and we find our rhythm.  We won't know exactly what we did for ten weeks when summer ends, but we have to believe that it was exactly what our kids needed.  A respite from tests, assigned reading, and  sleepy bus rides.  Time to watch Spongebob, ride bikes and rest the brain a bit.  I will get my Target time on the weekend and am very grateful, deep down, under all my grumbling, to have these precious days with my children, who are all too quickly growing up. 

Thanks for the Ride

Today was Sam's last day at Theraplay.  He has been in therapy there since he was three years old.  I remember bringing him for an evaluation after he had been approved for Medicaid.  I was nervous and sat in on the session, still grieving and numb from his diagnosis with autism.  The therapist was efficient and matter of fact about Sam's delays and told me that he would qualify for physical therapy services.  A few weeks later, therapy began. I remember watching Sam ride the little horse, Molly, that was often chosen for the youngest clients.  She was soft and white,  with beautiful, long eyelashes which she used to flirt for carrots and sugar cubes.  Round and round the ring Sam rode, with his therapist and volunteers at his side.  They would have him face forward, backwards, and even sideways in the saddle, all part of the science of hippotherapy.  I would wave to him each time he passed, like other parents do as their kids ride the carousel at the zoo.  He looked so cute in his riding helmet and I thought about the irony of him riding horses at such a young age.  When I was a girl, I was horse-crazy.  I took one riding lesson a week and lived for that hour.  I loved everything from the smell of the leather saddle to the soft nose of the horse nuzzling my hand.  It got too expensive eventually and I had to stop riding, but my love for horses remained.   It delighted me to see Sam riding; it was a kinship I shared with him.  Danny and I would enjoy our time at the barn greeting the horses in their stalls, cuddling barn cats and offering dog biscuits to Ike and Milly, the friendly dogs who roamed around the stables.  The waiting room was full of families.  Mothers chatting about their kids, new interventions, IEP's.  It was a happy place, despite the challenges the children were facing.    When Sam achieved all his PT goals several years ago, he was transitioned into OT.  He has had several therapists over the years; all had a wonderful enthusiam for their work and helped Sam to make great progress.  At three, he was hardly talking and had tantrums when asked to push himself beyond his comfort zone.  He would work to identify letters of the alphabet posted around the riding ring and say "go" and "stop" to direct the horse.  At age eleven, as he rides  he tells his therapist about his favorite tv shows, what he got for his birthday and plans for his his vacation to Hilton Head.   He no longer rides the pony named Molly as his long legs would probably drag along the ground.   Instead, he rides big, handsome horses, always gentle, and sits tall in his saddle.  In the clinic he worked on cooperative play with his peers, seeking sensory input and appropriate outlets for his anxiety.  His therapist always had encouraging words for me and told me how much she looked forward to her hour with Sam each week.  Maybe she said the same thing about all her clients, but I believed her and left feeling lucky that I was Sam's mom.  We parents crave and treasure these kind words. 

A few months ago I received the letter from Medicaid I knew was coming.  Sam was denied continued services.   The state is in financial crisis and cuts are being made in every area.  The letter stated that he should be discharged with a home program, administered by his parent, I suppose (as if I have time to run a clinic in my home).  I rationalized away my anger, knowing that this was inevitable, that an appeal would be denied in these tough economic times, that another, much younger, child would take his spot and this is the natural course of things.  But when his last session ended today and his therapist brought Sam  to me in the waiting room, the tears came. Tears for time passing, Sam growing older, doors closing, the challenge of finding new ways to help Sam and keep him from the dreaded regression that can occur with termination of services.  Our lives are full of goodbyes; some barely cause a ripple while others leave a gap in our hearts.  As a parent of a special needs child, I am very aware that the responsibility lies with Bob and I to help Sam find his way in the world.   The State of Indiana does not know Sam, my son.  He was just a name on a list of children who had "aged out" of the system.  I will move forward, seek out different therapies, and love Sam with all my heart.  Theraplay will continue to help many families and we will always be grateful for all those Tuesday afternoons spent there.  Life goes on...

The Joys of Spring

Winter is long in Indiana, and I mean looooooong.  It starts off right after Halloween with the skies becoming  gray and the days shortening to where you can easily miss daylight if your commute gets you on the road before 8 am and brings you home after 6 pm.  But there is Thanksgiving to look forward to and the novelty of wearing warm sweaters, wooly socks, and soft scarves.  Then we are into December.  The cold is ever-present but we are too busy with holidays festivities to notice. Baking for teachers, shopping, decorating our homes, playing Christmas carols.  It is a joyful time and the weather seems to be a perfect accessory.  Sledding and hot chocolate, holiday lights and warm blankets, Salvation Army ringers and fires blazing in our family rooms.  Then January arrives.  Thud.  No more holiday anticipation, no more gift exchanges, winter break from school is over.  Oh, yes, and the bills arrive.  Somehow now we don't quite recall why it was so important to give a Panera gift card to our pet sitter.  Winter persists and our spirits search for something to grasp onto.  Here in Indianapolis it is often the Colts in the playoffs; fingers crossed they make it to the Super Bowl.  We wear our Colts blue, and live for Sunday games, but curse under our breath as we slip and slide our way to work, church, and the grocery on slick roads.  Ah, February, the cruelest month of all.  It may be short on days but it is long on misery.  By this point we are fed up with the sooty fireplace, the boots piled up in the foyer dripping sludge, the heating bills, the cabin fever.  Yes, there is Valentines Day but there is not enough chocolate and flowers in the world to make us forget the winter misery.  I see March as a tease.  Yes, there might be a day where the temperature reaches the 50's and we begin to see some buds on the trees, but just as we begin to consider ending hibernation, a snowstorm can arrive, and it is as if we are being mocked for false hopes.  As April arrives, we don't look back.  Some days are warm, others feel like we are sliding back towards winter.  But we know we are through the worst of it and we rejoice in spring break plans, Easter bunnies, and calendar countdowns  to the end of the school year.  In the dead of winter we cannot imagine that it will ever be warm again.  That our trees will be green with leaves, that we will see our daffodils and tulips push up through the hardened soil.  But spring always comes, and it is a joyful time for us in Indiana who have survived yet another bleak winter.  We mulch our gardens and tune up our lawnmowers, plant colorful annuals and uncover the barbecue.  Spring in Indiana, it is a miracle, year after year. 

There's a Place for Us

A few times a month I go to a meeting of my mom's writing group.  Technically, it's a group of moms who have children with special needs who get together to write on a topic given by our leader.  But mostly it's just my "mom's group" and that sisterhood is the bond.  The writing is just an excuse we use so that our husbands and children will let us out the door.  "Oh, Mom has to go write!"  Off we go, each scurrying away from our homes with a notebook in hand. Some of us leave tire skid marks down the street if its been one of those weeks.  I shouldn't minimize the writing because it is the cathartic outlet for our thoughts.   In that writing we find truth, clarity, grief, hope, gratititude.  Each woman brings to her writing years of experience, moments of great despair, and challenges not faced by most.  We read to the others, sometimes voice quivering, sometimes downright sobbing, oftentimes laughing at the absurdity of our adversity.   When the words are spoken out loud, their power can be overwhelming.   I find that I can write very easily most times, and very matter of factly about Sam.  But it is the reading to my friends in that room that will bring it from thoughts on paper to words spoken from my heart and I will no longer be able to deny the pain, or the joy, and will feel it to my toes.  Almost every mom begins their sharing by saying "Well, I'm not a good writer" or "I just have a big mess here because I couldn't figure out what I was trying to say".  The rest of us usually say, "Just shut up and read it" (with kindness, of course).  It doesn't matter how well organized the words, or if the sentence runs on into a paragraph.  It is the words, the very action of taking what started in our hearts, then was written on paper,  and and then shared with women who walk in your shoes.  It is more powerful than I can describe.  Our kids are all different.  Some have autism, others cerebral palsy, diabetes, arthritis, chromosomal disorders, ADHD.  All are welcome and there is no hierarchy, no less compassion given for a lesser debilitating diagnosis.  We are simply mothers who have children who face challenges that most do not.  We come to the group to share our worries and to lend support that we cannot find anywhere else.  A counselor or pastor may say "I understand" but honestly, that is not true.  It's an elite club we have here, not one any of us would have chosen to join, but one that lends us the support we need to keep going.   After the meeting we go out for margaritas (all part of the creative process, we tell our husbands).  The discussions continue and you would think that we would be a serious bunch, with all we have on our plate.  You'd be wrong.   Last night there was more laughter at our table than at any other.  We have great challenges in our lives, but with that comes great perspective and joy.  And laughter that might appear quite inappropriate to an outsider, but which we have earned by years in the trenches.  We talked about creating a "compound" for our families down the line.  A place surrounded by a tall, brick wall.  Our kids would be safe, surrounded by families who "get it". We'd all look out for one another, and be tolerant of the delightful quirks of our wonderful kids.  No more nasty comments about tantrums, no more stares at wheelchairs, no more bullying.  The wall would be built to keep our kids safe, yes, but also to exclude those who don't qualify. After years of feeling unwelcome, the tables would turn.  After a few hours we disperse with hugs and discussions about summer plans to meet for concerts and a cocktail cruise.  Back to our lives at home, rejuvenated in our sisterhood. 

Music to My Ears

It's been a rough week; nothing horrible really, just some worries here and there.  A sore throat/cough I can't seem to kick, Sam home from school for two days with some elusive virus, Bob having some stress at work, my brother having his hip surgery.  And then there is the tv news.  I don't know why I watch it.  The local news is full of bullying in school, murders, and teacher layoffs.  National stories of oil-covered sea birds in the gulf, continued recession woes, anti-Obama rallies.  Serenity, now!!!  I found the perfect remedy for my weary soul...Danny's middle school band concert.  It could not have come at a better time.  Anxious to escape the house after two days spent at home with Sam watching Spongebob and narrating toy train crashes, I head out the door with Danny.  The parking lot was full when we arrived.  The students rushing to warm up on their instruments and their parents heading for the auditourium.  It was buzzing with excitement and happy chatter as I found my seat.  I leafed through the program and talked to a mom next to me about the book she was reading (any experienced band parent knows to bring a book to the concerts because that wait time before it begins is a gift!)  The concert began right on time and when the lights dimmed and the music began, I felt my eyes sting with tears.  I don't know what it is.  Maybe the music, played so beautifully.  It never fails to surprise me that kids of this age can play at this level.  Maybe their faces.  Some still awkward, growing into themselves...others more sophisticated, looking confident and at ease.  Maybe just sitting among other proud parents, knowing that our kids are growing up, slowly growing away from us, and that is how it should be.  In any case, it  makes my eyes tear up and a lump forms in my throat and I thank God for this moment, for this reality check.  I am so blessed with so much, and right then, as if on cue, I see the top of Danny's tuba sparkle under the lights. 

Swimming to the Surface

When you have a child with autism, you truly understand and appreciate the progress that comes with patience, time, and encouragment.  There is nothing taken for granted when it comes to my Sam, and it is a silver lining to the cloud of autism that I get to rejoice over what other moms would consider mundane.  Sam was going to bed the other night and told Bob, "My head hurts; I need some orange medicine". (That's liquid motrin, for those of you not familiar with the slang.)   Yes, he is 11 years old, and yes, he has been able to say each of those words for many years now.  The miracle comes in that he wanted us to know how he felt and wanted us to help him feel better.  And that he took all these individual words and put them together into a statement.  See, a miracle, rising right out of the monotony of yet another bedtime routine.  It used to be that I would only know Sam was sick to his stomach when he threw up, usually in the most inopportune moment and place.  I would wonder if his throat hurt when he was coughing, but couldn't be sure unless I took him to the doctor for a strep test.  I would find a bruise on his leg and wonder when he got it, wishing he could tell me so that I wouldn't worry that it came at the hands of a mean kid on the playground. Having a child with autism requires a lot of detective work.  Little by little, we find Sam emerging from the cloak of autism.  He is finally beginnning to realize that not only does he have emotions, but we do too!  I used to make him look at flashcards of faces displaying sadness, happiness, and anger, teaching him the words that matched the faces.  Over time he began to verbalize his own feelings.  Sadness when his train tracks fell apart; happiness when it was time to leave for our Hilton Head vacation; anger when he had to share his toys at school.  Just recently he began to understand that I have feelings too and that when he has a good day at school, or a great swim lesson, "Mom is happy!".  That is quite a bargaining chip!  Being raised Catholic, I know the wonders a bit of mother guilt can work on a child.  There was a swim lesson a few months ago that turned into nothing more than a liquid tantrum.  Sam wouldn't cooperate with his teacher and ended up in timeout on the bench.  As I sat next to him listening to him cry, I waivered between feeling angry at him for being so obstinate and sad for his inability to cope with something as simple as a thirty minute swim lesson.  I noticed him peeking at me sideways as he cried his crocodile tears.  Then he said "Mom is disappointed".  Miracles...they often appear when I need them most.

Oh, Brother...

It's so strange to get old.  And I know I am not really "old" by today's standards.  45 is middle aged,  I suppose. But still, I remember being younger and being shocked that my brother, the oldest of my four siblings, was turning 40.  "Billy is 40?", I asked incredulously.    Being that my brother is one of the more delightfully immature people you will ever meet, the type that quite possibly mooned the postman that delivered his AARP membership card, it just doesn't seem possible that he is approaching 60.  He is having a hip replacement surgery tomorrow morning and yet that seems like a ridiculous notion.  In my mind he is forever young, giggling over pranks he played on his sisters, dancing with abandon at family weddings, walking around Hilton Head with a pitcher of mudslides in hand...He has always been a leader in our family.  When your parents get divorced, it seems to fall to the oldest, especially when it is a son, to take over the role of head of the household.  He was always loving and protective of our dear mother, and while we would laugh at his attempts to use his "serious voice" while on the phone, I remember looking up to him and being grateful for his guidance when our worlds were upside down after my father left home.  When my mom passed away, it was my brother who delivered the eulogy.  My sisters and I stood by him as he read, but he had the toughest job, and we were all so thankful for his courage and poise.  He added humor and some personal thoughts to what we had composed the night before, and delivered it with a strong voice that none of us could have managed.  He is all that a big brother should be and while we may not have been as close because of our 15 year age difference, I always have been thankful for his place in my life and in our family.  So tomorrow morning I will think of him as he goes into surgery and will say a prayer for his recovery and return to the dance floor at our next family wedding.  And if he needs a walker during his recovery I am sure it will be decorated with a few goofy stickers and a cup holder for his mudslides.

In the Blink of an Eye

Bob came across a photo of Danny while doing some work on his computer.  I think it was from when he was in maybe 2nd or 3rd grade.  It was "dress like a hippy" day at school and we helped rig Danny with a headband, tie-dye shirt and beads.  Oh, and sideburns.  He looked so cute, so young, so clueless.  Back then he would wear pretty much anything we told him to wear, trusting that we would make sure he looked cool.  Nowadays, he decides what he'll wear and thinks he is infinitely cooler than us, and I guess he is, though I take pride in keeping up with a young attitude and having shows like "Glee" and "American Idol" on my dvr schedule.  I can really hardly remember this day that Danny dressed like a Beatle.  We think we will remember so much of our kids' lives but really it is just snippets, flashbulb moments that can be triggered by a photo, a song, maybe an art project we keep in a over-stuffed drawer in our bedroom.  There are so many moments in a day, so many days in a year, years in a lifetime.  We should be more present in the our days; more aware of these precious moments with our kids.  Danny is in the other room as I type this, engrossed in a game on his laptop with his cell phone always at his side..his lifeline to his friends.  He has changed so much since this photo was taken; his voice is low, he is as tall as me, and he has inside jokes with friends, drama at middle school to which I am not privy.  But I still cherish mothering him, even though it has become less of a nurturing relationship and more of a service job.  Rides to and from tennis lessons, cooking steak and baking cookies, making sure his P.E. uniform is back in his backpack on Monday morning.  We laugh at "The Office" together; he understands all the jokes now and quotes from episodes the way I used to from "Seinfeld" back in its glory years.  I love being his mom; it has been amazing to see him grow.  Oh, and it may not be long before he has sideburns once again, but this time they won't be the type I can peel off at the end of the day.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I spent much of my day with girlfriends, one at a time, but still, special women who I enjoy.  I was thinking as I rushed this morning to work out, then shower and get to my friend's house on time (because being on time is just what I do!) how it is a natural instinct for women to want to be with other women.  It is like by being with them, we remember who we are, and that it is ok to need to talk things out, reflect, talk some more, laugh, smile, relate.  This is something we need to do, and it seems to be an intrinsically female thing.  I don't often (or ever) hear my husband say "I really need to get over and see John today" or "I need a boys night out".  He might say he'd like to get out on the golf course but it seems like the incentive is the golf, not the other men in his foursome.  And when he does go golfing, sometimes with the husbands of my friends, I am amazed at how little conversation they seem to have.  He tells me that they mostly just talk about golf, probably job stuff, not much of anything.  And that's fine; no reason for them to talk about their weight, the latest American Idol castoff, the kids.. they leave that to their wives and that apparently is just the way God intended.  Today I had lunch with a woman almost 20 years younger than me (ugh, is that possible??)  The age gap meant nothing.  We talked about her job, her boyfriend, my husband, and my kids (who we both love).  We sat for over two hours over our salads.  Time flew by; I left her with a hug and a promise to see her next week.  I drove home feeling happy, relaxed and fulfilled.  It's a girl thing.

       Always a Mom First

If someone asks you to tell a little about yourself, what is the first thing you will say?  Some might say their name, and I guess that is always a safe place to start, but after that, there are many choices.  You can talk about being married, or maybe what you do for a living, or where you live.  But if you have kids, you will probably say that you are a mother.  Mother, mom, mama, you pick the word.  I noticed at my blog class last night that as we introduced ourselves, those of us who have kids stated that first thing, some mentioned ages, some spoke with a smile, some with more of an exhausted expression of resignation.  Once I knew they were moms, whatever their attitude, I immediately felt a kinship; like we should sit on one side of the room across from the young ladies who were at the class to learn about business blogs; they were wearing chic clothes and had cute haircuts.  I think I might have even been like them in my old life, but now I am "just" a mom, wearing old Levis I've had forever and shabby clogs that I can't bear to retire as they fit my feet like slippers.  The moms want to blog for fun, or to give them a creative outlet.  Some used to work in creative fields like architecture or publishing, and a blog is a way to step back into "work" without working.  The instructor, a handsome young man, maybe in his 30's, reminds us that blogging brings immediate gratification, as opposed to a book that requires editing, submitting, rejections, more editing, etc.  With a blog, you write, click "post" and walk away to continue on with your day.  One thing accomplished in a long list of to-do's you might have written that morning.  For a mom, to accomplish something is a victory.  So much of what we are focused on is a work in progress, never really complete.  Housework, cooking, errands, raising children.  There is no finish line, just baby steps to an elusive end game.  But the blog is something we can control, and that is a real gift.  We can determine the topic, the length, whether we want to approach it with humor or gravity.  I woke up this morning and thought of the blog I had created the night before.  It made me happy, and I looked forward to posting once the boys left for school.  We all need a new toy now and then!

New Beginnings

I took a two-hour class at my local library on how to blog.  I listened, took notes, and only checked Facebook once while the instructor was not watching, so I think that qualifies me to begin my own blog.  There were some in my class who already had a blog, one was even being paid for hers as it helped others learn how to do home improvements and other crafty things.  I have lots of things to blog about, but for now, just vow to blog often and blog honestly.  I'm not looking to make money or promote myself or a book I hope to one day write.  I just have found that there is peace in writing, a challenge to find that perfect word to complete a thought, and the desire to connect to others is undeniable.