Tag: andrea frazer

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HolisTIC: NAC, Magnesium Citrate and Taurine

Andrea Frazer

This post is dedicated to Veronica who was sweet enough to write me a little note asking me where the heck I have been. She misses me! Hooray! I have missed this site, too. To be honest, I have been kind of a whirling dervish of house work, kids, trying to figure out employment, getting a new job, losing the new job quitting because my boss was an 84 year old maniac who couldn’t stop screaming about my subject lines “Horseshxt! Superfulous Horsehixt!”, fretting over finances, attempting not to fret over finances and ultimately deciding that my priority for now is to be as present with my kids as possible given that we have a four-month summer coming up.

Yes, let me say that again. FOUR MONTHS.

Here is how I feel about that concept.

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Just kidding. It’s more like this.

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But that’s okay. I am going to make the most of it. I have finally decided to make my income by concentrating full-time on Ebay and freelance writing. Sounds like a weird mix, but it works.

Writing Clients

Blogging for a surrogacy company – GlobalIVF

Bloggin for a prescription discount company – SimpleRX

Ebay

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Here’s my store. I am figuring out the most efficient ways to list, sell and ship my items. The ultimate goal is less thrift store items and more New with Tag items purchased downtown. I figure if I buy the same item in bulk, I only have to list it once rather than taking a gazillion photos/day. Other than filling orders, I can spend my time taking care of my wee ones and working on my book marketing which leads me to my final two points:

1. My kids are not so wee anymore: Stink’s hair is threatening to take over space, and my daughter is getting hips. I feel so strongly that I’d rather have a little less money but more quality time with my kids. Actually, what I’d like is a ton of money and time with my kids but I’ll take the second if held at gunpoint.

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2. My book is being published: I am excited to say I have a publisher for my book. It’s a boutique agency who has followed by writing for a while. Happily Ticked Off will hit bookstores, libraries and Amazon in September. Stay tuned for details and giveaways as it gets closer. Here is the publishing house’s website and my write-up. 

More Blogging Here

In addition to all the above, plan on finding more of my regular writing on this here blog. LIke this report on Stink’s tics.

They are dramatically reduced thanks to these supplements

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As you may recall, Stink had some pretty consistent vocals this year. We’re talking almost nine months of a quacking hiccup. When I put him on NAC they didn’t subside. But when I put him on the Taurine and Cal Mag Citrate, they almost went away within a week. I don’t know if the NAC helps in the combo or if it’s just the Magnesium and Taurine. I’m not taking the chance for now. He takes all 3 combos morning and night (one pill each).

I am honestly relieved to have less noise in the house, but as I often write about, I’m in a lot of acceptance about tics these days. Stink remains hilarious and eccentric and himself. I can’t really afford to cry anymore about something he’s not crying about.

Well, gotta go. Farmer Stacey is in town. She’s my friend with the 5 boys who lives on 20 acres in Northern California. We met when I wrote on Baby Center and she was a reader, pregnant with her fifth. I somehow didn’t scare her off. We met in real life last month for the first time and she’s back again this weekend. We have had so much fun. I think the highlite of her trip was going to Santa Monica Pier and seeing Hugh Jackman on a unicycle hanging out with the kids and me at 94 year old Grandma Stella’s mobile home park. She got to witness first hand Stella’s assessment of my terrible cooking, dirty housecleaning and big boobs. Plus she had more food and Italian trivia pushed on her than a millionaire at a used car lot.

grandma stella and stacey

I’ve missed you all so! Leave a comment and let me know how you and your beautiful kids are doing. As always:

May God grant you the serenity to accept the tics you cannot change, change the tics you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

Follow me on Facebook and Twitter. I would love to connect with you. 

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Popular… It’s All About Poppppuuuuulllar

Andrea Frazer

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Any of you Wicked fans out there will understand my title. Pip and I took in the show a few weeks back and, as luck would have it, she had to go to the bathroom right when this song started. Turns out there was a monitor near the concession stand. As Pip munched on her leftover Starbursts, we watched the scene from an empty foyer. When the applause started up, we quickly scurried back to our seats.

It’s always fun to watch conflict from the comfort of a theater seat – likely because you know it’s going to work out in the end. Real life isn’t as easy. Tonight was no exception.

As Stink and I were walking our feral beast dog around the neighborhood, we started talking about school. Instead of just asking, “Hey, how is class?” as I used to do, I asked him a question that would require more than a one word answer. This is my new ploy to get my hormonal tween to stay connected to me. It’s a clever tactic, and so far it’s working.

While often I get a sentence out from him, tonight I got twenty minutes of chatter. On one hand, I’m relieved my kid is still willing to communicate with me. On the other hand, it’s not as much fun as watching Glinda and Elphaba banter on stage. Perhaps if there was an orchestra and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, my heart would be less likely to break in a million pieces. Since that wasn’t the case, I had to listen to like a grown up and not say much. After all, a blubbering, defensive mother would hardly encourage my kid to continue to confide in me.

Here’s the gist of the conversation.

Me: Who do you play with the most at school these days?

Him: I play with A, B and C. I used to play with J, K and L but now they kind of do their own thing.

Me: It’s normal to drift, huh?

Him: I guess. But actually, I’m thinking it’s because I’m not really that popular.

Me: In what way?

Him: I don’t know. I guess… you know… because I’m kind of considered the odd one.

Me: Like hell you’re the odd one you’re the most incredible kid I know those bleepin bastards How so?

Him: I don’t know. I can just tell. When other kids make a joke, people laugh. When I make a joke – which I like to do because I’m really funny – the kids laugh kind of weird. Not at me – don’t worry…

Me: I’m not worried! I’m a fat liar.

Him: Just, well, they kind of laugh that laugh that seems to say, ‘He’s not really that funny.’

Me: And that makes you feel bad?

Him: Not really.

Me: (Relieved) That’s good!

Him: I’m kind of used to it.

Me: (Heart sinking into a million pieces) Well, that’s not really great. I mean, it’s no fun when people aren’t that nice.

Him: It’s not that they mean to be like that. I’m thinking that it’s because I’m not really that popular.

And we’re back at the beginning again. I try a new approach.

Me: Is it really that important to you to be popular?

Him: Well… kind of.

I consider launching into a spiritual direction about how God doesn’t care about popular. He cares about us as people. But I was in sixth grade once. I remember only too well how much I wanted to be part of an “in” crowd. Instead of bolstering him with words that will fall flat, I say nothing. That worked out well, as he kept talking.

Him: I am looking forward to high school… where I can start over and not be at school with the same kids. Then I have a chance at it.

Me: At what?

Him: AT BEING POPULAR MOM! 

Me: Ah ha! Well, good luck with that! For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Lord knows that I was not popular in high school. I tried, but it didn’t really work out.

Him: What did you do?

Me: Ah, that’s nice of you to care!

Him: (Arms crossed in ‘you’re such a dip shit’ bravado) I just want to do the opposite so I don’t make the same mistake as you.

Me: Got it. (I run my fingers through his mop of hair.) Dude, is it possible you’re not popular because you have hair like a Muppet, wear mesh shorts in 60 degree weather and wear shoes that are only hip in the hole-in-the-toe homeless crowd?

Him: Moooooom. No one should have to dress like everyone else to be popular.

Me: Stiiiink… that’s what often happens!

Him: I’ll break the rules, then!

Me: What else is new.

We arrive at the house.

Me: Shall we go in?

Him: Want to have popcorn with me on the porch first?

Me: Okay.

I look at my kid. At five foot five with size 10 shoes, he’s a man child. Part vulnerable, part defiant, 100% original. I love him so.

Me: For the record, being popular isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes just being with someone you love – LIKE YOUR MOTHER – is pretty awesome, too.

Him: Yeah. I guess. And, um… can I tell you something else I’ve really been thinking about? I don’t want to sound weird, but I really think I am headed in this direction.

Me: Please don’t tell me you want to wear dresses and play the flute.

Him: Weirder. I would like to learn wrestling.

Me: (Stunned) Let me get this straight: You want to be a Jew-frowed, comic book reading, wrestler? That’s your plan for popularity?

Him: Pretty much.

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Prayers are welcome, people.

For your entertainment, I will leave you with the song that always makes me laugh. The show always reminds me, too, that being popular for a crowd never works. Being true to oneself? That’s the way to defy gravity.

Talk at you soon.

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My Word of the Year – Discipline

Andrea Frazer

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It has occurred to me recently that whining and complaining is not all that it’s cracked up to be. At some point in one’s life, it becomes necessary to actually do something about what they want changed. This realization didn’t happen for me with doobage and unicorn rainbows shooting out my arse at a yoga studio run by a guru named Spirit Chevorlet. It happened for me at a red light on my way home from Target.

I had been stewing and stewing all day about finding work and putting away Christmas decorations and making school lunches and “Why can’t I just get a break I am working so haaaard?” when a little voice came into my head with four words that pretty much changed everything. “Shut the hell up.”

“Excuse me?” I thought to myself. But I felt that same voice tugging at me. Call it God. Call it my inner voice. Call it an angel with an attitude. I don’t care. For that moment, I sat in my own truth – the truth that it was up to ME to do something different. I knew this already, but it wasn’t until that moment that I really knew.

For many  years, I wanted the tics to change.

I wanted people to change to make me feel better about my life.

Since those fantasies didn’t actually translate into real life for me, it was now time for me to change myself. A few excuses I had for whining, complaining and basically throwing a big boo boo tantrum for the past few months included,  but are not limited to:

* I shouldn’t have to do all that social media stuff to get a job in this town. I’m a WRITER

* My husband isn’t changing into a beacon of flexibility. Why should I become the poster child for responsibility?

* My friends aren’t giving up wine. Why should I have to?

* My kids aren’t worried about cleaning their room. Why should I clean mine?

* I am too tired to exercise. I think I’ll just grow a spare tire and enjoy the wonders of armpit hair.

At the end of the day, I can either give my power to my husband, the tics, family obligations, my work, my kids or the dog, or I can give the power to me. Choosing me is kind of scary, because who the heck am I?

Who the heck are you?

This question changes everything. It leads to destruction or transformation. It leads to failure or success. It leads to darkness or light.

When we know who we are, we can be who we need to be. And when we are enough, no tic, person, place or thing can touch us.

It’s not every day that I have this kind of epiphany at 6:17 on a Thursday, but between you, me and the street light, I’m glad I did.

Talk at ya soon.

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A Place of My Own

Andrea Frazer

As I sit here typing, my daughter sits quietly behind me. She’s painting in her art center. By “art center” I mean “re-purposed 1980’s ply board shelf unit” covered in discount white paint. Her legs are crossed. Her eyes are focused. And she hasn’t moved in one hour. I’d poke her to be sure she wasn’t a statue, but in case she fidgets, I don’t want cobalt blue on my favorite thrift store cardigan.

sophia 2

Me? I’m the opposite of disciplined and steady. I bolt up up to take a picture. I plop down to write a blog post. I get up to get a cup of coffee. I sit down to check an email. Oh, what was that meme on Facebook? I’ll look at that really quick. And ha! That vimeo is hilarious. That cat sure knows how meow Jingle Bells like a pro. Oh, and for the record, my elf name is Perky McJiggles. Score!

By the time I’m done, I’ve got nothing accomplished but a spinning brain. My daughter, on the other hand, has a beautifully painted rainbow-colored dog which will soon house shiny new crayons. With my little Hermione Granger, this translates to magic. Precise, practical, whimsical but contained magic. With her mother, there is magic also, but things often explode.

When the kids were younger, I’d pass of my messed up experiments as “creativity!” and “mad cap hilarity!” I’d hail the virtues of being flexible and turning lemons into lemonade! But the truth is, I wasn’t (and continue to not always be) prepared for events and every day occurrences in my domicile.

Last year, I almost missed my daughter’s choir performance because I assumed the start time was the same as rehearsals, despite mounds of paperwork saying the contrary. Where was the paperwork? In the piles of everything else on my desk. I had meant to file it, but somehow, that resolution never took off from its first inception.

In 1992.

This has all started to change since my job ended in October. I’m getting more organized. I have to be. Not only is my family worth it, but so am I. Where do I want to work next? What do I really want to write? WHO THE HECK AM I? The verdict is still out, but I can promise one thing: As long as I’m reacting to life, rather than producing it, I’m only going to get half measured results. I need to be intentional.

Living on purpose is kind of like living life sober. It’s got a lot of potential. You know things are going to be really exciting. (Not as exciting as making anatomically correct gingerbread men with your bff-  half a bottle of Two Buck Chuck in – but exciting none the less.) In the meantime, however, it’s kind of painful. I mean, ouuuch. Life is so… real. And complicated. And this time of year, it’s so MERRY! And BRIGHT! For Godsake, the emotional and literal piles seem so overwhelming. Can’t we just shut the curtains?

In many ways, when the kids were younger, things felt more peaceful. Less was expected of me. I could enjoy the last minute walks to the gas station for Diet Coke. If I wanted coffee instead, but I didn’t have milk, I’d borrow some from a neighbor. If a friend popped by, we could hop in the car and grab coffee at the local Starbucks. A few hours could pass as we shared our hopes, dreams and struggles with everything from parenting to views on faith. Heck, sometimes we would even end our night with a glass of wine. Or three. So what if it was Tuesday! We were spontaneous! And Lord knows it was more fun than filing that stack of papers.

Things are not like that anymore. I no longer imbibe in the evenings. It’s my own spirit I infuse, and wow, what great books I’ve been enjoying!

Healing is a Choice, Steve Arterburn

After the Sucker Punch, Lorraine Devon Wilke

Jesus Calling, Sarah Young

On the list

Carry On Warrior Glennon Doyle Melton

Cold Tangerines Shauna Niequist

Interrupted Jen Hatmaker

Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott

While I’m on a faith and memoir kick now, I can just as easily slip into a romance or adventure series. A good book is a reminder that a world outside of my own self-centered thinking exists. I can travel to heaven, the slums of Africa or around the table of a tired mother and her preacher husband.

Words, read from a space of my own (in this case my trusted green couch) remind me that there is redemption in the dishes and the laundry. That there is a grace to our days, a rhythm to our sometimes ho-hum lives. A break in routine from the daunting to-do list and “please oh please hire me” job searches.

I used to read so I could be a better writer. But now I read to be a better Andrea. Because at the end of the day (or the beginning as is so often the case) there’s nothing I love more than putting down my books and embracing these two people.

kids tree

Until next time, I’d love to know if you have a space of your own to be inspired.

Me? What I’d really like is something like this.

cottage-garden-sheds-1

What I’ll have to settle for in the meantime is something secluded like this:

quiet space

Because this space is already taken.

sophia reading

Does anyone want to commit to designating a space for ourselves to be inspired in 2015?

Find me at Twitter @AndreaFrazer. I’d love to  hear from you!

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ScholasTIC – Are You Comfortable With Your Kid’s Teacher?

Andrea Frazer

teacher

I’m not sure about your children’s education situation, but my kids go to a charter school. For some people, sending their child to public school is akin to throwing them out on the street with nothing but a can of Yahoo and a comic book. For me, it’s heaven.

Their peer group, and teachers, have more skin colors than Joseph’s amazing technicolor coat. There are at least 20 moms and dads I can call last-minute if I’m running late for pickup. One mom, who reads this column, met me at 830 this morning to give me a few bottles of GABA that her daughter wasn’t using. “I read your blog,” she wrote me last week, “I have some extra if you want it.” Doesn’t get better than that. (Thank you, friend! You know who you are!)

Our school isn’t perfect. If Tuskany were a blogger (which she isn’t because she actually has a strong sense of boundaries and privacy, unlike some people she knows… ahem) she’d tell you many stories about my freak outs. “Some kids are ganging up on Stink at the play ball courts!… This one teacher thinks Tourettes is spelled Tooretts and is the reason Stink is into fart jokes!”

Yup, some of the kids over the years have been rough around the edges. And some of the teachers weren’t what I’d call Mary Poppins perfect, nor insightful. But isn’t that what school is about? To learn how to accept differences, stand up for oneself when things aren’t fair, fail, grow, rinse and repeat?

Lest I sound like St. Andrea, Patron of the Los Angeles School system, I didn’t always feel this way. Sure, I wanted my baby kinder to go there, but in all truth, I was terrified. On his first day of school, I introduced myself to a man with long hair, striped socks and George Michael shorts. I thought he was an eccentric big brother. “Hi, I’m a new mom, Mrs. Frazer,” I said, giving him my hand. He shook it with exuberance, smiled and declared, “I’m one of the assistant teachers… Chachi!” I almost passed out.

Stink’s new school was very developmental. It used buzzed words like “engaging the student” and “peaceful learning circles.” Some people might think, “Whole Child! Montessori style nirvana!” I’m an ex-Catholic school girl. My thoughts ran more along the lines of, “Tree huggers! Unicorns! Ruuun!”

Before you judge, Stink was my first to go to school, and I had a big diagnosis in my pocket. For some people, a few tics and a T.S. label wouldn’t sound so daunting. But for me? It produced nausea-inducing fear. “What if he got worse? What if other kids noticed? And worse, what if he was made fun of?” I ruminated.

In retrospect, I made myself crazier than I needed to be. While it’s normal to have concerns, I didn’t put mine to rest easily. If only I had someone to guide me… to tell me that it would be okay. I wish I knew that even if he ticked to the point of cursing (my biggest worry) he’d still be okay. Why? Because who Stink is, not what he does, is what counts.

Little by little, I began to cut the cord. I started being less concerned with who I wanted Stink to be. I started truly enjoying who he was. So what if he’s not into sports. So what if he has a hair-do resembling a bed-headed Beetle. So what if he still likes Pokemon while other kids are into baseball cards. It really doesn’t matter one bit what other children are doing. What matters is what my kid is doing. And best of all, he’s happy and content.

He’s not the only one. If I was ever not sure about my big leap of faith into the chasm of the L.A. charter school, yesterday’s letter from his teacher sealed the deal.

I had written to her about Stink’s tics which, well, are still pretty intense. I had told her that I didn’t want her to be afraid of bringing the situation up to me. After all, as much as my son deserves to make a few sounds and twitches, other kids deserve to learn. If it becomes disruptive, I’d be open to accommodations.

After a brief note back from her, reassuring me that no one is bugged by his tics (minus one kid who goes into the office sometimes for solitude), I wrote back. I thanked her, as well as informed her that I knew Stink was in good hands. I told her I wouldn’t harp on the tics anymore and asked, instead, if she would keep me abreast of his focus issues.

This is what I got back – everything verbatim but the names.

Hi Andrea,

Please don’t feel as though we can’t talk about Stink’s tics. I have no concerns about you worrying about his tics, and how it may impact his learning in the classroom! That’s like me blaming you for being a caring mother! So, talk to me about his tics anytime, and I will inform you if it gets to be too much for the other kids. They know to accept him, and treat him with compassion and respect. No one in class talks about Stink in a negative light; I will not tolerate that.

I think as long as he makes a conscientious effort to stay focused, he can do it. By the way, I reviewed his essay with him today, and gave him a few recommendations…like transition sentences between paragraphs, topic sentences for each paragraph (that are not, “I’m going to talk about…), expanding his ideas, etc. I’m not sure he will revise independently, tomorrow or not. I think that he is under the impression that he is done. Maybe once he types it up, he can take it home and have you look it over with him.

My Best,
The Most Amazing Teacher on the Planet

You’re doing great, Andrea.

Take-away

Find a school with teachers like this. It can make all the difference in your kid’s journey. It can also keep you from running off with a Highlander and drinking a vat of Two Buck Chuck.

Leave a Comment

Tics or not, where does your child go to school? What makes you love it and why? What makes you not love it and why? Would really love to hear.

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I’m Always Sorry

Andrea Frazer

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Tonight, after listening to non-stop vocals all day – we’re talking 30 times a minute – I decided to never, ever I MEAN NEVER look up “tic cure” “tic video” “tic help” or “tourettes is driving me crazy” ever ever again.

Why? Because it’s been 8 years of this. Oh sure, I have moments where I am okay (when things are quiet) but then the tics rear their ugly heads and I’m back into despair again.

No more. Do I want them to subside? Yes. Of course. With every tic, twitch and shudder I’m remembering that on Tuesday I will be in a naturopath’s office – a place where we’ll hopefully get some answers to this insane spike in symptoms.

But as someone very wise told me over the phone just now, this is not my journey. It’s Stink’s. And really, if I’m going to be someone who has peace of mind and purpose, I simply have to let go of what i cannot control.

Seconds into this post, my son walked in.

Stink: “Mom, do you know where the game Sorry is?”

Me: “It’s in the treasure chest.”

Stink: “Oh, well, will you play with me and Addie? (his friend) I know it’s late but, well, it will be really fun.”

Me: (on the inside): “No no no no no don’t make me sit there and listen to the machine gun firing of noises I can’t make stop and can’t ask you to make stop.” (on the outside) “I would like nothing more. Let’s do it.”

Stink: “Really?”

Me: “Of course! But one thing first.”

Him: (suspicious) “What?”

Me: “We need snacks. Delicious ones!”

Him: “Yessssss!”

And so we played Sorry. All five of us. Me, Stink, Addie, Brooklyn the Pit Bull and the tics. And I’m not one bit sorry about having that time with my sweet boy.

Until Tuesday’s appointment with Dr. Magic, I’m going to really try to stop my mad obsessing. Because seriously, there’s some pretty messed up crud in the world. (Can I get an “amen?”) I had better come to terms with a bitch of a diagnosis I can’t control, because that skill set is going to come in handy if I’m going to have a big, hairy, juicy life.

Ladies, like you, I have a lot on my plate. I have a huge job interview on Monday. I can either say “no” out of fear. I can decide to give up the opportunity to stay home and watch my kid’s disorder progress with the tenacity of an OCD time bomb, ready to explode.

Or I can say “Yes” to life. To a change. To the hope that in letting go I’ll find peace.

With peace, I will have freedom.

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When we can find peace despite less than peaceful circumstances, we’ve found the cure. Maybe not the cure to T.S.. But the cure to fear.

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For those on this journey with me, let’s pray for each other. Let’s pray that we don’t take crosses upon ourselves that are not ours to bear. In the end, as my friend reminded me this evening, our kids are not really ours. They are on a journey to fulfill their destiny and we are on ours.

 

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I’m not sure about you, but as for me, I’m ready to say goodbye to co-dependence on an ever changing disorder.

Tics are up and and down. But my God is the same. And I’m pretty sure he has something glorious planned for me. I just need to say yes to my faith, not my fear.

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I pray you all do the same. And if you’re not there (hey, some days I’m not) please leave a comment. Share with one another. Our burdens are so much lighter when we don’t face life alone. And here’s the real kicker: We can put our burdens down, whether or not we’ve “fixed” our kids.

Yes, we can. We can drop them.

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And how much do you want to bet that when we get out of our own way the peace will come? Life is so cheeky that way.

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Until next time, May God grant you the serenity to accept the tics you cannot change, change the tics you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

 

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The Kids Got Talent

Andrea Frazer

for dom

Today my kids auditioned for the school talent show. Pip is singing “For Good” with her bff, Miss L, while Stink is going to do a magic act to entertain the crowd. I don’t want to give away his shining moment in advance, but let’s just say that it involves taking a wand, forcing a platter to rise out of a box, and making food on said platter magically disappear.

Translation: Pip will hide in the box. Stink will take a Barbie doll (which he finds funnier than a wand) and scream: “Rise! RIIIISSSEEEEEEEEEE!” Pip’s hand will then appear through the hole in the box with a plate of cookies. The great magician will then take a cookie and toss it in his mouth, making it disappear.

Afterward, Stink will ask for volunteers. He’ll choose four children. Once on stage, he will ask them, “Now, which one of you want to make things disappear?” Once again, he’ll point to the box, but this time, pizza will rise – hopefully to every mini-foodie’s delight. He will then work his way up to cupcakes. Finally, over 25 of his rubber ducks will explode out of the center of the box. Why? “Because ducks are funny, mom. Duh.”

I bring you this little slice of silly because it reminds me that life doesn’t have to be so friggin’ serious all the time. Is it a piano concerto? No. But Stink isn’t interested in impressing adults in the audience with his musical instrument talents. He’s interested in making a whole lot of kids laugh. Because, really, kids find this stuff pretty funny.

I like that about Stink.

As we were sitting in the car in front of the driveway, he sprung the loaded question on me. “So, Mom, can I play video games NOW?”

He’d been on restriction for a few days. I had to. The tics were crazy. I couldn’t take it.

“I know you think they make the tics bad, but truthfully, Mom, I’ve been crazy anyway. I can barely concentrate in class. You know, PUBERTY and all.”

That made me laugh. But it also made me sad, because he loves his gaming. And really, he’s right. Video games or not, his tics are just up. Who am I kidding that it’s going to make that much difference.

“But look how mellow you are now, baby,” I said. “Your energy is so even. The lack of video games does make a difference.”

Enter exasperation on his part. “Moooom,” he sighed, “I’m holding them in so you will think my energy is okay so I can play.”

This made me feel like crap. “But you’re not supposed to hold them in at home, buddy. This is your place to let them out!”

He just looked at me and shook his head. “If I do that, you’ll just have one more reason for me not to play, so let’s just decide I can play a little bit and work on diet and exercise. And hey, why don’t you go back to drinking wine? You like it. Go for it!”

The upshot of this is that my kid is upstairs, playing an hour of video games. I am not drinking wine because, well, that’s another blog post. And we’re just going to take this day by day until we see the naturopath on Tuesday.

Until then, Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the tics I cannot change, change the tics I can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

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I Found the Cure to What Ails Me!

Andrea Frazer

So, I’m not going to lie to you. I’m in love with another man. His name is Sam Heughan. He plays Jamie in the Starz series, Outlander. Have any of you been watching? Or, prior to the series, have any of you read the series by Diana Gabaldon?

In a nutshell, a world war 2 nurse, Claire Randall, gets reacquainted with her husband, Frank, in a boarding house in England. To pass the time while he works, she falls through some Stone Henge-esque stones and lands in 1748 Scotland during the clash between the Scots and the English. A clan takes her in for her own protection. Soon they realize she has lots of medicinal powers. Is she a witch? An English spy? They don’t know.

But, to keep her safe – and since the lass is useful – they marry her off to a hot highlander to keep her out of the arms of a nasty lieutenant who finds rape, flogging and smacking the crap out men, women and children to be all in a day’s fun. The highlander she is betrothed to is none other than an outlaw – Jamie Fraser – who is six foot four, sassy and manly as the day is long.

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The problem for her is that while she must accept the reality she is in now, she misses her old one also. And yet, after consummating her marriage to Jamie, she finds that despite less than perfect circumstances, she just might be able to adjust to her new life.

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Clearly there is only one answer to my tic conundrum this month: To get over my grief of what was a nice, quiet run sans tics, I must simply be engage in sex with a man who makes love with “unflagging joy” and speaks to me in an accent that can make “we need toilet paper” sound like “Your body is a temple of Yuban goodness.” Yes, that would make it all better, do you not agree?

Outlander 2014

Until tomorrow, may God grant you the serenity to accept the tics you cannot change, change the tics you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.

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I Used To Be Such a Good Blogger…

Andrea Frazer

…But a full-time job with kids home at all summer has put a serious damper on my style. I think I need a degree in project management to keep track of their schedules and my husband’s wacky work schedule. Not to mention my kids need sustenance. Seriously, mamas, kids need attention every day. EVERY DAY. Can you even believe it?

A big shout out to all my friends who have circled the wagon this past month to take my kids to such wonderful places as the beach, downtown Los Angeles for Mexican dresses, art openings, Swedish festivals, bowling, parties, sleepovers and more. I don’t even know if any of you read this blog, but if you do, you know who you are. I am so very grateful.

To answer the last blog’s question of ‘Would you tell a camp counselor if your kid had T.S.?’ I did indeed tell the camp director. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even twitch – and not because she doesn’t have T.S.. She simply didn’t react because, apparently, I’m not the only mom in the world who has a child with special needs.

I was immediately put at ease, especially with her closing statement. “I am glad you said something,” she offered kindly, “Because if some kid acted poorly toward him, I’d want to know that he could advocate for himself or talk to his counselor.”

“My son not only advocates for his tics, he also advocates for seconds on popsicles, extra pool time and extra room on stage to take his final bow,” I said, giving her a small glimpse into his over-the-top personality.

She smiled, “He’ll have to join in line behind the other boys,” she said. “This is a public park n’ rec. That kind of behavior is par for the course.”

One week later, my son came home in tears.

“Oh, no,” I said, pulling him into my arms. “What’s got you so upset?”

“I don’t know,” he sniffled, sitting on my lap. I almost gasped at how heavy he was, but I decided breathing was overrated. How long would my almost sixth grader want to cuddle with me? I bent my head next to his mop of curl, enjoying the warmth of his bear paws on my knees.  I took a deep breath, was reminded he needed to wear Roll On with more frequency, and snuggled close. “You must know what’s wrong,” I nudged him.

“Well, I guess I do. But I just don’t want to say.”

“Oh, no,” I though. He’d been lightly hiccupping all week, likely due to chlorine overload. I was ready for his tale of woes about the kid at the snack bar who asked him to keep his noises to himself.

“Did some kid tease you?” I asked?

He immediately bristled and pulled away. “No! What would they do that?”

“Stupid me!” I wanted to respond. Instead I went with, “Then what’s the problem?”

“Well, you’re working so hard, and it costs money to go, so I feel bad saying this, but…” he burst into tears. “I’m not a fan of the great outdoors! Oh, Mama, I am a fan of the great indoors!”

I stifled my laughter, gave him a huge, promised him we’d turn on the air condition and watch TV the following week while his sister sweated her ass off with the other campers. “And lots of snacks,” he advised. “And lots of snacks.” Problem solved.

Here are a few images of what Stink considers to be ideal activity. Thank God he’s estimated to be SIX FOOT NINE. No joke. If not, he’d be bigger than a Whale at McDonalds.

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Samstink & Deli-rious

Andrea Frazer

The title is my bad attempt at reframing the Bible story of Samson and Delilah. For those of you who don’t know it, let me give you the quick recount.

Story of Samson and Delilah

1.  Samson is born with the gift of strength

2. Samson is to use his gift for God

3. Samson instead falls head over heels in love with a prostitute

4. Samson reveals to this hoe that his strength lies in his hair

5. While sleeping, said hoe cuts his hair

6. Samson, weak and defenseless, is taken to prison where his eyes are gouged out

7. Samson slowly grows back his hair, along with his strength

8. Other inmates and guards, perhaps due to amazing prison food or cellmate Bible hour, don’t notice his hair getting longer

9. During a pagan ritual, when Samson is marched out to be slaughtered, he puts his hands between two pillar posts and knocks down the temple, killing both himself and the everyone in it

10. The Takeaway: If Samson had just listened to God, instead of that slut, life would have been better.

My Version of Sunday’s events – Samstink & Deli-rious (me being delirious, Samstink being played by yours truly on the bike.)

dom and sophia on bike

1. Samstink is born with the gift of outrageous personality

2. Samstink should be using his gift for God

3. Samstink instead falls head over heels in love with all things Pokemon, BeyBlades, video game and comic book

4. Samstink reveals his passion during Sunday school class and, rather than pay attention, sneaks in a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book during Bible hour. In addition, according to his sister the spy, he talks back incessantly to teachers. Said informant’s testimony is backed up by Samstink’s defiance to parents the whole drive home. (No, we did not get him a do-nut. No, we did not stop at the park. No, we did not get tacos and he would be forced to eat gluten free tuna sandwiches for lunch. Yes, we are awful parents.)

5. Post-church, rather than hang at home and play videos, Mama forces long-haired, moppy Samstink to get a haircut

6. Samstink, moaning and defenseless, cries as the locks are shorn, transforming him from disheveled homeless child to good Christian solider in twenty minutes flat

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7. Samstink vows to grow his hair back, along with his manners and gratitude

8. Other family members, promising to remind him when he’s being argumentative, defiant and wearing food on his mouth, remind him of how much he is loved

9. During a pagan routine, one that involves Mama sitting at her work desk by 7am an hour from home, gets an email from Samstink’s father. It features a photo of Samstink all ready for school with his new hair and clean clothes

10. The Takeaway: If Samstink had just stopped acting like a defiant turd, his mama would never have had to resort to such evil measures

THE FINAL PUNCH

Samstink, insisting his new hair was goofy, had the final word with his outfit. Because, you know, shiny blue crocs, nylon shorts, a polyester Mario shirt combined with a Scooby Doo hat and rainbow gloves is far more subtle than a haircut.

Mama’s takeaway: Short of dressing the kid herself, this mama is going to have to learn to pick her battles her battles  . dom and sophia post haircut