So maybe my blog about Gracie’s aunt coming to visit wasn’t the most appropriate thing I’ve ever shared. But that doesn’t begin to compare with the cringe-worthy story I saw on the news later that night.

It seems that some man was arrested for – how do I say this delicately? – pleasuring himself — at a Walmart store. I didn’t really catch the whole story because I was too busy being stunned by what I was actually SEEING on the late news. Not only were they reporting this garbage non-story, but they were also showing the surveillance camera footage of the act. NICE!

To their credit, the film was blurred out in a strategic location. But, seriously? Did we need to see that? Did that make it a better story somehow? I don’t think so. The video footage wasn’t shown to help police track down some dangerous criminal. This was purely voyeuristic muckraking sensationalism that has no place in what is touted as a serious news program. Walter Cronkite would be ashamed to be a part of this profession.

Columbus is the sixteenth largest market in the United States and THIS is all the news that we can come up with?! How embarrassing to our society, to that station, and to the city!

I’m not sweet and innocent, I’m not naïve and I’m not a prude. I’m just saying, if I want to watch porn, I’ll get it on demand…like my brother’s five year old did last week.

His comment: “Mommy, those people were stuck together!”

Note to self: Check the parental controls on those on demand channels. Better also check them for the news channels too. Never know what you might see.

“That’s how you become a woman, Gracie,” bionic woman ears Lauren called through her bedroom wall to Caryn and Grace in the adjacent bathroom.

In a home with seven people — all sharing the same bathroom — privacy is non-existent. As Gracie discovered this weekend, issues of a delicate personal nature are broadcast with the same tact, frequency and sensitivity as the weather.

Rick and I had been out for a run on Saturday morning and were greeted at the back door by Jack’s matter-of-fact announcement: “Grace started her period. What’s for breakfast?”

My immediate reaction was not horror that my ten-year-old son would be privy to such intimate information. Nor was it a surprise that he knew at all, given the openness of our family. It was mostly a relief to know that Gracie’s perpetual state of PMS was not permanent as Rick and I have feared for a few months.

Jack hadn’t overheard Lauren’s sisterly counsel. Instead he had heard the news of Gracie’s newfound womanhood by reading Caryn’s texted bulletin on my phone. While we were gone, she and Grace had walked the mile to Americheer to practice their tumbling. (Yes, tumbling… round offs, back handsprings… that kind of thing.) But Caryn had wanted to be sure that I was informed.

Susan had missed that communiqué, but was filled in at breakfast on the family’s big news. (We really do try to have some decorum at mealtime, but this was a special occasion.)

She immediately decided that Grace needed a nickname for the weekend. “Period” was nixed as being too banal. “Comma” was my personal favorite. But in the end “Red” prevailed.

Susan insisted that she ride along to pick up Gracie after practice so she could “congratulate” her with her new name and theme song: This Girl is a Woman Now.

Today is yet another day off of school for all of the kids.

I know there are some moms that are whooping for joy at the opportunity for quality time with their children. But I believe, the vast majority of them are more like me, either scrambling for child care or wondering how it is that the kids are off TWICE in one week.

Some months, it seems that there are more days off than there are on. Our educational system celebrates far more holidays than any business does. Half an inch of snow renders roads IMPASSABLE for a school bus, particularly on Fridays and Mondays. Plus, “teacher professional days” and the parent-no teacher conference days allow our precious darlings yet several other opportunities throughout the year to stay home and sleep until noon.

The most recent no-school day to make a splash on the scene is the “waiver day.” There are two of them, on the voting days in November and in May. These new “holidays” came as a big surprise to us working parents (and probably plenty of stay-at-home parents) last year. The official reason was something like “the district will sponsor mandatory professional development opportunities throughout the entire day for all employees.”

Our school district goes so far as to attribute their “excellent” state report card ranking to “the focused professional development we were able to offer during our two Waiver Days.”

Really?! Those TWO days made THAT much difference?!

Regardless of my belief (or disbelief) in the value and necessity of all of these days off, the real problem is, what do I do with the kids?

So when I left for work this morning, I left the kids a list. Yes, a list of chores… on their day off. I call it “professional development.”

Last Monday night around 7 pm, it was already pitch black outside, the snow was just starting to come down steadily and the temperature was hovering at around 20 degrees.

I decided it would be a good time to take Jack for a run.

What demons possess me from time to time, I’m not sure. But THIS time, I’m fairly certain it was the Ghost of Obesity Future that moved me to action.

Since Jack was born, he has been in the 99th percentile for height and weight. He was 9 pounds 3 ounces and 21 ½ inches at birth. Two days after I brought him home from the hospital, I made a frantic visit to the lactation consultant. He cried all the time and I had convinced myself that I wasn’t feeding him enough.

They sent me home; he had already gained three pounds. He hasn’t stopped crying and he hasn’t stopped gaining weight since then.

It’s only been in the last couple of years that I became concerned about Jack’s weight. Up until then, I just considered him to be a big kid. The pediatrician didn’t seem particularly worried and so I wasn’t either.

Whenever I voiced any concern, Jack’s dad insisted that I was over-reacting and that Jack certainly would start to grow taller and “thin-out” like Gracie did. I listened to him…wondering in the back of my mind if his own penchant for fast food was “weighing” his opinion on the topic.

Nonetheless, I thought I was doing all of the right things:

I breastfed Jack until he weaned himself at nine months old. (Probably because he could drink from a sippy cup more easily and cereal with apple juice was much tastier.)

I exposed him to a variety of foods early on. (Probably a few too many foods.)

And I have always served vegetables with every meal. (Do brussel sprouts sautéed in bacon grease count?)

But seriously…I’ve always tried to follow the good mom guidelines to prevent childhood obesity. Instead of candy or chips, I always have a variety of fresh fruit displayed in an attractive arrangement available for snacking. We rarely eat fast food. I limit TV time and all of the kids are active in sports.

Nonetheless, Jack is developing what I consider to be a bit of a weight problem. No, that’s not my former bulimic self talking. That’s a mom with years of experience in what is a normal “cute” chubby and what is a dangerous “we-are-wearing-adult-large-clothes-at-ten” chubby. No longer cute.

Jack just loves food. He loves to cook; he loves to eat. And he loves to eat A LOT!

He doesn’t have the adult understanding that he is full. And he definitely does not understand it when I tell him no.

I can talk until I’m blue in the face about making “healthy” choices. It doesn’t matter. He’s a ten year old BOY!

Ten year old boys don’t care about healthy choices. They care about what TASTES good!

After football season ended and the candyful holiday season began with a pillow case bulging with 10 pounds of Halloween candy, Jack’s weight has been on an uncontrollable upward spiral. Even Jack’s dad finally admitted that he was looking a little paunchy.

So, last week, Jack and I had a heart to heart talk. The poor kid knows that he doesn’t look like his friends and he’s worried. He doesn’t want to be the “fat” kid and he’s really starting to panic about the summer swim season. Even last year he wasn’t keen on taking his shirt off at the pool.

What a heavy adult problem for a ten year old boy to face!

Together we decided to make some changes: a healthier diet and more exercise.

Monday night was the first of our runs. We had a great time… trotting along in the fresh snow and chatting about this and that.

Tuesday was not quite as fun. Our trotting was more like plodding, but our “run” was still tolerable.

Wednesday, the novelty had worn off. Jack complained that his stomach hurt, that he had homework to do, that he would do it tomorrow, etc. I ignored him and made him go anyway. Twice he tripped and fell, sprawling headlong onto the slushy asphalt bike path with no attempt to break his fall. Both times I pulled him to his feet and drug him along.

When I got back to the house, I used mapmyrun.com and discovered that we had actually shuffled along for 2 miles instead of just one. No wonder the poor kid was sobbing and gasping for air. I gave him a high five and a pat on the head, but I didn’t give him a second helping of cheesy potatoes.

Since then, he’s run three more days with his dad. Go Jack!

I’m hoping I can keep him excited and motivated enough to fulfill his goal of running in the Commit to be Fit 5K. He’s already been talking about the pizza at the finish line.

Last week, Rick described me to a group of our co-workers as a “strapping farm girl.” At the time, I laughed and took it as a compliment. He was explaining how I had helped him move our piano and carry our upright freezer to the basement.

But as I stood in front of the scales a couple days later, I began to have second thoughts. What exactly was that supposed to mean? I know I’m not a petite flower, but is “strapping” really a flattering adjective for a middle aged woman?

I stepped on the scale and held my breath, waiting for the three little numbers that would determine my outlook for the rest of the day to pop up on the LCD display.

I should have known better. Like most women, the scale has never been my friend. No matter how big or how small I am, I still don’t like what that thing has to say.

But I was over-confident that day. I had just purchased my first pair of “skinny” jeans and was feeling pretty good about myself. (I guess I made the mistake of putting too much stock in the name. Let me tell you, they may be called “skinny” jeans, but they come in ALL sizes.)

Besides, it’s the first of the year, a great time to reestablish some fitness goals. And how can I know what my goals are if I don’t know the starting number?

Whether it was a few too many pieces of peanut brittle, a few to few minutes on the exercise bike or a really heavy sports bra, I was at the apogee of my 7 pound weight yo-yo. Grrrr.

Why is it that one number means so much to me? Why is it that I put such extreme emphasis on a number that can fluctuate up and down with a change in humidity, the time of the month, what I ate or drank within in the last few hours, and – how do I say this delicately – the status of my digestive system?

I’m embarrassed to confess this, but I unveil plenty of better-left-unsaid character flaws in this blog. So… here it goes… When I was in my early twenties, I suffered a bout of bulimia right after my first divorce.

Yes… bulimia and FIRST divorce. First divorce is another topic for another day. Bulimia is today’s focus.

I was going through a particularly difficult emotional time at the end of my marriage that had lasted exactly two years, eight months and three days. I was feeling unattractive, washed up and old at the ripe age of 25.

Nothing like making yourself throw up repeatedly to lift your spirits, balance your diet and keep the scales saying the right number. Of course, bulimia made the depression worse, completely screwed up my diet and I gained weight.

After about six months, I managed to stop the binge/purge cycle that had consumed me for so long. I emerged with a healthier attitude about weight and some good tools for safe weight control. Probably not the worst experience to have “under my belt” for someone who would someday be raising a house full of appearance conscious girls.

So when I saw the number last week, I didn’t freak out and run to the bathroom. I drew up my training plan to get ready for the half marathon in May and renewed my membership at a nice non-intimidating gym where the average age is 72.

Now, that’s the way to boost the confidence level!

Until 2006, I took Marty, Grace, and Jack to a pediatric dentist. He had a great office, complete with a playroom that had a teeny, tiny little door that only the kids could squeeze through. Well, kids and pregnant moms who had to collect their toddlers.

He also had giant toothed teddy bears for brushing demonstrations which the kids loved, but I always thought were a little creepy.

Unfortunately, our insurance changed and the fun times were over. We were relegated to a list of dentists who may or may not have actually been accredited. The kids got their teeth cleaned every six months, but there were no more goody drawers or sticker stations. And I sat on the edge of my chair, thankful that they never had to have more work done than cleanings.

But a few months ago Grace had to have four adult teeth pulled to make room in her mouth for the rest of her teeth. What little confidence I had in the “dentist” eroded when he couldn’t figure out which teeth to pull. And, when he didn’t give Grace enough anesthetic to last through the procedure, I had had enough.

I vowed to never take them to the internet-degree toting hack again, regardless of what the insurance company dictated. (Not that there is anything wrong with an internet degree… unless you are talking about the medical field.)

Besides, Rick and I pay out of pocket for the other three girls’ and our own dental care. What’s two more kids?

I didn’t realize just how expensive dental care could get though until I took Susan to her first checkup in a few years. (Somehow regular dental visits had fallen through the cracks before my watch began and it had been three years since her last appointment.)

I knew we were in trouble when the hygienist told me that they were going to tackle Susan’s mouth in four different quadrants. She had ELEVEN cavities!

That pretty much used up our allotted dental expenditure fund for the next two years. So I was relieved when Grace and Jack’s dad got them on a new dental plan.

They were thrilled to be going back to their old pediatric dentist. I was happy to be taking them to someone that I trusted.

He still has the special little playroom.

And the toothed stuffed animals.

But, best of all, there were three prizes and three stickers for each of them! Believe it or not, that still matters to teenagers.

“I got a magic wand and a Buzz Lightyear sticker. The only way it could have been better was if I got Buzz Lightyear himself!” Grace has always had kind of a thing for Buzz.

This weekend, we FINALLY wrapped up the last of our holiday obligations.

With a family like ours, the holiday balancing act is one that can only be completed by an experienced tight rope walker.

Either that or a mom.

It all began in mid-December with schedule coordination. Five kids still at home … my kids’ dad… Rick’s girls’ mom… two other kids out of the house with their own apartments, significant others, and significant others’ families … grandparents on my side, grandparents on Rick’s side, grandparents on my ex’s side, grandparents on Rick’s ex’s side. The list of people whose calendars we have to consider is endless.

When are we going to find time to decorate the tree? When are we going to make the cookies? When are we going to wrap the 86 presents? (no exaggeration) Who is taking the kids shopping and when? Where are the kids going to spend Christmas Eve? Christmas Day? the Sunday before Christmas? the Sunday after Christmas?

And if you think coordinating the schedule is a Herculean task, try coordinating the gift list with the exes and ex-in-laws! Talk about an “UGGly” mess! Well, I suppose that teenage girls really CAN use more than one pair of UGGs. (I only wish I had that $180 per pair back to spend on some boots for myself.)

Although I promised myself that I would keep my gift list under control, once again this year, I kept trying to “even out” the kids’ gift piles.

“Oh, Grace has more presents than Caryn… better buy Caryn just one more thing… Oh, but now Caryn has more than Susan… Can’t have that! Gotta get more for her. And while, we’re at it, I think Jack really should have that cute little Flip video camera to record his Lego building. But if we get that for him, maybe we should buy Lauren a little something else.” And so the cycle went.

I did a number on our bank account … not to mention the damage I did to the environment with all of the wrapping paper and boxes and bows that weren’t recyclable.

By the time the last gift was opened on Christmas Day, I had truly had enough of the fun.

Lucky for Rick and me, the kids spent the New Year’s weekend with their “other” parents, leaving us open for a quick ski getaway. (That was our big gift to each other.)

It turned out that our “quick” getaway was a bit longer than expected. I had intended to come home and take down our Christmas decorations, but who knew that when they say they are going to have a lot of lake effect snow they really mean it?

(I’m used to the central Ohio forecasts where “We’re going to get snow… don’t go out on the road!” means a scant half of an inch.)

And thus, the tree sat for another full week before I finally found the time to get the lights off of it and out to the curb.

It was a little dry.

That was Friday night.

Saturday, I spent the day… you’ll never guess… returning gifts for the girls that didn’t fit… AND … yes, doing some more Christmas shopping.

And Saturday night, I cooked… more peanut brittle, a Santa cheese ball, and green bean casserole!

Because on Sunday, we had just one final Christmas celebration with my parents and siblings.

Hey, you fit it in when you can!

Next year, I am determined that we are going to focus more on doing nice things for others and less on pumping money into the economy and contributing to the land fill.

Of course, I say that now… but eleven months from now, I will have forgotten and I will do it all again. Besides, who can resist these happy Christmas morning faces?