Seriously?  Isn’t this where it all began??

I have battled weight my entire life.  I was a chubby baby – some babies look like the Gerber baby.  In pictures I’ve seen, I look like the Michelin tire man.  I was fat through elementary school.  By 8th grade, I was tired of kids making fun of me (Oh yes, dear children, we had bullies back in the day before bullying was big business), and crash dieted myself thinner.  I ate nothing.  No, that’s not a typo.  I skipped breakfast and lunch every day, in favor of sweetened iced tea.  For dinner, I ate as little as possible, and some more iced tea.  Some nights, I ate saltine crackers in place of dinner.  I got thin.  But, of course, that whole eating thing crept back into vogue, and I got heavy again.

My first “get real” diet was with Jim.  Planning to get married, I hoped to be a size 12 instead of a size 18, and he and I both joined NutriSystem.  We lost weight, we felt healthy, and while I was a size 12 in real people clothes, I still had a size 18 wedding gown  It was discouraging, but we were both in peak shape.

Well, until I got pregnant.

I battled again – after Brighid; after Eilis; and even after Granuaile.  I never got back to the size 12 I wanted to be, but instead got up to a size 26.  Well, I think 26, because I bought only stretchy things – mostly size 3X.  I was bigger than Jim.  With so many people promoting weight loss surgery, I jumped right on the bandwagon.

I have touted weight loss surgery as a great thing for me.  It was.  I’ve had complications, to be sure, but I am so grateful to have lost 150 pounds.  I do not think I will ever see a size 26 again, but I have fallen off the wagon.  I have gone from a low of a size 10 back up to a size 14/16, and it’s scary.

We have gotten into bad habits.  With school work, night classes, and overall busy, pizza seems like a good idea at least a couple of nights a week.  And come on, who eats one slice of pizza?  Even gastrically altered, I can eat at least two.  And if it doesn’t get put away right away, I can go back for a third later on.

I have to get back to the gym, when life settles down in two weeks.  And I am going to.  But my diet needs to improve.  Portion control needs to be a priority again.  Eating to live, not living to eat needs to be the focus.

So here we are, back at the beginning.  I am trying 30 days of NutriSystem to see if it can help get me back to where I belong.

Pray with me.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

This is me today; me at my lowest; and two pictures of me at my highest.

Almost eight years ago, my dad made the decision to discontinue treatment for his many medical issues, stop dialysis, and enter hospice to bravely face the final steps on his journey Home.  I remember so vividly the night that Ann called, letting me know that my dad was being transferred to hospice, and I remember sitting with him, crying, begging, wanting him to continue the fight.  It was selfish.  I probably knew that then, but I had a brand new baby, two other great daughters I wanted him to see grow up, and I certainly didn’t want the pain of losing him.

But hospice did more than just offer my father comfort in his final days.  Hospice made me look at my father from a whole different perspective.  All of his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, came from throughout the country to spend time with him.  Friends from his many years at Philadelphia Electric stopped by.  Men he knew from the Knights of Columbus, women from Church, friends he’d had for many years all came to see him, have one last laugh with him, and tell me what a wonderful man he was.

I knew that.  But I knew it on a daughter’s terms.  Your dad always looks like a knight in shining armor when you’re a little girl, but my dad’s shine never dulled in my eyes.  But to sit there, listening to people talk and reminisce about times they had spent with him was eye opening.  He was loved.  His friendship was cherished.  He lived a life many people envy – one where he was surrounded by good friends, family who loved him, and with as much laughter as he could pack in.

Today, as my friend Jennifer goes through this with her mom, I am reminded of the pain I felt every day that my father was dying.  But with these eyes that have been wiped free of the many tears that flowed, I can see beyond the process of dying and focus on the joy of his living.  It was a wonderful life – not without its hurdles, not without pain; but when it had been lived to the very last breath, it was a life worth celebrating.  I hope Jennifer and her family will be able to do the same.

On March 9th, 2013, I realized my sister Bean had been dead for 10 years.  The odd thing about that?  She died on March 7th, so I was two days late in making this realization.

It didn’t occur to me until just a week or so ago, during a phone call with my sister Meg, that none of us – not me, not my mom, and not Megan – talked about Bean on the anniversary of the day she died.  It had become an annual tradition.  Megan and I always called my mom on March 7th, and then my mom always connected the calls so we could all talk to each other.  I think we called Mommy to make sure she was okay, and I feel like she made sure we talked to each other so that the sadness could be overshadowed by the sarcasm and humor that always prevails in our phone conversations.

But why didn’t we all call each other on March 7th this year?

I’m busy.  In school full time, raising my family, sprinkling pixie dust – it all takes a lot of time.  Megan works long days and has had mountains piled on her plate.  My mom is finally feeling well, getting around, doing some shopping, making up for time she lost while she was sick.  Any of those things could have contributed to the missing phone calls.

Or maybe, finally, we have healed.

There will always be pain, especially when I think about the things she didn’t get to see or do – or my kids she never got to know.  But there isn’t crying.  When I think of Bean, there is joy – that we got to do so much with her when she was here, and that we all benefited in this life from knowing her.  There are more stories of good times and happy occasions than there are memories of the circumstances of March 7th, 2003.

So it does happen.  Time does heal all wounds, even those of the heart.

It just takes ten years.

Dear Bishop Sullivan:

There is nothing more important in the life of a Catholic second grader than First Holy Communion.  It is a very grown up step on their path to fully understanding just how much it means in their lives to know Jesus and to embrace our faith.  They spend months in preparation, including nervously heading into the confessional for the first time, memorizing prayers, and feeling the excitement of their big day.

Saturday, May the 4th, was a beautiful day.  God showed his love for the day and these children with brilliant sunshine and perfect springtime temperatures.  Our church quickly filled with parents and grandparents; aunts and uncles; friends and neighbors – all waiting to witness the walk of faith our tiny ones would make.

My daughter, Granuaile Frances, was among the children receiving the sacrament at St. Rita’s parish in Bellmawr.  She anxiously recited prayers over and over to make sure she knew them, even as her hair was pinned and her shoes buckled.  She was reading the presentation of gratitude to our parish priest, and she practiced her reading, practiced blessing herself, and even practiced bowing her head without knocking off her veil.

As we arrived at church, we deposited our children into the capable hands of Sister Miriam, who has been their spiritual mentor through every minute of this journey.  She welcomed them excitedly, organized them behind the scenes, and prepared them for their big moment.  The rest of us began gathering inside the church, with people bubbling over with excitement.  Just in my family alone, we had family in from Virginia and Florida, and guests who drove from various parts of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and we were excited to come together as a Catholic community, to welcome our children into the next phase of their Catholic journey.

Then we were shushed.  You know – where someone who is older than you or who has authority over you points their finger to their lips and yells, “SHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”  Multiple times.  No talking.  Despite the fact that there was still 15 minutes before Mass, we were told we couldn’t speak in the church.

The children were beautiful, bundles of excited and anxious energy, and Mass was going beautifully.  Father gave a lovely, brief homily, directed towards the children, which almost moved me to tears in it’s beauty and simplicity.  And then he turned his chair away from the children to speak with the adults.  What followed was a nasty, bitter, vitriolic tirade, where he scolded us for being responsible for the closing of the church and the inevitable imprisonment of our children, who are obviously going to get involved in drugs and other illegal behavior because of their lack of good Catholic parenting.  He spoke for nearly 30 minutes, chastising the adults, frightening the children, and alienating non-Catholic members of the people who congregated.

But he wasn’t done.  The children made their sacrament, Mass had ended, and he recessed down the center aisle to the back of the church.  He greeted and congratulated each child as they recessed out behind him, then he disappeared.  He did not make himself available for parents to thank him, children to have photos taken with him, or even to greet guests. Talk about a missed opportunity to make a good impression.

But wait, there’s more.

As the children giddily showed off their new certificates, bursting with joy from what they just experienced, parents began to congratulate their kids, thank Sister Miriam and the other CCD volunteers, and families wanted photos in front of the beautifully decorated altar.  Then the shushing began again.  Only this time, it wasn’t just shushing.  Father was yelling at us over the church’s PA system, telling us we were in a church and conducting ourselves improperly.  He told us all to get out if we couldn’t be respectful, reprimanding us for taking photos in the church and being gleeful and happy for our children.

And if this had been my first experience – as a mom to a first communicant, or as a guest in a Catholic church – I would have been completely turned off to the church and the process of celebrating a sacrament.  Having Father yell into the PA system about how disrespectful we were was in complete contrast to my two older daughters’ celebrations, where they were welcomed onto the altar by the priests to have photos taken, to enjoy their celebration, and to appreciate the joy that filled their hearts.  We were chased out of this church by the priest, and no one should ever be made to feel unwelcome in the home of their heavenly Father.

No one was unruly, no one was outrageous, no one was inappropriate.  The atmosphere was celebratory, the children excited, the parents overjoyed.

After watching this priest wobble and sway; after listening to him spit venom during one of the happiest days in the life of a member of the Catholic faith; after being shushed and chastised – it’s time to find a new church.  And I have to pray about keeping it a Catholic one.

What, you may ask, do maternity clothes have to do with culture?  Maybe nothing.  But when you combine pregnancy with celebrity, it becomes part of our culture – part of what people know us for.

So let me share two photos with you.  Both are pregnant celebrities, about the same age, babies due about the same time.

Believe me, with three baby bumps of my own that had to be outfitted for work, weekends, and special events, it’s not always easy to look your best, with things you didn’t know you had bulging in places you didn’t know existed.  And I know how expensive maternity clothes can be.

But we’re talking Kardashian franchise here.  Doesn’t she have people?  Consultants?  Fashion gurus?  A mirror?

Compared to Princess Kate, the really beautiful Kim Kardashian looks like the poster child for the people of Walmart website.  She’s squeezed too tightly into a dress that doesn’t fit properly with her, ummm, assets looking as though they might blow this joint with one good sneeze.

There’s a time and a place for the Hooker Fabulous look.  Maybe during your pregnancy, you want to try to class things up a bit??

Even those of us who have been to Walt Disney World a bunch of times still have our favorite Walt Disney World vacation memories.  It may be the time that your husband proposed, or the time your baby had her first Mickey ice cream bar.  Maybe it was one of those vacations you took after a rough time at work or at home, and you just really enjoyed being able to get away from the worry and stress at home and relax as a family on vacation.

Now, imagine your rough time at home was your child being diagnosed with a life threatening illness.  Imagine the rough time included a prognosis so grim, you could barely get through a day, or even an hour, without crying.   Your days have been filled with trips to doctors and stays in hospitals, watching your child, sick with both illness and exhaustion, battle valiantly against a serious health crisis.  Even if you have good health insurance, there are overnight stays at hotels because you’ve had to go out of state and away from family and friends to seek medical treatments.  There are meals in hospital cafeterias, and babysitters to pay back home for watching your other children until Dad can pick them up after work.  Even if the stars aligned and things fell into place to take a vacation, there wouldn’t be money to spare to take one.

Unless….

This is where Give Kids the World steps in.  More than 120,000 families have walked through the doors of the villas at Give Kids the World, surrounded by love and comfort for a blissful week of vacation that money could never buy.  Instead of the focus being on medicine, it’s on magic, as children get to recapture a piece of childhood that has been ripped away by being sick.  Visits to theme parks, bed time tuck-ins by whimsical characters, swimming and laughter – and ice cream for breakfast if they want it – and all at absolutely no cost to these families.

Give Kids the World is all about making the most magical memories for families at a time when they most need smiles and happiness.  They bring Christmas to the children who may not have the luxury of waiting for December, and they give the gift of wonderful vacation memories to families who aren’t sure they will have the opportunity in the future to have this type of experience.

When you see the smiles on the faces – and the stars on the ceiling (each child who comes to the Village gets a star) – you know this is where happiness – and hope – can be found, even in the most desperate of times.  That’s why myself and a group of amazing and wonderful Disney Loving Moms join together through the spring and summer to raise money to send children to this wonderful place.

If you can find it in your heart to donate and help us bring families down to Orlando for some of their most incredible vacation memories ever, please just click this link http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/DisneyFansGKTW/disneyfansgivekidstheworldfundraisingpage

100% of your donation goes right to Give Kids the World so that another child can be immersed in the world of fantasy and fairytale, even if it’s just for a little while.  Give them a week where they can be kids, not cancer patients.

You have the power to make magic happen for these kids.  Help us to bring the happiness that inspires hope to these families that so desperately need it.

As Halle Berry was traveling through LAX this week, she and her fiance Olivier Martinez got into an altercation with the paparazzi.  This is not Halle’s first trip to that rodeo, as she has enjoyed a screamfest or two in the past with photographers, trying to catch a glimpse of the Hollywood Hottie and her tiny charge.

So.  What’s the deal?

There are celebrities making enough money to buy small third world countries by selling photos of their children.  Celebrity parents frequently take children with them to red carpet events and movie premiers, putting them out there for the world to see.  I’m not saying Halle Berry did, and perhaps she has every right to be angry at photographers trying to invade the privacy of her daughter.  But how much privacy are these kids typically entitled to?

There are many celebrities who keep their kids under wraps – and I’m not talking about the real under wraps, like Michael Jackson did with his kids – but under wraps as in out of the public eye as much as possible.  Some celebrities don’t release information pertaining to their babies births – no name announcement or cutesy baby photos in the press.  Then you’ve got the Jolie-Pitt clan, who are out in public with their famous parents all the time.

Should the paparazzi be punished for taking photos of these children?  Should celebrities do more to protect their children from unwanted attention?

Discuss.

When my father-in-law died in 2001, a family that had been fractured for as long as I had been a part of it fell completely apart.  Those of you who are close to my family know the story of the incidents that took place surrounding the passing of my father-in-law Custy.  If you don’t know the sordid details, suffice it to say, it was the ugliest of times.

I woke up this morning to find two things that brought me back to the time of Custy’s death.  The first one was a lengthy diatribe against my husband from his only niece, in which she used all the foul language she could muster to beseech my husband to make up with his brothers, completely disregarding the things that transpired around the time of the funeral.  She publicly aired some of the family’s dirtiest laundry, using Facebook as the forum to spread a message of misunderstood hate.

The second thing I learned was that Dear Abby had died.

Why does Dear Abby bring me back to that horrible time in my family history?  It seemed that with all that transpired involving my brothers-in-law at the time Custy died, I found myself at the end of my rope.  I had never experienced anything like this in my own family, and the behavior to which I was a witness was so deplorable, I spent days trying to examine my own part in the fiasco, trying to determine what blame should be placed on my shoulders.

I sat down one night, in tears, and wrote everything out that had happened, and I sent the note off to Dear Abby.  In my mind, she wasn’t someone who could help, but she was the anonymous face in the crowd to whom I felt I could spill the story and alleviate my guilt.  So I did.

About a week later, my phone rang.  Jim answered it, and the woman on the other end asked to speak to me.  He handed me the phone, and a voice identified herself as Pauline Phillips.  I didn’t know who Pauline Phillips was, and I didn’t recognize the voice, but when the voice spoke the words, “I’m Dear Abby, and I received your letter”, it all began to register.

The kind, gentle voice explained that she understood exactly what was going on in my family, and she proceeded to tell me that I would be positively shocked at how frequently what happened in my home also happened in other homes.  She told me that my husband and I did everything we should have done in the circumstance we found ourselves in, and she wanted me to know that, but she couldn’t publish my letter.  She said the amount of dysfunction in the letter was so dramatic that people would think she had made it up!  What’s more, she said that my letter was one of the most powerful she’d ever read, and because of how it was written, people would automatically conclude it was fiction, even though she knew all too well how frequently other families faced what we faced.

I felt relief that day, hearing the words of this wise and honest woman clearing my conscience.  There was kindness in her voice, sympathy in her words, and knowledge in her heart.  She restored peace to my home with that phone call, even though we would deal with the repercussions of those heartbreaking events for many months – no, many years – to come.

Thank you, Mrs. Phillips, for getting me to the place I needed to be at that time.  I know her column was read by millions around the world, but her voice and her message will stay with me all of my days.

“Fear less; hope more. Eat less; chew more. Talk less; say more. Hate less; love more.”  Abigail VanBuren (Pauline Phillips)

Oh, Samuel L. Jackson, you are a wise man.

When the Newtown, CT shooting occurred, I was away from my children.  The shooting impacted me, but I was busy, celebrating with friends, and had the Happiest Place on Earth surrounding me to cushion the effect.

My kids were in the car at the airport when I came home, and it was all I could do to hold it together until I got home.  Silent tears streamed down my face, and silent prayers were recited in my head.  They were prayers of thanks that my own children were safe, prayers of comfort for the victims of the tragedy, and prayers of hope that the rest of us would find answers to why we keep killing each other.

And there, in the words of Samuel L. Jackson is the answer.

I watched the Roadrunner growing up and must admit that I never felt compelled to drop an anvil on anyone’s head.  We were allowed to watch the Three Stooges routinely beat each other up, and yet my fingers never found themselves in the eyes of any of my sisters.  I understand that with video games, television shows, movies, and the internet, kids today are exposed to more acts of violence than we ever were as kids, but where is our responsibility in all of this?  Where are the moms telling the kids, “If I ever see you do anything like this, I will beat your ass so you won’t sit down until you’re married!”  Why do we not teach our kids to value life, respect people, respect property?

I don’t know if stricter gun control laws are going to do much to change our society.  Stricter kid control laws might be a better way to go.

I write a lot.  Sometimes, I scribble stuff in the back of my notebooks at school while I should be paying attention to the cognitive advancements in a toddler mind.  Occasionally, I write at home when I’m supposed to be folding laundry or doing dishes.  I used to keep a notebook handy in my car, and if I got stuck in a car line at school or waiting for an activity to end, I’d write something.

This is the year that I’m going to leave my comfort zone.  I’ve written something that I plan to send to some publishers and see where it ends up.  I’ve been sitting on it for, gulp, 16 years, and it’s time to dust it off, clean it up, and put it to work.  It’s a children’s book, so I expect a slew of rejection due in part to the overwhelming amount of competition, but with the strength to face the criticism, I’m moving forward.

Who knows?  If this doesn’t kill me, maybe I’ll find time to write that great American novel I told my senior high school year book I would.  In the words of my all time favorite Disney character, “It is time.”