Spring is in the air. Easter is right around the corner. I did not realize on this crisp near-spring day that an eggs-hausting fiasco was about to unravel in my kitchen.

We have chickens and therefore, we have many eggs at our disposal. I thought a fun mother-son activity for today would be painting eggs. Unfortunately, our chickens produce brown eggs. I hated to go out a purchase eggs that are white when we have three dozen brown ones in our refrigerator. I figured that I could whitewash the eggs so my son's eggs-uberant artwork would show up. It did not go well. Every time I added another layer of whitewash, the previous layer would wash off. I figured I would paint them instead. I was covered with paint and they eggs looked sloppy.

In the end (after literally four hours of my son asking if they were ready and me asking "not quite yet") we painted brown eggs with all of the pretty patterns. In the end, I spent more money on white paint than I would have for a dozen white eggs and they weren't even white in the end.

A lesson learned. Share your Easter/Springtime stories!

A change of pace: I absolutely love this video. It makes me crack up every time I hear it. I thought you would all appreciate it. Maybe it will brighten a not so bright day:

One of my dear friends brought home the newest addition to her family. An adorable, chubby-cheeked little boy. It has me thinking. In all of the pictures of her pregnancy, my dear friend was holding a large java. I am not passing judgement. I am certainly not in a place to do that. It just got me wondering why some babies make it and others do not.

I did not know that I was pregnant with my first son. It was five months before we finally got confirmation (I have hyperthyroidism). During that first five months, I was living the life of an unconstrained college student, partying off years of repression. I worked at a bar and drank enough each night so I couldn't stand up. I was doing key-bumps in the back room and smoking all sorts of things when I'd get home at night. I went to school and played my usual "studious good-girl" part during the day. Most of my classmates never knew.

I am re-entering the world of employment and let me tell you: Times have changed. I am twenty-six years young. I only legally entered the working world eight years ago, but everything is vastly different.

First, applications are almost completely online. Convenient, yes, but with it are some big negatives. Although I have fabulous internet service and I rarely suffer from disconnections, I find that 3/4 of the way through almost every online application, my service goes out the window. This means I have to start all over again, because heaven forbid it saves your information as you go. The next part that drives me batty is the questions at the end. These are not your typical "Have you been charged of a felony?" or "Do you have reliable transportation?" questions. These are seemingly random questions that I believe some psychiatrist created to weed out the weirdos. To be perfectly honest, I have no feeling toward convicts that are released from prison (God honest question from a Home Depot application). Then they give you the tricky ones. Ones that can be interpreted in several ways. If you see a co-worker taking a pen home from work, you would report them. Strongly agree, agree, disagree, strongly disagree. If I say I would, does that say I am honest or nit-picky? If I say I wouldn't, does that say I'm stealing cash out of the register when no one is looking? I am literally calling my friends and family for there take on these questions.

Below is a picture of a house. It is so close to becoming a reality, no longer a dream. I have visions of the kids playing in the backyard. I see a vegetable garden growing delicious tomatoes, sweet peas and pumpkins for autumn jack 'o lanterns. I imagine redecorating to accentuate the gorgeous woodwork that was put into place in the late 1700s. I am close to having this house. I am close to having my dream come true. My only problem is that to have my dream home, I have to be with my husband. To own this house, I need the second income. To have both of my children, I need to actually live with my husband.

No Husband = No Step-Daughter

St. Patrick's Day. The day of my ancestors. A day to celebrate my Irish pride. It use to be one of my favorite holidays. That was before the strings were attached. I am sure you all can guess those strings. Anyone with a loved-one who is an alcoholic knows about how tough "celebrations" can be. I have to drink, I'm celebrating that I am Irish. To not do so would do disservice to my nationality. Some of these celebrators are not even of Irish decent. Some, like my husband, are only a little Irish from a long time back. More often than not, they do not even partake of Irish whiskey or green beer. In the case of my husband, it will be Budweiser. Nothing more American than that.

I lay in bed, sleep deprived and angry from the latest fight. I try to enjoy having the whole bed to myself. A luxury that I so rarely have. No snoring, no rustling, no stealing of the covers. I finally nod off into a peaceful and much needed slumber. It is 3:30am.

I wake from my sleep unsure of what woke me. I glance at the clock and it is 4:15. I close my eyes to drift off again, but notice the bed is shaking. Darn cat, it must be clawing at the bottom of the bed. I make my usual tsss tsss sound and it stops. I go back to sleep.

At 4:30 I wake again to the gentle shaking of my bed. The cat is really starting to bother me now. I have six of them. I'm not sure of the culprit, but I make the tsss tsss sound again, it stops and again I try for sleep.

This continues constantly until 6:45. Every time I am getting a little louder and harsher. I have started to get the dog involved by saying "get that kitty" and having her chase him away. When 7:00 arrives, I am at my wits end. I start tearing out the storage containers from under the bed. I am yelling and carrying on. Nothing is making this cat stop. I discover that it is not the end of the bed he is scratching. He is inside the box spring doing God knows what.

In the grips of an adult-size temper tantrum, I flip the mattress and box spring up on end (so much for taking it easy on my back and shoulders). My husband arrives home from work and I look like a rabid animal, consumed in rage. He makes me coffee. I enjoy a cup while standing outside watching the sun rising. I take drags off a cigarette like I'm making love to it. Twenty minutes and I have gained my bearings again. I feel more exhausted than before.

I use to take everything with a grain of salt. I would not lose it over a frustrating cat. I would not be in tears as I tore apart my room. Life has been so overwhelming that the littlest thing takes over me. I fear I am becoming more like him. Angry over every little thing.

Needless to say, the cat and I talked things out. :-) I have started my day over again and will probably enjoy a Lunesta tonight. All will be right again.

A year and a half ago I was a happy woman. I had hopes and dreams. I felt my life coming together the way I wanted it to for the first time. A year and a half ago I stood at the end of an outdoor aisle, wearing a beautiful dress with a bagpipe playing softly in the background. I stood looking at the love of my life with his groomsmen looking dapper in their kilts. My dear children flanked me. I was at peace in my world.

I feel so lost. It is as if I was thrown from my ship of dreams during a terrible storm. I am a castaway, floating on one of those yellow rafts. The beacon light is flashing but no one is coming to my rescue. I am running short on supplies. I have to make a decision soon. It could be the difference between finding safety, security and a new ship of dreams or dying alone, floating in a sea of emptiness. I lay awake at night, through the soft plastic of my raft I am feeling the gentle undulations of the ocean under my back, a constant reminder that my ship is gone.

I have made preparations to do something bold, but something holds me back. Why am I so scared to take the next step. Is there a flaw in my plan that I missed during my hours of scrutiny? What if I don't make it to land? What if I never find another ship of dreams? Can I live with that disappointment? I do not want to die alone in the life raft, but I cannot bring myself to risk dying during escape.

I know what I ultimately want, but still, I don't know what to do...

Not listened to. Not heard. It hurts when this happens. It happens so frequently to me. "Friends" do it. People who are suppose to care. The only people who seem to listen are strangers. Maybe that is why I miss the city life so much. I don't trust close-knit groups. I like being around people who don't know me. I like talking to people who don't know my past. It is a fresh start every time.

I want to share my stories, even if it's a little something from my childhood. My stories are not made for heart-gripping novels, but they are important to me. It makes me feel important to share the parts of my past that are good. People only focus on my past.

I was abused by my mother and several of my boyfriends. I spent my school years being pummeled by bullies. I spent almost a decade addicted to drugs. I was homeless while I was pregnant with my son. This is my past, but it's not all of my past.

I want to share the good stuff. Celebrating the good helps me erase the past. I just wish someone would listen.

Unconditional love. I have seen it, though only with my children have I ever found it for myself. Three years ago, I worked in a healthcare center. I cared for people with Alzheimers and dementia. It was trying, yet beautiful work.

There was a man that visited every day. His wife was in the late stages of Alzheimers and she lived at the healthcare center. He would take her out every morning for breakfast, take her to the park and spend a beautiful day with her. She did not know who he was, but she knew she liked this man.

I spoke with him one day. I said that I could not imagine how difficult it must be to see her in this condition. I told him that I thought it was so honorable that he took her out every day without fail, when so many other families disappear when their loved ones reach the more trying phases of the disease. He sat quietly for a moment before speaking. When he finally did speak, he said "I am not trying to be honorable. She is my wife of 50 years and I owe her this and more. She took care of me and now I take care of her. I feel blessed."

The last part confused me. He feels blessed? How can this be? I had to ask what he meant by that and his response blew me away.

"She does not know who I am. She does not remember our year together. I am a stranger to her, but every day I make her fall in love with me again. Every day, when I bring her back, I have succeeded. I am 76 years old and I can still make her fall in love with me. I am blessed."

I don't know what brings me to sharing this. I don't know if it is because I hope to some day have a husband that shows me that sort of devotion. I am not sure if it is because I give every day with all my heart to someone who really doesn't know me.

It is a beautiful, real-life love story.