In life, we rarely know ahead of time what course our journey will take. One thing we can count on is that the path will often wind, sometimes split to produce a fork, and occasionally veer without warning.

At present, a close friend and I are simultaneously facing turbulent roads stretched before us. The timing is bizarre, and frankly quite unfortunate, for neither of us will have quite as much to offer the other considering our individual circumstances. Although we currently live 3 hours apart, we have been friends for nearly half our lives. In our teens and early twenties we were a crazy sort of duo and in all honesty, really haven’t changed much since. The only differences are that we are both mothers now, and our escapades and misadventures sometimes occur a lot further away from home than did our “opening ceremonies.”

I have recently come to one of those infamous forks, faced with a major decision that will undoubtedly alter not only mine, but my children’s remaining journey. However, I would not exchange my difficulties for the position my friend is in, as her course has been unexpectedly hijacked.

Since no life is impervious to tragedy, the question that has always lingered in the back of my mind is, “what shall be my biggest misfortune?” At rare times I have pondered about what horrible circumstances I believe I could overcome versus the ones I know I couldn’t. Let my house burn down, or toss me a bout of cancer, anything I think–just so long as my children remain safe, growing up to enjoy long and happy lives. I fondly remember with each pregnancy the indescribable bond that a mother develops with her child even before he or she is born. The more they grew, so did my willingness to sacrifice life and limb for my unborn child. The thought of losing one of my children, or equally dreadful, the idea of something happening to me leaving them motherless, is more than I can bear to imagine. These are by far the worst realities a mother can know.

Three years ago, one of our neighbors (who I had only met in passing) gave birth to a baby boy, the couple’s first child. The next day, while still in the hospital he unexpectedly died with absolutely no warning that anything was wrong. Although we had not yet befriended each other, I was utterly devastated for them. Living two doors down, I couldn’t help but cry each time I passed their house. I was desperate to reach out, but never having actually introduced myself, and being ignorant to their customs as they are from India, I was at a loss for what to do. Finally prepared to make a fool out of myself, I took over a platter of homemade muffins accompanied by a heartfelt card (and a box of Chai tea, of course) to extend my sympathies. A few days later she called to thank me and invited me over. I spent the most heart-wrenching afternoon of my life getting to know this kind and grieving mother.

It wasn’t long before my husband and I had built a friendship with them. As nice a time we always had together, there was no escaping the underlying sadness we all felt for their loss. We don’t see each other as often anymore, but I am so very happy that one of the causes is their busy schedule due to recently adding a second healthy baby to their family.

My friend of 17 years, however, has not been as fortunate with subsequent pregnancies after experiencing a tragic end to her first.

Embarking upon motherhood earlier than most I had a major head start, for she waited until after 30 to have her first child. Her first pregnancy ended in heartbreak when she found out at 18 weeks that the baby, although presently living, would not survive. The doctors said that statistically the condition was very rare–a genetic fluke–and would have no bearing on future pregnancies. They advised her to wait an uncertain duration until the baby’s heart stopped on it’s own. A couple of weeks later, the inevitable had happened and they induced. Her very first experience with labor and delivery–meaning all the pain and discomfort associated with giving birth–was suffered in vain; for the sole reason to endure such agony had been stripped from her intentions.

In her grief, she regretted the condition hadn’t turned out to be Down Syndrome, or any other congenital anomaly that would not have proved fatal. I empathized with her desperate feelings, but assured her she would eventually have a healthy child who she wouldn’t trade for anything. She discovered she was pregnant again just five months later, the day after their beloved dog was struck and killed by a car. Thankfully this second pregnancy proved uneventful and she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who just this month turned two years old.

However, her third and final pregnancy in which she is currently in her final month, has not produced the joy and anticipation we all hope for when expecting. In her sixth month, she was inflicted once again with terrible news about the health of her unborn child. For undetermined causes, several of his organs have not developed properly and it is not known if he will be able to survive once born. He is certain to face open heart surgery within days of birth, but nothing beyond that can be determined. She has been forced to suffer a string of emotional upheavals as each specialist conveys a different prognosis. Uncertain whether or not her child will be strong enough to enjoy the activities of childhood, or if he will even survive his first few days, she must prepare for the worst, but hope for the best. She is literally buying baby clothes or choosing his name one moment, and contemplating a burial service the next.

What must make matters all the more difficult, is that inside the womb, he knows no danger–he is an active and lively fetus, stretching and kicking like any other. While she stayed the weekend with us recently, she proudly showed my awestruck children the strange formations caused to her belly by a knee, fist, foot, or other unidentifiable appendage. Without sonography, she would be none the wiser to the life-threatening problems plaguing her baby.

With the impending birth drawing nearer, I must admit that I am scared. I have nightmares every night. I know I have the responsibility to be a strong and supportive friend, which means to be whatever she needs at the time. I fear knowing what to say, or when to call, or if to call. I fear being too emotional or not emotional enough. But mostly I fear for that helpless baby boy and the magnitude of the grief which ominously lurks around the corner.

You are probably familiar with the phrase, “be careful what you wish for.” This cliché provides no exception when placing wishful orders to produce intelligent offspring, for I offer living proof to this mantra with the bittersweet results delivered on my behalf. Although not most parent’s number one priority, when given a choice, naturally we hope for acute and resourceful children. Since my husband and I process information as oppositely as two human beings can, I maintained even before we procreated that our brood would likely turn out either extremely dense or, preferably, extremely bright. With our gene pools consisting of contradictory strengths and weaknesses, I never imagined average intellect to be a probable outcome. In retrospect, I admit it is rather peculiar that I didn’t consider it, but perhaps my theory was a result of my highly intuitive predictions. In spite of this, my foresight failed to anticipate the repercussions; I hadn’t counted on their brilliance coming back to bite me in the form of defiance.

Since my daughter, who is now nine, was a late talker we initially had no idea of her mind’s power. But it didn’t take long once she began putting her words together to realize that there was a lot going on in that little head of hers. I remember one time she was sitting and coloring on a piece of paper at age 3, when she looked up and announced in an enlightened manner that “three four’s is twelve.” I was quite impressed that this three year old had discovered the concept of multiplication completely on her own, and to this day she hasn’t ceased to amaze us with her nearly infinite acumen.

This child has a comeback for everything. The latest which I, personally found amusing since I was not on the receiving end, was on Sunday morning as she was arguing with her father for waking her up. His rationale was that she needed to get used to the new time, as a result of Daylight Savings, to ease the transition in getting up Monday. As always, she proceeded to argue the validity of her objection and attempted, at any cost, to get the last word. After going a couple of rounds he told her that the discussion was closed and would not be debated further. Her response: “Why? It’s because I have a point! Isn’t it?” I stifled my laughter, and informed her that her dad already feels sorry for her future husband!

Although it went along with what I had always predicted, I really thought that her level of intelligence was likely the exception of our genetics, rather than the rule. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected similar results to be duplicated. Yet, here is my son, now five years old, impressing most adults with his inquisitive and interpretive nature. He has been inquiring since he was three how the first human came to be. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more advanced than his ability to comprehend the answers to such questions. At four, one particular thought that preoccupied his mind focused on the last person, as opposed to the first. His thoughts were instigated after driving by a cemetery one day. He said, “Mom, when the very last person dies they will not get to be buried like everyone else because no one will be left to bury them. But it will be OK since there will be no one to see their bones.”

As much as I wonder what goes on in that boy’s mind, I do know one of the frequent culprits because he informed me that he sees math problems in his head. It should come as no surprise considering he frequently begs to be challenged with math facts. At Christmas while my parents were visiting, Brock wanted my dad to ask him some addition and multiplication problems. I had recently written down some simple algebraic equations with a single variable to see if he could grasp the concept. The first problem I gave him was, “if 4=n, 2n + 5 = .” I explained that since the 2 and the n were right next to each other, they needed to be multiplied. Within a moment, he produced the correct answer. So when Grandpa rattled off “3×2,” in response to Brock’s request, the child was disappointed. Replying in a manner that implied the question had insulted his intelligence, he stated, “that is so Pre-K!” before revealing the answer. (Which, ironically they haven’t even done addition in kindergarten–as you can imagine, he is not at all excited that his math at school consists of counting!)

I am grateful that he should never struggle with learning and I am optimistic about the things he will be able to accomplish if he utilizes the power of his mind. Yet, along with these benefits, come some very exhausting deficits. Just this week he has taken to throwing tantrums that rival the 3-hour fits he threw when he was three years old. Attempting to determine this recent relapse, we contributed the first day to being overly tired as a result of springing forward an hour. But after three consecutive days of intensifying tantrums, I may be forced to dig a little deeper; of course, it is entirely possible that he is just testing the waters, attempting to exert some control. He has always been a little neurotic about wanting things a particular way, but overall, he’s usually reasonably behaved.

One handicap I face is that never having dealt with this type of resistance, like him, I am learning as I go. And with a learning curve such as his, we are playing hard ball to say the least. I know the basics about the importance of consistency, and such. But I also need to know what exactly is an acceptable consequence and how long you implement it sans positive results before attempting a new approach. Not to mention, I need coping skills. I can only deal with so much blatant chaos and discord before I need soap in my mouth for cursing like a sailor. Obviously, the goal is to remain calm, but stern. Yet, after 2-3 hours of pure hell, that is easier said than done. If this keeps up, I am going to need professional assistance or the military.

At the request of his pediatrician, we have a series of appointments beginning next week to administer IQ testing. It couldn’t come at a better time, because perhaps the psychologist performing the testing can bestow some sound advice on how to deal with my little mad genius.

I surmise you may be questioning the unmistakably obvious nature of the title. It may seem straightforward to you and me, nevertheless, this simple fact is not absolute in the mind of an innocent child who has no definitive proof of said claim. Demonstrating that human nature is often more powerful than knowledge, it was amusing that my son, who seems to be oblivious to the anatomy of the sexes, still possesses the innate desire to see the feminine form in all it’s glory.

As we were waiting in the doctor’s office today, I gave my five-year-old son a Coastal Living magazine to look at, hoping it would keep him entertained for at least a little while. The first thing that caught his eye was an ad for Vanilla Wafers which boasted an over-sized, picture-perfect presentation of two banana pudding parfaits, alongside the recipe. Wanting us to recreate this spectacular gastronomic delight at home (but unconvinced I could remember the three ingredients), he took it upon himself to phonetically write down the vital components for me: “venele wefers, petene, wapcram.”

(Vanilla wafers, pudding, whipped cream…He opted against the banana, therefore making it a plain old pudding parfait).

Satisfied with his grocery list, he flipped the page and continued browsing. Within moments, he let out a gasp followed by a giggle. You would have thought he had just come across his very first Playboy. Turning my attention to see what all the excitement was about, he pointed to the page and said, “Look, Mom! She’s naked!” He was, in fact, correct. There was a picture of a naked woman right there in the middle of this Coastal Living publication. But titillating, it was not. The strategically posed model was advertising milk, for crying out loud. Only her back, an arm, a shoulder, and part of a leg were visible. The photo lacked anything remotely resembling cleavage and was cropped to omit the mid-section all together. I casually acknowledged his finding, assuming that would dispel anything further on the subject.

Not ready to move on, he then approached my daughter to share a glimpse of this must-see image. After showcasing his newly discovered treasure, he eagerly inquired, “Why is she naked?” I explained that (contrary to his instincts) the picture was acceptable because her private parts weren’t showing. He then mischievously claimed to see one of her boobs and her pee-pee. Her pee-pee, naturally, meaning penis. I highly doubted he could see any part of a breast, and I was quite certain he did not see her penis, because even if she did have one, it wouldn’t have shown in that particular photo. I felt this would be a good time to reiterate to the little guy that women and girls do not sport penises. A penis is something far too special for God to have wasted on women. Well, that’s not exactly what I said–my actual words were significantly less sexist. In any case, considering I had previously explained this bit of biology to him at one time or another, I am not sure if he had truly forgotten, or whether it’s because he simply can’t fathom someone not having a penis.

He eventually turned the pages and perused a little more, before returning, a number of times, to the milk advertisement. The child was literally giddy. Before flashing the infamous pose one last time, he presented us with the enticing offer, “wanna see something gross?” Laughing at the humor of the situation, I answered, “if you think it’s gross, why do you keep staring at it?” With a devilish little lopsided grin, he just rolled his eyes and proceeded to admire his first-ever dirty magazine.

I have to admit, there are times I feel very discouraged about my potential in the world of blogging. It is a lot of work to invest for no pay, and so far, only a select number of readers–a very intelligent conglomerate of readers, but nonetheless, a very few. Because of the effort I have been putting forth, and the lack of any monetary incentive, these readers are truly what keeps me going. Getting their feedback and support is crucial in maintaining motivation–otherwise what’s the point? I have recently received some very kind reviews on MissAdventures Abroad which has definitely helped to fuel me. I feel fortunate to have these loyal followers, and considering most of them maintain their own high-caliber blogs, their praise means that much more.

But then I see unsettling things to off-set the balance. I came across a blog so spam-laden, so clustered, and so poorly-written, that it frankly looks like the work of a child. The “articles” do not even contain complete sentences or thoughts! The post titles are nothing more than key words slapped on in no particular order! Seriously, this blog is so bad, I went out of my way to show it to two different people, because you can’t even grasp the intensity of badness this thing reeks of without seeing it for yourself. I have read many of the posts, just shaking my head with a puzzled look on my face because it is literally incoherent gibberish.

Now in and of itself, seeing a blog like this would not bother me; in fact, it would probably serve to make me feel better about my own blogs (which I am extremely critical of), since I can say that I devote a fair amount of time into each and every post, believing that quality is of greater importance than mere content. However, in the world of blogging, content is what gets you the hits. Content is what gets you the reimbursement. The more spam-a-lot you have, the more graphic pictures you have, or even simply the more times a day you add junk to your blog is what gets you noticed.

Here’s what disturbs me: Not only does the aforementioned blogger make money by putting together this piece of nonsensical slop, she receives perfect ratings on BC! Perfect 10’s, I tell you! And many of them. Err? Back the truck up. Well, there was one, and only one, honest review out of the whole bunch (which gave her a ‘1′ stating similar complaints). The only explanation I can fathom for these individuals unscrupulously doling out perfect 10’s for this senselessness, is that they couldn’t have possibly looked at this blog, and likely had the hidden agenda of rate swapping. Hell, even the blogger herself has rated her own blog a 10 at least twice! Hello? Is something wrong with this picture, or is it just me?

Although I can assure you that I’m not losing any sleep over the issue, I will tell you this: Giving indiscriminate reviews completely upsets the integrity of the entire rating system. I, like a lot of other bloggers I know, have worked very hard to earn the ratings provided us. If these appraisals are completely irrelevant, then why have them at all? If grading others’ blogs is supposed to be a means to highlight worthy material, then it is being grossly abused.

Some of us actually care about the messages, content, aesthetic appeal and functionality that we display. And while I readily admit that I would love to receive reimbursement for the long hours and dedication I put into blogging, it wouldn’t mean anything to me if there was no integrity of content. Is there a way to have both? I honestly don’t know; I do know that, although she may be a very nice person, this blogger does not deserve those ratings, and it unsettles me that she’s rewarded and encouraged for her method to “slap on the crap on”.

I would never give a poor rating because I don’t agree with the content, or don’t like the way a blog “looks.” I would even try to find something, anything positive to avoid giving a ‘1′; but I think we have the responsibility to be honest in our ratings and to call a spade a spade. We ought to at least have enough respect for ourselves, as well as for the other legitimately hard-working bloggers to only give credit where credit is due.

From my archives (written Jan. 3) comes my very first anecdotal article:

I had intended to write about other matters today–matters that bare slightly more significance to report. Yet, due to some unforeseen circumstances that have befallen me, I have instead decided to squeeze the hell out of life’s lemons and make a tart, yet satisfying beverage, aka, this account. Ah, isn’t it refreshing?

Without electricity….

I am so dedicated to you, my only reader, that I went through hell and high water to make this post possible. I apologize that it is longer than it needs to be, but I am in no hurry to return to my home that is currently in a 19^th century state-of-being. Devoid of central heating the interior of my residence is currently more frigid than an embrace from Hilary Clinton. Before you doubt the plausibility of this claim, let me inform you that this is quite possibly the chilliest day to hit North America since the invention of the thermometer, registering a mere 17 degrees. Yes. Fahrenheit.

I had been looking forward to this day for the last week of my children’s 13-day winter break. At last, I would be able to resume my pre-holiday schedule including working out, tidying the house, reading, shopping, or frankly, whatever I wanted once I had accomplished my obligatory tasks. Today was the much-anticipated commencement of the second semester.

The morning began routinely enough, and with the youngest two already on the bus and en route to school, I had two down and only one to go! Nevertheless, just as seven o’clock struck, so did the first sign of trouble. My oldest daughter was almost finished with her morning ritual when the lights unexpectedly went out, leaving her in the dark as she was applying mascara. Within moments, my problems intensified when our security system realized it was functioning on energy generated from a battery and, therefore, implemented it’s ingenious design of sounding every-two-minutes as a “courteous” reminder. First of all, even if there was something you could do about it, it’s not as though you would need reminding every two minutes.

Without electricity…

I have taken this opportunity to patronize the local Panera, who’s gastronomic fare is about as good as fast-food gets, and who’s free internet service I never gave a second thought…until today. While I sit here typing away, recounting the ridiculous saga I’ve endured over the last few hours since awaking, I derive inspiration for which to entitle my blog. Meanwhile, I am secretly hoping not to bump into anyone I know, for I am experiencing a “bad hair day” so hideous, it was the likes of which that coined the term. Without any appliances such as, um, a blow dryer, to aid in my daily beautification routine I am left with flat, uncooperative locks. For the record, hairspray and other such products do not aid the process if you can’t get your style in a position you would like held in place!

Without electricity even getting here was no picnic. In fact, just trying to get out of the garage, I began to know the sense of urgency inmates must feel when they encounter a kink while putting their escape plan into motion. To disengage the garage door from the opener, I’ve been instructed to just “pull the cord”. Just pull the cord. My ass. For whatever reason, the garage door gave a great amount of resistance forcing me to endure a strenuous assault on my back. Alternatively, I could have given up and faced my failure to bust out of this joint. But without electricity I have been imprisoned in my own home which, if you recall, proves to be quite cold and lacking in modern conveniences. With that being said, I wasn’t giving up.

In spite of my determination, it was a great deal of frustration, a crippling back, and a rather long string of profanities later before I was on the outside. At last, there was only one thing left between me and my fantasies of warm food, electrical power, and the internet: the guilt of knowing that my children are sitting in a school doomed by the same fate as our home, possibly freezing, as this is the first day back from winter break. Unable to contact the school via phone to check the status of conditions, I felt obliged to stop in and make sure my children weren’t profusely suffering. The plan was to simply seek information about their classroom’s temperatures, and if even relatively close to the comfort zone, allow them to stay put. However, upon entering the long entrance hall and proceeding towards the office to make my inquiry, I was unexpectedly halted. The corridor was armed with staff members strategically placed so that no one could penetrate the building without being directed to the sign out sheet. Therefore, when asked, “are you here to pick up your child?” I knew it was rhetorical.

Off we (eventually) went, the three of us, to the place that was originally going to provide me not only food, power and internet, but solitude. The last of these mentioned was now out of the question. So much for packing my iPod. It would hardly be fair for me to enjoy what refuge the earplugs would provide while the very sources I was taking refuge from were irritating every other patron. The sources, of course, being the members of my entourage. We entered, ordered, and I selected a spot with a nearby outlet. It wasn’t long before I was regretting my decision to rescue them from school, and during the moment they relentlessly hollered across the restaurant to me from the drink station, I told them as such. When the incessant calls to my attention began, I attempted to ignore them, having taught them not to yell for me when they need something, but to come get me. Apparently, this lesson can be added to the litany of others they fail to heed. As one can imagine, I was less than thrilled about leaving my purse and laptop unattended to assess the crisis, and as a result, the excrement temporarily hit the fan. But after the beverage situation was under control, we returned to our haven near the fireplace and once lapping up our nourishing soup de jour, the calm of contentedness returned. That, to your misfortune, is when I began logging this insignificant day in my life.

Via cellular communication, I have just been informed that the outage is affecting a wide-spread region and the electricity is not likely to be reinstated before midnight. Apparently, Duke Power has the equipment necessary to fix the problem located in a neighboring state. No pun intended, but that is brilliant planning.

Before the day was over and the convenience of power we so often take for granted reinstated, my entourage and I had the privilege of patronizing yet another Panera. That’s right. One day. Two Paneras. Six hours. On the bright side, we did get out of a dentist appointment! Sadly, they had no power either.

The moral of the story? Let’s see…I guess it takes a whole lot of lemons for a satisfying outcome—and while no good will come until you squeeze the juice out of them, you mustn’t forget to add some sugar.