There was a time when this kind of winter weather would have passed me by without much of an impact on me. I'd alter my day a bit; dress the kids a little warmer, putting them in turtle necks and sweatshirts, thick winter socks. I'd go without a few groceries that I thought I needed just to avoid getting two little ones out in the ice and sub freezing wind chills. I'd "break the rules" a bit when it came to playing at home. We'd build a blanket fort, bring out the macaroni bucket, watch videos. And more videos. We'd ALL get a nap after lunch.
We'd stay in where it was warm. And safe.
Yesterday, as winter weather began to settle in, Kayla's volleyball game was cancelled. And was I ever relieved; because I was nervous about putting my daughter on the team bus in that sleet and those freezing gusty winds which the news had said "could be hazardous for high impact vehicles like buses and semi-trucks." Kudos to the SV school district for cancelling that game. The bad weather had barely started and somebody had the foresight to keep those kids home. So many times, the powers that be will take the chance that the weather won't get any worse, only to have kids and their families on the roads in dangerous conditions. This time their prediction was spot on.
So the game was cancelled and I got to feel that brief moment of relief.
Until I realized my other child was out in that weather. He was at wrestling practice 15 miles away. Thank goodness he had come home and taken the jeep before he went, so at least he wasn't driving that little mustang that makes me crazy nervous. But still. He is 16 and a half. This is his first winter of driving. He was driving on county roads, not major highways. And he's my baby boy. Even his dad was worried. I know because his dad called and said "is Blake home? These roads are bad." So if DAD was worried, then surely MOM had a right to be a complete basket case.
Of course, everyone made it home safely and we settled in for the night and I resisted the urge to bake cookies and we listened to the wind howl and howl and howl all night long. And before falling asleep I turned to my husband and said "Thank you for our wonderful home."
And I found myself thinking all evening long "There was a time, when this weather didn't set me on edge like it does now."
There was a time when I was able to keep both my chicks in the nest, protecting them from winds that howl and snow that bites. There was a time when the closest they came to being out in the elements was pressing their faces against the picture window while they watched the blowing snow. Or they were only out in the snow when I chose to spend 20 minutes bundling them up so they could go out and stumble around in it for 10 minutes, before they decided it was too cold after all; so we'd come in and place mittens and socks on the heat registers, find our favorite blankets and settle on the couch to watch Barney.
There was a time when they were only out in the world when I was right there beside them, watching, monitoring, teaching, protecting.
But now?
Now is the time when they are out in the elements, more and more, without me. And for longer periods of time.
Now is the time when I have to bury my fears and let my face be masked in confidence. Confidence in them. Confidence that they will make the right choices. Confidence that they will heed my usual words as they leave the house "Represent us well. Be safe. Be smart."
As I send them off under an umbrella of prayers and wonder where the years have gone.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
THE CONFESSION
I have been living a lie.
An e-lie if you will.
There is something I have been keeping from the blog world that I finally must confess to you.
So far I have just been too ashamed and embarrassed to put forth the ugly truth about myself. I fear abandonment (by all 4 of you) I fear social isolation (e-social isolation? social e-isolation?) I fear finger pointing and snickering.
But, in order to have inner peace, I must let you know this awful truth about myself.
I do not know how to blog.
There. I said it. It's true. I'm a blog phony. A big fat blog liar. A bliar?
Oh, I can put the words to paper, so to speak; and some even say I have a way with words. But that is all I know how to do. Get the words out there. But there are so many other things I can't do.
I can't post photos. Ok, I did it once but it took me FOREVER. And the entire time I was doing it, I kept thinking there had to be a better way. Surely the bloggers who post photos on a daily basis do not go through this daily - with mulitple photos. I know I need to invest the time into really looking and studying and learning this stuff, and soon it will be second nature. But I am impatient and old and set in my ways, and I just don't have the energy to tax myself that way.
I can't link to other blogs or websites. I have looked in the "help" section of blogger and the only thing that accomplished was making my eye twitch. Again, I know this will just require a little bit of time on my part, and the end result will be worth it. Think of the wealth of information that I can open up to you, my readers, when I learn how to link. You lucky people you.
I can't seem to lure commenters onto my blog. Probably because of the other things I can't do. I know this doesn't really matter, because this blog is mainly for my children - a legacy. But still it's nice to know you're not speaking to a brick wall. My own husband doesn't even comment, which shouldn't surprise me, because when he travels, his e-mails home are never more than five words "arrived fine will call later" A man of few words - in person and on the keyboard.
I'm sure if I could post photos my comments might increase. Then again, I don't have small children, and those are the photos people love. My children are teenagers and, even though my 16-year old son runs from a camera, I think they're gorgeous. But most people don't look at pictures of teenagers and send comments like "so cute!" or "can't wait til mine can do that?" I don't have cows or mustangs. My husband is not a cowboy. I don't have triplets. Or a new baby.
But I still want to post photos. Mainly for that legacy thing.
In light of all this, I want to confide in you about someting else.
I'm thinking of breaking up with Blogger. Please don't tell yet. Blogger is just too complicated. I won't go into the details, but we've been having problems for a long time. Blogger's been good to me, in some ways, but I think the end is near. Out of respect for Blogger and our time together I will let Blogger know first the reasons for our breakup. I have been composing the letter in my head for a while. I know I need to let Blogger down gently, but I also know it must be a clean, swift breakup. And I don't really want to leave Blogger until I have someone else lined up. I am a girl who needs a word companion. I know that is weak. But I have to have somebody waiting in the wings before I break off this relationship. I just hope I don't have to get a restraining order.
There. It's all out. Judge me if you will. Now I am going back to bed and regret clicking on "Publish Post."
An e-lie if you will.
There is something I have been keeping from the blog world that I finally must confess to you.
So far I have just been too ashamed and embarrassed to put forth the ugly truth about myself. I fear abandonment (by all 4 of you) I fear social isolation (e-social isolation? social e-isolation?) I fear finger pointing and snickering.
But, in order to have inner peace, I must let you know this awful truth about myself.
I do not know how to blog.
There. I said it. It's true. I'm a blog phony. A big fat blog liar. A bliar?
Oh, I can put the words to paper, so to speak; and some even say I have a way with words. But that is all I know how to do. Get the words out there. But there are so many other things I can't do.
I can't post photos. Ok, I did it once but it took me FOREVER. And the entire time I was doing it, I kept thinking there had to be a better way. Surely the bloggers who post photos on a daily basis do not go through this daily - with mulitple photos. I know I need to invest the time into really looking and studying and learning this stuff, and soon it will be second nature. But I am impatient and old and set in my ways, and I just don't have the energy to tax myself that way.
I can't link to other blogs or websites. I have looked in the "help" section of blogger and the only thing that accomplished was making my eye twitch. Again, I know this will just require a little bit of time on my part, and the end result will be worth it. Think of the wealth of information that I can open up to you, my readers, when I learn how to link. You lucky people you.
I can't seem to lure commenters onto my blog. Probably because of the other things I can't do. I know this doesn't really matter, because this blog is mainly for my children - a legacy. But still it's nice to know you're not speaking to a brick wall. My own husband doesn't even comment, which shouldn't surprise me, because when he travels, his e-mails home are never more than five words "arrived fine will call later" A man of few words - in person and on the keyboard.
I'm sure if I could post photos my comments might increase. Then again, I don't have small children, and those are the photos people love. My children are teenagers and, even though my 16-year old son runs from a camera, I think they're gorgeous. But most people don't look at pictures of teenagers and send comments like "so cute!" or "can't wait til mine can do that?" I don't have cows or mustangs. My husband is not a cowboy. I don't have triplets. Or a new baby.
But I still want to post photos. Mainly for that legacy thing.
In light of all this, I want to confide in you about someting else.
I'm thinking of breaking up with Blogger. Please don't tell yet. Blogger is just too complicated. I won't go into the details, but we've been having problems for a long time. Blogger's been good to me, in some ways, but I think the end is near. Out of respect for Blogger and our time together I will let Blogger know first the reasons for our breakup. I have been composing the letter in my head for a while. I know I need to let Blogger down gently, but I also know it must be a clean, swift breakup. And I don't really want to leave Blogger until I have someone else lined up. I am a girl who needs a word companion. I know that is weak. But I have to have somebody waiting in the wings before I break off this relationship. I just hope I don't have to get a restraining order.
There. It's all out. Judge me if you will. Now I am going back to bed and regret clicking on "Publish Post."
Friday, January 25, 2008
I (heart) JENNIE FINCH...
I have started to love Thursdays. Thursdays are fun. Thursdays are exciting and full of anticipation. Thursdays are the new Friday. Well, not REALLY, but they are something to look forward to.
Why?
Because that's when we watch CELEBRITY APPRENTICE.
The kids and I love that show. LOVE. IT.
Several years ago, when The Apprentice first started, the kids and I sat down to watch the premier episode because Daddy was traveling. And, although, it may not have been the best television for elementary school kids; it was a fun and relaxing way to spend an evening at the (near) end of a week without Daddy.
We haven't always been able to catch it in following seasons, because the kids have become busier. And if the kids are busier, mommy and daddy are busier.
Now, though, we are watching it, because each of the kids has a favorite celebrity on it.
Kayla loves Jennie Finch, the Olympic gold medal pitcher for the U.S. Women's Softball team. And Blake likes Tito Ortiz, a UFC fighter. I watch it because I love to hate (well not Hate exactly...) Omarosa. That woman....
Anyway, last night Blake and I sat side by side on the basement sofa and watched celebrity apprentice. At eight o'clock, I plopped myself on the couch and said "Celebrity Apprentice...I expect complete silence" (a running joke in our house) and lo and behold, Blake comes down the stairs ready for an hour of television himself. Not up in his room, but in the basement. Right beside me on couch. And I knew he was there for the entire hour because he came prepared. With a snack size bag of gardettos, cheetos, and sun chips (that would be THREE snack size bags of various chips) and a 54 ounce bag of skittles.
So I said, "Don't you think you should have some fruit, or maybe another bowl of that stew we had for supper? There's yogurt. Want a yogurt? You know, if you're hungry?" And he said "If I had stew for supper, I don't need it again. Besides, I'm not really hungry."
Oh. Okay. It was just that wheelbarrow full of food that fooled me.
Anyway, Blake and I sat on the couch and laughed and snarked and commented on how we miss Gene Simmons because he was so funny. And we listened to Stephen Baldwin laugh and didn't say a thing because I was laughing so hard at Stephen's goofy laugh. And I tried to eat a few Skittles but they were just so sweet they made my teeth hurt - which is why I bought those at Sam's instead of m&m's - because I won't suck Skittles up like a hoover, and with m&m's my kids wouldn't stand a chance. Neither would my hips.
And the only thing wrong with the evening was that the sofa, on my right, was empty. Kayla was babysitting and couldn't be there. She did, however, come home and say "Did you see that Jennie got fired? I'm so mad." And I said "Yeah, she's too nice. Donald Trump knew it. He knew she didn't belong in that world. She's better off."
Yes, Jennie, you are too sweet for the business world. You are too genuine. We HEART you, Jennie.
Last week, Kayla and I watched CELEBRITY APPRENTICE in my craft room, while we, well, crafted.
And it was the best evening EVER!!!
Because Gene Simmons was SO FUNNY. And I could hear both my kids laughing, Blake from the family room and Kayla from the desk beside me. And no matter how old your kids get, their laughter is pure music.
And, my stars, Kayla has a great laugh. When she was four years old, our friend used to love to hear her laugh. He'd say "She's got the biggest laugh for such a little girl. I love that laugh." She laughs from the belly - a bubbling source of joy that cannot be contained. It's pure and genuine and is guaranteed to make even the grumpiest person smile.
Whether she's laughing at herself (which she can do better than some adults) or recalling a funny experience with a teacher, or relaying something embarrassing that happened to a friend; her laugh is quick and sparkly. It's contagious. It reaches every bit of her body and then radiates outward to anybody who's lucky enough to be nearby. It reaches her eyes and makes them dance. And the accompanying smile? Lord, have mercy, is it ever sweet.
It makes my heart say "What a gorgeous smile. How will any boy ever be able to resist that?"
It makes my head say "What a gorgeous smile. We are so lucky not to have to put braces on those teeth."
So, even though Jennie has gone home to her husband and baby and awesome softball talents; and even though Gene Simmons has gone home to whatever it is Gene Simmons manages to do with himself now that he is a washed up rock-star; I will still look forward to Thursdays. And I certainly hope my kids do too. I am willing to bribe them with skittles until the final episode, if that is what it takes.
Because I believe in instilling certain family values in my kids. Like the importance of sugary treats and trashy television.
Yep. Mother of the Year, that's me.
Why?
Because that's when we watch CELEBRITY APPRENTICE.
The kids and I love that show. LOVE. IT.
Several years ago, when The Apprentice first started, the kids and I sat down to watch the premier episode because Daddy was traveling. And, although, it may not have been the best television for elementary school kids; it was a fun and relaxing way to spend an evening at the (near) end of a week without Daddy.
We haven't always been able to catch it in following seasons, because the kids have become busier. And if the kids are busier, mommy and daddy are busier.
Now, though, we are watching it, because each of the kids has a favorite celebrity on it.
Kayla loves Jennie Finch, the Olympic gold medal pitcher for the U.S. Women's Softball team. And Blake likes Tito Ortiz, a UFC fighter. I watch it because I love to hate (well not Hate exactly...) Omarosa. That woman....
Anyway, last night Blake and I sat side by side on the basement sofa and watched celebrity apprentice. At eight o'clock, I plopped myself on the couch and said "Celebrity Apprentice...I expect complete silence" (a running joke in our house) and lo and behold, Blake comes down the stairs ready for an hour of television himself. Not up in his room, but in the basement. Right beside me on couch. And I knew he was there for the entire hour because he came prepared. With a snack size bag of gardettos, cheetos, and sun chips (that would be THREE snack size bags of various chips) and a 54 ounce bag of skittles.
So I said, "Don't you think you should have some fruit, or maybe another bowl of that stew we had for supper? There's yogurt. Want a yogurt? You know, if you're hungry?" And he said "If I had stew for supper, I don't need it again. Besides, I'm not really hungry."
Oh. Okay. It was just that wheelbarrow full of food that fooled me.
Anyway, Blake and I sat on the couch and laughed and snarked and commented on how we miss Gene Simmons because he was so funny. And we listened to Stephen Baldwin laugh and didn't say a thing because I was laughing so hard at Stephen's goofy laugh. And I tried to eat a few Skittles but they were just so sweet they made my teeth hurt - which is why I bought those at Sam's instead of m&m's - because I won't suck Skittles up like a hoover, and with m&m's my kids wouldn't stand a chance. Neither would my hips.
And the only thing wrong with the evening was that the sofa, on my right, was empty. Kayla was babysitting and couldn't be there. She did, however, come home and say "Did you see that Jennie got fired? I'm so mad." And I said "Yeah, she's too nice. Donald Trump knew it. He knew she didn't belong in that world. She's better off."
Yes, Jennie, you are too sweet for the business world. You are too genuine. We HEART you, Jennie.
Last week, Kayla and I watched CELEBRITY APPRENTICE in my craft room, while we, well, crafted.
And it was the best evening EVER!!!
Because Gene Simmons was SO FUNNY. And I could hear both my kids laughing, Blake from the family room and Kayla from the desk beside me. And no matter how old your kids get, their laughter is pure music.
And, my stars, Kayla has a great laugh. When she was four years old, our friend used to love to hear her laugh. He'd say "She's got the biggest laugh for such a little girl. I love that laugh." She laughs from the belly - a bubbling source of joy that cannot be contained. It's pure and genuine and is guaranteed to make even the grumpiest person smile.
Whether she's laughing at herself (which she can do better than some adults) or recalling a funny experience with a teacher, or relaying something embarrassing that happened to a friend; her laugh is quick and sparkly. It's contagious. It reaches every bit of her body and then radiates outward to anybody who's lucky enough to be nearby. It reaches her eyes and makes them dance. And the accompanying smile? Lord, have mercy, is it ever sweet.
It makes my heart say "What a gorgeous smile. How will any boy ever be able to resist that?"
It makes my head say "What a gorgeous smile. We are so lucky not to have to put braces on those teeth."
So, even though Jennie has gone home to her husband and baby and awesome softball talents; and even though Gene Simmons has gone home to whatever it is Gene Simmons manages to do with himself now that he is a washed up rock-star; I will still look forward to Thursdays. And I certainly hope my kids do too. I am willing to bribe them with skittles until the final episode, if that is what it takes.
Because I believe in instilling certain family values in my kids. Like the importance of sugary treats and trashy television.
Yep. Mother of the Year, that's me.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
NOW THAT'S OFFENSIVE...
So I just got a Lane Bryant catalog in the mail. I don't know why. I've never shopped at Lane Bryant. I do not wear the sizes that Lane Bryant offers. But there it was in the pile of mail.
Even though I don't wear their sizes, I looked through it because I like to look at any clothes.
I mean it was kind of like a mini shopping trip in my kitchen.
And that is when I became offended.
Lane Bryant is a store for plus size women. And from what I can tell in their catalog, they have some pretty clothes. Funny thing is - none of the models in the catalog were plus size models.
Seriously I don't think any of these women wore above a size 10. And I don't think that's plus size. In fact, it's probably small compared to the average American woman.
So why, in the name of all that is relaxed fit and stretchy, would Lane Bryant choose to put these obviously- not- plus- size- women in their catalog for plus size clothing?
Do NOT EVEN TRY to tell me there are not women out there beautiful enough to model for this catalog and TRULY wear their clothes. There are many, many, many beautiful women who are plus size who should have the opportunity to model the clothes this catalog offers.
Shame on you Lane Bryant. And shame on you models who took a job away from the women who truly deserve to model for this catalog.
I am tempted to track you all down and force feed you chocolate.
Even though I don't wear their sizes, I looked through it because I like to look at any clothes.
I mean it was kind of like a mini shopping trip in my kitchen.
And that is when I became offended.
Lane Bryant is a store for plus size women. And from what I can tell in their catalog, they have some pretty clothes. Funny thing is - none of the models in the catalog were plus size models.
Seriously I don't think any of these women wore above a size 10. And I don't think that's plus size. In fact, it's probably small compared to the average American woman.
So why, in the name of all that is relaxed fit and stretchy, would Lane Bryant choose to put these obviously- not- plus- size- women in their catalog for plus size clothing?
Do NOT EVEN TRY to tell me there are not women out there beautiful enough to model for this catalog and TRULY wear their clothes. There are many, many, many beautiful women who are plus size who should have the opportunity to model the clothes this catalog offers.
Shame on you Lane Bryant. And shame on you models who took a job away from the women who truly deserve to model for this catalog.
I am tempted to track you all down and force feed you chocolate.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
THE BIG QUESTION
Why, why, WHY, in the name of all that is on sale and going fast, can't I go to Wal-Mart and stick to my list.
WHY, must a list that started out like this:
milk
oatmeal
cookies/snack cakes
ketchup
laundry soap
corn
carrots
end up costing me $200? Two. Hundred. Dollars!!
Somebody stop me!
Obviously I have issues.
I have stock-up issues. I blame this on my mother's neurotic need to stock up on certain things. I stock up on different things, but still, I've obviously inherited it from her. I probably have the only husband in the world who says "Honey, we have too much food in the house..."
I have "I don't want to have to go to the store again" issues. If I am at the store, I wander the aisles thinking about what else I might need so I don't have to get out again.
I blame this on my husband's former travel schedule.
He used to travel for work quite a bit. I mean VERY. EXTENSIVELY. He went to Peru and Columbia quite regularly, and on short notice. He went to Pakistan and Brazil. He'd leave on Monday, come home on Friday, leave on Monday come home on Friday.....and I'd use his time at home to make sure I had everything I needed in the house before he left again so I wouldn't HAVE to run out with two babies to get crucial items. Because in January and February in Illinois, you don't want to have to bundle two babies up to go buy apple juice, milk, diapers and baby Tylenol during a snow storm. I always took the kids out while he was gone but I wanted them to be trips that I CHOSE to do - like the mall or McDonald's or the children's museum. It was one way to make a stressful time easier for me - eliminating any inconvenience I could because I had no backup.
Isn't it funny how we become entrenched in a certain mindset even after our circumstances no longer warrant it? I am still sometimes stuck in the "MUST BE READY FOR ANYTHING!" mindset. What an impact those years made on me.
Finally, I have "well, now we can afford it" issues. When the kids were little, we lived on a very tight budget so that I could stay home to raise them. I don't regret it for one minute but there were certain things the kids asked for that I would have to say "no" to because they were too expensive.
Like grapes.
Kayla loved grapes. And I almost always told her no we couldn't buy grapes, because they were usually $3.59 a pound or more, and then we'd buy apples. I always felt bad that I couldn't justify fresh grapes for my little girl. When they would go down to $2.59 a pound, I'd run out and buy them, cut them up and let her feast on grapes. But I wasn't going to go to work so that my children could eat grapes.
Which leads me to another question. Would young mothers today consider me a bad mom because I didn't stretch my budget to include more fresh produce for my kids? I was raised on canned fruit and so were my kids to a certain extent. In fact, I think most kids 15 years ago were, at least in my circle of friends. But fresh produce in this part of the country is pretty expensive for half of the year. And it's not always that good because of what it goes through to get here. So...am I a bad mother because I wouldn't buy grapes for my daughter when she was 3?
But back to the "well, now we can afford it" issue. Today I bought two fresh pineapples. Because Kayla has been enjoying fresh pineapple and I want to be able to keep it at home for her; because now we can afford it. I mean it's not a box of chocolates, or frozen pizzas. It's pineapple. So I bought two because she loves it, and so do I.
That, and I wanted to use my new pineapple corer.
Other things I bought,
dog food
ketchup, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce - because they, along with maple syrup are like nectar from the gods for my family. Seriously my family are condiment junkies.
a space heater for the basement
a shower curtain for the kids' bathroom - because I am ashamed of the words that go through my head when I clean their shower and the "one-piece -with -the -look- of- two -panels -and- a -valance" shower curtain keeps falling in my face. I went with a plain straight shower curtain.
bananas
eggs
Mucinex - that stuff is NOT cheap
English muffins
canned soup
various other things that will make my husband do that thing with his eyes because we have too much food in the house. But, boy, wait 'til the next blizzard hits and we have everything we need. Who'll be complaining then, huh?
Oh, and guess what I packed in Kayla's lunch this morning.
Grapes.
Yep, life is good.
WHY, must a list that started out like this:
milk
oatmeal
cookies/snack cakes
ketchup
laundry soap
corn
carrots
end up costing me $200? Two. Hundred. Dollars!!
Somebody stop me!
Obviously I have issues.
I have stock-up issues. I blame this on my mother's neurotic need to stock up on certain things. I stock up on different things, but still, I've obviously inherited it from her. I probably have the only husband in the world who says "Honey, we have too much food in the house..."
I have "I don't want to have to go to the store again" issues. If I am at the store, I wander the aisles thinking about what else I might need so I don't have to get out again.
I blame this on my husband's former travel schedule.
He used to travel for work quite a bit. I mean VERY. EXTENSIVELY. He went to Peru and Columbia quite regularly, and on short notice. He went to Pakistan and Brazil. He'd leave on Monday, come home on Friday, leave on Monday come home on Friday.....and I'd use his time at home to make sure I had everything I needed in the house before he left again so I wouldn't HAVE to run out with two babies to get crucial items. Because in January and February in Illinois, you don't want to have to bundle two babies up to go buy apple juice, milk, diapers and baby Tylenol during a snow storm. I always took the kids out while he was gone but I wanted them to be trips that I CHOSE to do - like the mall or McDonald's or the children's museum. It was one way to make a stressful time easier for me - eliminating any inconvenience I could because I had no backup.
Isn't it funny how we become entrenched in a certain mindset even after our circumstances no longer warrant it? I am still sometimes stuck in the "MUST BE READY FOR ANYTHING!" mindset. What an impact those years made on me.
Finally, I have "well, now we can afford it" issues. When the kids were little, we lived on a very tight budget so that I could stay home to raise them. I don't regret it for one minute but there were certain things the kids asked for that I would have to say "no" to because they were too expensive.
Like grapes.
Kayla loved grapes. And I almost always told her no we couldn't buy grapes, because they were usually $3.59 a pound or more, and then we'd buy apples. I always felt bad that I couldn't justify fresh grapes for my little girl. When they would go down to $2.59 a pound, I'd run out and buy them, cut them up and let her feast on grapes. But I wasn't going to go to work so that my children could eat grapes.
Which leads me to another question. Would young mothers today consider me a bad mom because I didn't stretch my budget to include more fresh produce for my kids? I was raised on canned fruit and so were my kids to a certain extent. In fact, I think most kids 15 years ago were, at least in my circle of friends. But fresh produce in this part of the country is pretty expensive for half of the year. And it's not always that good because of what it goes through to get here. So...am I a bad mother because I wouldn't buy grapes for my daughter when she was 3?
But back to the "well, now we can afford it" issue. Today I bought two fresh pineapples. Because Kayla has been enjoying fresh pineapple and I want to be able to keep it at home for her; because now we can afford it. I mean it's not a box of chocolates, or frozen pizzas. It's pineapple. So I bought two because she loves it, and so do I.
That, and I wanted to use my new pineapple corer.
Other things I bought,
dog food
ketchup, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce - because they, along with maple syrup are like nectar from the gods for my family. Seriously my family are condiment junkies.
a space heater for the basement
a shower curtain for the kids' bathroom - because I am ashamed of the words that go through my head when I clean their shower and the "one-piece -with -the -look- of- two -panels -and- a -valance" shower curtain keeps falling in my face. I went with a plain straight shower curtain.
bananas
eggs
Mucinex - that stuff is NOT cheap
English muffins
canned soup
various other things that will make my husband do that thing with his eyes because we have too much food in the house. But, boy, wait 'til the next blizzard hits and we have everything we need. Who'll be complaining then, huh?
Oh, and guess what I packed in Kayla's lunch this morning.
Grapes.
Yep, life is good.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
A LETTER TO FRITO LAY'S...
December 29, 2007
Dear Chester Cheeto,
First, thank you.
Thank you for your (NATURAL) White Cheddar Cheetos puffs. They are simply out of this world.
I enjoy these delicious puffs of white cheddary goodness for a number of reasons.
First, because they are WHITE cheddar, they do not leave an orange residue on my hands or mouth when I have eaten a few (dozen). They still leave a powdery residue but it doesn't show as badly when I wipe my hands on my pants.
Second, they are NATURAL - it says so right on the bag. Surely, that means they are a healthy snack. Right? So I can eat as many as I want. Right?
Third, they are just so darn delicious. But therein lies the problem.
See I can't stop eating them. I have been known to eat a standard size bag, which is 8.5 ounces, in two or three sittings. As I munch away on them, letting the powder build up on my fingers (invisibly of course) and wiping my hands on my pants, allowing my teeth to become coated in the (NATURAL) powder of white cheddar; I lose all track of time and reality. I allow myself to think I'm having a (NATURAL) snack.
I mean, at least I'm not eating the WHOLE bag in one sitting. That would be outrageous.
Right?
Imagine my surprise though, when I read the "Nutrition Facts" on the back of my bag of White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs and saw that there were "about 9" servings per container.
NINE?!!?
So that leads me to assume that there are people out there who actually stop eating these delicious powdery puffs after enjoying only "About 32 pieces."
ASTOUNDING!!
That also leads me to assume that this 8.5 ounce bag is not meant to be a "Snack size bag! Great for lunch boxes and after school snacks!"
OOOPS!!
I guess a snack size bag would be more like...say....1.5 ounces? (Sigh...that seems so small)
Which leads me to my request.
Could you please, PLEASE, in the name of all that is good and holy (and low fat and healthy) start making SNACK SIZE bags of NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs?
I had actually stopped buying the NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs for a long while because I could not trust myself to behave like a rational human being while they were in the house. I only just bought them this week to share with our Christmas company.
I'm generous like that.
So, if you would PLEASE start making them in snack size bags, I will start buying them again.
And again, and again, and again.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours covered in White Cheddary Goodness,
HW
Dear Chester Cheeto,
First, thank you.
Thank you for your (NATURAL) White Cheddar Cheetos puffs. They are simply out of this world.
I enjoy these delicious puffs of white cheddary goodness for a number of reasons.
First, because they are WHITE cheddar, they do not leave an orange residue on my hands or mouth when I have eaten a few (dozen). They still leave a powdery residue but it doesn't show as badly when I wipe my hands on my pants.
Second, they are NATURAL - it says so right on the bag. Surely, that means they are a healthy snack. Right? So I can eat as many as I want. Right?
Third, they are just so darn delicious. But therein lies the problem.
See I can't stop eating them. I have been known to eat a standard size bag, which is 8.5 ounces, in two or three sittings. As I munch away on them, letting the powder build up on my fingers (invisibly of course) and wiping my hands on my pants, allowing my teeth to become coated in the (NATURAL) powder of white cheddar; I lose all track of time and reality. I allow myself to think I'm having a (NATURAL) snack.
I mean, at least I'm not eating the WHOLE bag in one sitting. That would be outrageous.
Right?
Imagine my surprise though, when I read the "Nutrition Facts" on the back of my bag of White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs and saw that there were "about 9" servings per container.
NINE?!!?
So that leads me to assume that there are people out there who actually stop eating these delicious powdery puffs after enjoying only "About 32 pieces."
ASTOUNDING!!
That also leads me to assume that this 8.5 ounce bag is not meant to be a "Snack size bag! Great for lunch boxes and after school snacks!"
OOOPS!!
I guess a snack size bag would be more like...say....1.5 ounces? (Sigh...that seems so small)
Which leads me to my request.
Could you please, PLEASE, in the name of all that is good and holy (and low fat and healthy) start making SNACK SIZE bags of NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs?
I had actually stopped buying the NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs for a long while because I could not trust myself to behave like a rational human being while they were in the house. I only just bought them this week to share with our Christmas company.
I'm generous like that.
So, if you would PLEASE start making them in snack size bags, I will start buying them again.
And again, and again, and again.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours covered in White Cheddary Goodness,
HW
Thursday, December 27, 2007
...AS LONG AS I CAN HAVE YOU HERE WITH ME, I'D MUCH RATHER BE FOREVER IN BLUE JEANS BABE...
Blue jeans.
The quintessential comfort wear. The all purpose clothing. Pair them with a sweater for a day of shopping; a sleek blouse for a date with your husband; a school t-shirt and tennis shoes to sit on the bleachers at you kids' sporting events.
Ah, blue jeans. We all love them.
Except, well...I don't. At least not anymore.
In high school, back when Calvin Kleins were the most coveted article of clothing, I wore jeans everyday. Lee jeans. I never had Calvin Klein jeans. I think I had some Gloria Vanderbilt and some Vidal Sassoon (sp?), but no Calvins. Mostly Lee jeans. And I wore them with oxford blouses or polos, tucked in, a matching belt and white tennis shoes - the whiter the better. And we purposely bought our jeans too long so we could cuff them.
I guess I was semi-preppy. Not completely preppy because none of my tops had a little alligator on them.
Jeans were so easy back then. We bought our size, paired them with the appropriate top, made sure they were cuffed just right, shielded our eyes from the glare of our ultra white shoes, and went on our way.
Ah, the good old days.
Now jeans are just...well...stressful. Jeans have become a thorn in my side. My back side to be exact, and my waist and my thighs.
Let's start with the waist. Could waist bands get any lower? The first time I bought "below the waist" jeans, I knew I was entering territory that really should be off limits for 40 year old mothers of teenagers. Actually for any 40-year-old. It is not attractive to lift your arms and have your stomach show because your jeans are sitting too low on your body. Of course, not MUCH of your stomach shows if you happen to be wearing high waisted under pants, which evidently are not the foundation garment of choice when wearing the latest style of jeans. That is all I'll say about that.
When I wear the low waist jeans, as I am today because that's all that's out there to buy, I spend my day feeling as those I'm about to lose my britches, therefore constantly pulling up on my belt loops; or fearing that if I bend over I'm going to expose my backside to my children which would certainly send them running from the room, hands covering their innocent faces as they scream "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!" Or at least put them in therapy for a good while.
I do not need this added stress in my life right now.
Teenagers are used to these low waist bands because that is all they know.
But I am not a teenager. Nor do I want to dress like a teenager. I do not want to dress like my 13-year-old daughter. Not that I don't think she looks darn cute all the time, but she does not need a mother that dresses like her. She needs a mother that dresses like a mom. A mom who tries to look hip and stylish while still maintaining some sense of sophistication and appreciation for this phase of life. A mom that looks like a mom without wearing "mom" jeans. A difficult task.
Now we will talk about the "cut" of the jeans. There's boot cut, straight leg, flare, extra flare. Oh and the boyfriend jean. I don't know what in the world a boyfriend jean is. Since I don't have a boyfriend, I'm not going to worry myself over that.
I do know that the boot cut is made with a little flare at the bottom and is usually pretty long so you can wear them with those really nifty pointy, high heeled boots. Those boots that scare me.
Those boots that look so cute and, alright, sexy, but that I can't bring myself to buy because I simply cannot see myself spending a day in boots that squish my toes together and bring on a bout of vertigo. The kind of boot that would surely make my chiropractor and my podiatrist frown. If I had a chiropractor or a podiatrist.
But if you buy boot cut jeans, you almost have to have some sort of boot to wear with them to achieve The Look. Another level of stress in the blue jean dilemma.
Straight leg jeans are making a comeback. And I like those ok. These are made shorter than the boot cut jean, because they are meant to be worn with those cute little ballet flats. You know the ones that have no arch or support of any kind, therefore the enemy of all podiatrists, I'm sure; and are supposed to be worn without socks regardless of the temperatures outside. I have my straight legs on now. With socks and a pair of "mom" slip on shoes. Seems no matter how hard I try, I can't achieve The Look with any of my jeans. There is always one element of The Look that I can't pull off.
The Look. That is the problem. Designers are making jeans for a certain look. A look that can only be achieved by a certain kind of woman.
I am not that kind of woman; though I certainly envy that kind of woman.
I am just not cut out for today's styles.
I blame it on my jean-eology.
The quintessential comfort wear. The all purpose clothing. Pair them with a sweater for a day of shopping; a sleek blouse for a date with your husband; a school t-shirt and tennis shoes to sit on the bleachers at you kids' sporting events.
Ah, blue jeans. We all love them.
Except, well...I don't. At least not anymore.
In high school, back when Calvin Kleins were the most coveted article of clothing, I wore jeans everyday. Lee jeans. I never had Calvin Klein jeans. I think I had some Gloria Vanderbilt and some Vidal Sassoon (sp?), but no Calvins. Mostly Lee jeans. And I wore them with oxford blouses or polos, tucked in, a matching belt and white tennis shoes - the whiter the better. And we purposely bought our jeans too long so we could cuff them.
I guess I was semi-preppy. Not completely preppy because none of my tops had a little alligator on them.
Jeans were so easy back then. We bought our size, paired them with the appropriate top, made sure they were cuffed just right, shielded our eyes from the glare of our ultra white shoes, and went on our way.
Ah, the good old days.
Now jeans are just...well...stressful. Jeans have become a thorn in my side. My back side to be exact, and my waist and my thighs.
Let's start with the waist. Could waist bands get any lower? The first time I bought "below the waist" jeans, I knew I was entering territory that really should be off limits for 40 year old mothers of teenagers. Actually for any 40-year-old. It is not attractive to lift your arms and have your stomach show because your jeans are sitting too low on your body. Of course, not MUCH of your stomach shows if you happen to be wearing high waisted under pants, which evidently are not the foundation garment of choice when wearing the latest style of jeans. That is all I'll say about that.
When I wear the low waist jeans, as I am today because that's all that's out there to buy, I spend my day feeling as those I'm about to lose my britches, therefore constantly pulling up on my belt loops; or fearing that if I bend over I'm going to expose my backside to my children which would certainly send them running from the room, hands covering their innocent faces as they scream "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!" Or at least put them in therapy for a good while.
I do not need this added stress in my life right now.
Teenagers are used to these low waist bands because that is all they know.
But I am not a teenager. Nor do I want to dress like a teenager. I do not want to dress like my 13-year-old daughter. Not that I don't think she looks darn cute all the time, but she does not need a mother that dresses like her. She needs a mother that dresses like a mom. A mom who tries to look hip and stylish while still maintaining some sense of sophistication and appreciation for this phase of life. A mom that looks like a mom without wearing "mom" jeans. A difficult task.
Now we will talk about the "cut" of the jeans. There's boot cut, straight leg, flare, extra flare. Oh and the boyfriend jean. I don't know what in the world a boyfriend jean is. Since I don't have a boyfriend, I'm not going to worry myself over that.
I do know that the boot cut is made with a little flare at the bottom and is usually pretty long so you can wear them with those really nifty pointy, high heeled boots. Those boots that scare me.
Those boots that look so cute and, alright, sexy, but that I can't bring myself to buy because I simply cannot see myself spending a day in boots that squish my toes together and bring on a bout of vertigo. The kind of boot that would surely make my chiropractor and my podiatrist frown. If I had a chiropractor or a podiatrist.
But if you buy boot cut jeans, you almost have to have some sort of boot to wear with them to achieve The Look. Another level of stress in the blue jean dilemma.
Straight leg jeans are making a comeback. And I like those ok. These are made shorter than the boot cut jean, because they are meant to be worn with those cute little ballet flats. You know the ones that have no arch or support of any kind, therefore the enemy of all podiatrists, I'm sure; and are supposed to be worn without socks regardless of the temperatures outside. I have my straight legs on now. With socks and a pair of "mom" slip on shoes. Seems no matter how hard I try, I can't achieve The Look with any of my jeans. There is always one element of The Look that I can't pull off.
The Look. That is the problem. Designers are making jeans for a certain look. A look that can only be achieved by a certain kind of woman.
I am not that kind of woman; though I certainly envy that kind of woman.
I am just not cut out for today's styles.
I blame it on my jean-eology.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
THE WRONGNESS OF IT ALL
Last week I heard the local news report the death of a Marine corporal in Iraq. He was from a tiny town near where I went to grade school. I remember thinking two things: "That's close to home" and "Corporal? That means he was very young."
This morning, the news reported that the body of this 21-year-old marine had arrived home and that his visitation and funeral would be held at the local high school. This made me think two things: "How tragic for parents to have to wait for their child's body to 'arrive home.'" and "High school? How heart wrenching."
There are, in my mind two reasons for the funeral to be at the high school.
First, in a tiny town like this there would be no other place big enough to hold the crowd of people coming to pay their respects. As one who has always lived in small towns, I think I am safe in saying that in this small town, most people knew this young man. They played sports with him. Or taught him in school or Sunday school. Maybe they gave him his first job. Maybe they disciplined him for adolescent mischief. Maybe they shared kisses with him after a high school dance. Maybe they drove around with him on Friday nights, cruising the small town square. Maybe they walked down the aisle with him for graduation. Or they worked with his parents. Or they baby sat for him. Somehow, they knew him. That is the nature of a small town. And in cases like this, I think it would be a comfort to his parents to have "everybody know everybody."
But to me the other reason for having his funeral at the high school is more heart wrenching.
High school was likely his most recent milestone in life.
Until he fought and died for his country.
A mere 3 years ago, he was probably sitting in class in a small school building in the heart of Amish country, surrounded by corn fields and family owned businesses; counting the days until Christmas break. Counting the days until graduation. A mere 3 years ago, he was planning his weekend. Basketball? Video games? Final exams? A mere 3 years ago, could he have envisioned life beyond this rural community? Could he envision the stark difference he would be facing when he arrived in Iraq? A mere 3 years ago, did he even know he would become a marine?
His funeral was not held at the church where he got married, because he had not yet had the chance to get married.
His funeral was not held at the church where his child was baptized because he had not yet had the chance to have a child.
He will not have co-workers at his funeral, because his co-workers are still in Iraq fighting this war. And he had not yet had the chance to decide on a civilian lifestyle, a civilian job where he would move on to another set of significant relationships.
He was still in the phase of life where his most significant relationships, besides his fellow marines, and his family, were most likely high school friends. Because that was his most recent milestone in life.
Until he fought and died for his country.
This is not about the rightness or wrongness of this war. Nor is it about the rightness or wrongness of the man who presides in The Oval Office.
It is about the wrongness of a life being cut short before milestones are reached. It is about the wrongness of a family having to wait for the body of their loved one to arrive home. It is about the wrongness of a mother having her heart wrenched out of her. It is about the wrongness of a father looking at the body of his son... marine... hero, and seeing a baby taking his first steps, a 5-year-old at a tee ball game, a teenager driving for the first time. It is about the wrongness of knowing there will never be grandchildren by him. There will never be another Christmas with him
It is about the wrongness of having to wonder, forever, about your child's last terrifying moments in life. Did he cry for his mother? Did he cry for a young sweetheart?
As one of our ministers said recently, death just feels wrong. No matter when, no matter who, there is a wrongness to death. To somebody, in some way, for some reason, there is a wrongness to any death.
And so today, as my son walked out the door, to get in the car with his best friend, and drive away to school, I wanted to follow him. Not to keep him at home, but to engrave in my mind his long lanky frame, backpack and wrestling bag both on the same shoulder, ball cap, high tops, football coat unbuttoned despite the freezing temperature....climbing into the car to head off to his day.
But I just stood at the door and watched. And saw a chubby toddler pushing a plastic lawnmower, a 6-year-old at a Chicago Bulls game, a 7th grader who broke his finger in kickball, a 16-year-old learning to drive....
And I thought of a heartbroken mother in a tiny town in the middle of Amish country who knows what it means to measure milestones, to measure life, by the blink of an eye.
This morning, the news reported that the body of this 21-year-old marine had arrived home and that his visitation and funeral would be held at the local high school. This made me think two things: "How tragic for parents to have to wait for their child's body to 'arrive home.'" and "High school? How heart wrenching."
There are, in my mind two reasons for the funeral to be at the high school.
First, in a tiny town like this there would be no other place big enough to hold the crowd of people coming to pay their respects. As one who has always lived in small towns, I think I am safe in saying that in this small town, most people knew this young man. They played sports with him. Or taught him in school or Sunday school. Maybe they gave him his first job. Maybe they disciplined him for adolescent mischief. Maybe they shared kisses with him after a high school dance. Maybe they drove around with him on Friday nights, cruising the small town square. Maybe they walked down the aisle with him for graduation. Or they worked with his parents. Or they baby sat for him. Somehow, they knew him. That is the nature of a small town. And in cases like this, I think it would be a comfort to his parents to have "everybody know everybody."
But to me the other reason for having his funeral at the high school is more heart wrenching.
High school was likely his most recent milestone in life.
Until he fought and died for his country.
A mere 3 years ago, he was probably sitting in class in a small school building in the heart of Amish country, surrounded by corn fields and family owned businesses; counting the days until Christmas break. Counting the days until graduation. A mere 3 years ago, he was planning his weekend. Basketball? Video games? Final exams? A mere 3 years ago, could he have envisioned life beyond this rural community? Could he envision the stark difference he would be facing when he arrived in Iraq? A mere 3 years ago, did he even know he would become a marine?
His funeral was not held at the church where he got married, because he had not yet had the chance to get married.
His funeral was not held at the church where his child was baptized because he had not yet had the chance to have a child.
He will not have co-workers at his funeral, because his co-workers are still in Iraq fighting this war. And he had not yet had the chance to decide on a civilian lifestyle, a civilian job where he would move on to another set of significant relationships.
He was still in the phase of life where his most significant relationships, besides his fellow marines, and his family, were most likely high school friends. Because that was his most recent milestone in life.
Until he fought and died for his country.
This is not about the rightness or wrongness of this war. Nor is it about the rightness or wrongness of the man who presides in The Oval Office.
It is about the wrongness of a life being cut short before milestones are reached. It is about the wrongness of a family having to wait for the body of their loved one to arrive home. It is about the wrongness of a mother having her heart wrenched out of her. It is about the wrongness of a father looking at the body of his son... marine... hero, and seeing a baby taking his first steps, a 5-year-old at a tee ball game, a teenager driving for the first time. It is about the wrongness of knowing there will never be grandchildren by him. There will never be another Christmas with him
It is about the wrongness of having to wonder, forever, about your child's last terrifying moments in life. Did he cry for his mother? Did he cry for a young sweetheart?
As one of our ministers said recently, death just feels wrong. No matter when, no matter who, there is a wrongness to death. To somebody, in some way, for some reason, there is a wrongness to any death.
And so today, as my son walked out the door, to get in the car with his best friend, and drive away to school, I wanted to follow him. Not to keep him at home, but to engrave in my mind his long lanky frame, backpack and wrestling bag both on the same shoulder, ball cap, high tops, football coat unbuttoned despite the freezing temperature....climbing into the car to head off to his day.
But I just stood at the door and watched. And saw a chubby toddler pushing a plastic lawnmower, a 6-year-old at a Chicago Bulls game, a 7th grader who broke his finger in kickball, a 16-year-old learning to drive....
And I thought of a heartbroken mother in a tiny town in the middle of Amish country who knows what it means to measure milestones, to measure life, by the blink of an eye.
Friday, November 30, 2007
BUYIN' THE BLING...
By noon today I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN breathing easy after a frustrating week.
First there was the annual checkup. By the way, I almost went to that a day early. Wouldn't that have been fun? I would have looked pretty eager...
Yesterday my daughter stayed home sick from school. But I also had to go for my annual mammogram. Perhaps we'll talk about that another time.
Daughter is still home sick today, but I had to go to the grade school to do an ArtsPals presentation. I am involved in this group where we work with our Downtown Arts Council to present classic works of art to grade school students. I chose 3rd grade because my memories of 3rd graders are happy ones. The print was to be at the school waiting for me, and I was told "no I shouldn't pick it up early because somebody else may need it...." which didn't really make sense to me because each print was specifically chosen for each class and the schedules of each presenter were also carefully relayed to other presenters. It really went against my nature not to have the print at home for a few days so I could become very comfortable with my presentation.
Whatever.
The print wasn't at the school today.
I know!! Can you believe it? Those prints are NOT supposed to leave the school. I'm tellin'.
I was all ready with two activities for the kids to do that would familiarize them with the techniques the artist used. I had my note cards all ready to prompt discussion. I had traded e-mails with the teacher to schedule 30 minutes out of her busy teaching schedule.
And no painting.
So I told the teacher I could choose a different print and wing it, and there would be no activities, or re-schedule. We chose to re-schedule because the kids would really benefit more with corresponding activities. I was truly embarrassed and felt terrible for the mistake. I am still trying to get the bottom of the missing print.
So I left the school mumbling under my breath about "I thought I'd have this over with today and now I have to plan another day for this and what if I don't find the print for the TWO other presentations I already had scheduled for next week, and this wouldn't have happened if I'd been allowed to get the print two days ago so that I could be fully prepared and who would have the print anyway? Nobody else is supposed to present that piece. It is a THIRD GRADE print, for Pete's sake, and nobody else is scheduled to present it and so much for keeping each other informed on our schedules if somebody is going to take my print when I need it....grumble, grumble, grumble....
Then I drove to the mall because we are going to the company Christmas party tonight, and I "needed" some stuff to finish off my outfit. I needed some "diamond" earrings to go with my sparkly sweater. I found some very nice faux bling for around 10 dollars. I found some very nice black suede flats with a little shiny black leather on the toes, and finished with a bow. I really wanted the leopard print ones but they didn't have my size. Boy those were cute.
And I found a darling little party purse. It's red.
And that right there is the problem.
I just bought my fourth red purse.
I know. I have issues.
My first red purse was a gift from my daughter. She was about 8 when I showed her this purse I liked, so she got it for me for Christmas. A week before Christmas she said "Mommy I can't tell you what I got you, but it's red and it hangs from your shoulder." Tricky, wasn't she?
Then there is the more-maroon-than-red, red purse. It's a great size and shape and just an all around great purse. Can't remember where or when I got it, but I love it.
Then there is THE red purse. From Herod's. Of London. It is a darling purse and oh-so-chic. But it is too big and...um...sporty... for a holiday party.
Thus, the new red purse today. It is entirely too small for me to carry to anything but an office party, because I like BIG purses. But it is exactly what I had in mind and will be a great accent to my all black outfit. Well, all black except for the bling on my sweater and my ears.
So there you have it.
I've been a naughty, naughty girl.
Don't tell Santa.
First there was the annual checkup. By the way, I almost went to that a day early. Wouldn't that have been fun? I would have looked pretty eager...
Yesterday my daughter stayed home sick from school. But I also had to go for my annual mammogram. Perhaps we'll talk about that another time.
Daughter is still home sick today, but I had to go to the grade school to do an ArtsPals presentation. I am involved in this group where we work with our Downtown Arts Council to present classic works of art to grade school students. I chose 3rd grade because my memories of 3rd graders are happy ones. The print was to be at the school waiting for me, and I was told "no I shouldn't pick it up early because somebody else may need it...." which didn't really make sense to me because each print was specifically chosen for each class and the schedules of each presenter were also carefully relayed to other presenters. It really went against my nature not to have the print at home for a few days so I could become very comfortable with my presentation.
Whatever.
The print wasn't at the school today.
I know!! Can you believe it? Those prints are NOT supposed to leave the school. I'm tellin'.
I was all ready with two activities for the kids to do that would familiarize them with the techniques the artist used. I had my note cards all ready to prompt discussion. I had traded e-mails with the teacher to schedule 30 minutes out of her busy teaching schedule.
And no painting.
So I told the teacher I could choose a different print and wing it, and there would be no activities, or re-schedule. We chose to re-schedule because the kids would really benefit more with corresponding activities. I was truly embarrassed and felt terrible for the mistake. I am still trying to get the bottom of the missing print.
So I left the school mumbling under my breath about "I thought I'd have this over with today and now I have to plan another day for this and what if I don't find the print for the TWO other presentations I already had scheduled for next week, and this wouldn't have happened if I'd been allowed to get the print two days ago so that I could be fully prepared and who would have the print anyway? Nobody else is supposed to present that piece. It is a THIRD GRADE print, for Pete's sake, and nobody else is scheduled to present it and so much for keeping each other informed on our schedules if somebody is going to take my print when I need it....grumble, grumble, grumble....
Then I drove to the mall because we are going to the company Christmas party tonight, and I "needed" some stuff to finish off my outfit. I needed some "diamond" earrings to go with my sparkly sweater. I found some very nice faux bling for around 10 dollars. I found some very nice black suede flats with a little shiny black leather on the toes, and finished with a bow. I really wanted the leopard print ones but they didn't have my size. Boy those were cute.
And I found a darling little party purse. It's red.
And that right there is the problem.
I just bought my fourth red purse.
I know. I have issues.
My first red purse was a gift from my daughter. She was about 8 when I showed her this purse I liked, so she got it for me for Christmas. A week before Christmas she said "Mommy I can't tell you what I got you, but it's red and it hangs from your shoulder." Tricky, wasn't she?
Then there is the more-maroon-than-red, red purse. It's a great size and shape and just an all around great purse. Can't remember where or when I got it, but I love it.
Then there is THE red purse. From Herod's. Of London. It is a darling purse and oh-so-chic. But it is too big and...um...sporty... for a holiday party.
Thus, the new red purse today. It is entirely too small for me to carry to anything but an office party, because I like BIG purses. But it is exactly what I had in mind and will be a great accent to my all black outfit. Well, all black except for the bling on my sweater and my ears.
So there you have it.
I've been a naughty, naughty girl.
Don't tell Santa.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
I CAN'T BELIEVE I SAID THAT....
I'm going to give you gentlemen a chance to leave the blog because you won't be interested in this. Or if you are, you won't be able to relate. Or you might be embarrassed. So why don't you head on over to espn.com, or cnn.com, or the sofa and put your feet up with the paper. Go on. Scoot. This is girl talk.
Any men left? Are they all gone?
Ok. Good.
Today was my annual checkup. Yeah. I know. We all love them. My doctor schedules them for 9:30 or 1:30 so that they are the first appointment of his morning; or the first one after lunch, so we ladies don't have to wait very long.
You know. For the fun to begin.
I think that's really nice of him, actually. This is a family doctor, so he is also seeing babies, elderly people, men, women. So he sets aside certain times of each week, just for women to have their annual exam.
I really didn't have to wait long. I had to wait for a couple of drug reps to get done with him. My apologies to drug reps, but this drives me crazy. I especially wasn't thrilled to step on the scale while the drug reps were lingering in the hall right beside it.
Then I had to wait for a sweet older lady to give the doctor a bucket of homemade Christmas treats. It's that time of year. He actually gave her a hug and kissed her cheek for it.
Other than that, not a bad wait.
I always go to my annual check-up with a list of questions. And my doctor knows this about me, and I think he appreciates that I come prepared. Some years the list has been quite long. Today, he looked at my little index card and said "That's it?" And I said "Yep, no legal pad this time..."
So we get through all my questions (only 6 this year) and while I'm getting ready to "assume the position" I ask him if the socks are still on the stirrups.
See, he used to keep these socks on the stirrups so they'd be warm for women who were barefoot. They were just white men's crew socks. I always thought they looked tacky, even though I commended him for his efforts.
Turns out the socks are gone because some drug company has made stirrup covers, advertising a drug of course. I think it was Boniva. These covers looked like those little mittens you put on newborn babies so they won't scratch themselves. Except they were bigger.
I looked at the nurse and said "Those are still not very pretty. He needs pink fuzzy socks. You know? Soft pastel things that women will enjoy."
And from somewhere at the end of the table, doctor B says "Ok. I have until next November to get pink fuzzy socks. But you better notice them if I do that for you."
So I said "Oh sure, Dr. B. whatever it takes to make this experience better for YOU."
And he started laughing so hard he had to scoot his stool away from the table to compose himself.
Yep. I bet he'll remember today's visit for a while.
Lucky me.
Any men left? Are they all gone?
Ok. Good.
Today was my annual checkup. Yeah. I know. We all love them. My doctor schedules them for 9:30 or 1:30 so that they are the first appointment of his morning; or the first one after lunch, so we ladies don't have to wait very long.
You know. For the fun to begin.
I think that's really nice of him, actually. This is a family doctor, so he is also seeing babies, elderly people, men, women. So he sets aside certain times of each week, just for women to have their annual exam.
I really didn't have to wait long. I had to wait for a couple of drug reps to get done with him. My apologies to drug reps, but this drives me crazy. I especially wasn't thrilled to step on the scale while the drug reps were lingering in the hall right beside it.
Then I had to wait for a sweet older lady to give the doctor a bucket of homemade Christmas treats. It's that time of year. He actually gave her a hug and kissed her cheek for it.
Other than that, not a bad wait.
I always go to my annual check-up with a list of questions. And my doctor knows this about me, and I think he appreciates that I come prepared. Some years the list has been quite long. Today, he looked at my little index card and said "That's it?" And I said "Yep, no legal pad this time..."
So we get through all my questions (only 6 this year) and while I'm getting ready to "assume the position" I ask him if the socks are still on the stirrups.
See, he used to keep these socks on the stirrups so they'd be warm for women who were barefoot. They were just white men's crew socks. I always thought they looked tacky, even though I commended him for his efforts.
Turns out the socks are gone because some drug company has made stirrup covers, advertising a drug of course. I think it was Boniva. These covers looked like those little mittens you put on newborn babies so they won't scratch themselves. Except they were bigger.
I looked at the nurse and said "Those are still not very pretty. He needs pink fuzzy socks. You know? Soft pastel things that women will enjoy."
And from somewhere at the end of the table, doctor B says "Ok. I have until next November to get pink fuzzy socks. But you better notice them if I do that for you."
So I said "Oh sure, Dr. B. whatever it takes to make this experience better for YOU."
And he started laughing so hard he had to scoot his stool away from the table to compose himself.
Yep. I bet he'll remember today's visit for a while.
Lucky me.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
THE MRI...
Magnetic Resonance Imaging (or Mom's Really Irrational)
Ever have one?
I had one yesterday. My second in 10 years. On my brain.
I've been having terrible dizziness and light headedness for about 6 weeks. The last time this started, my family doctor referred me to a great neurologist and she started me on some medication that helped tremendously. A few years ago, we started tapering off the dosage, and I did fine, but now the dizziness is back. I hope, pray, we can just increase the medicine again, but Dr. S wants me to undergo a few tests to rule out some things. I tried to explain what my self diagnosis was and that increasing my dosage was all that was needed; but she insisted on having it her way. Something about all those years in medical school and having so much intricate knowledge about how my brain works, blah, blah, blah, evidently makes her think she is right about this.
Whatever.
So the MRI. When they scheduled it, the nurse asked if I'd need a sedative to help me, in case I was claustrophobic. I said no but that I was dreading the noise more than anything. I know. Weird. The nurse seemed to think so too. But I am VERY sensitive to loud noises, due to my migraines, and that is what I could remember from my previous MRI. That machine is VERY loud. Plus, if they medicated me, I would be loopy for a while and I'd need somebody to go with me and I didn't think that was necessary.
So I arrive at the Imaging Center "15 minutes early to fill out some forms" only to find I was answering the same questions on the form that they had asked me over the phone on my "pre-screening call." Seriously. What's that about?
I changed into a gown and scrub pants. Let me just say - those scrubs are very comfortable. Are you allowed to wear those if you aren't in the medical field? Cause I totally am thinking of getting some. I mean if there's not a law or something.
So then I walk into the Imaging Room and look at the machine and all my confidence melts away. Not only does the memory of the noise start flooding back, but I see the table I will be lying on. It is about as wide as our piano bench. When you are having dizziness and balance issues, you do not want to be lying on a piano bench that will then be raised even further off the groud so they can scoot you into the tube.
Then the tech says I had to have something for my ears - "radio, television, or ear plugs." When I said "ear plugs, please," She said "REALLY?" I don't bother to explain that the noise of radio or television mixed with the EXTREME noise of the machine would be just the thing to send me into a migraine. So I put my ear plugs in and lie down. Then she brings the face cage down and I start sweating and thinking "I don't remember THIS; this isn't going to work...I cannot do this." Seriously it was like that thing they put on Hannibal Lector -is it Lector or Lecter? Hannibal the Cannibal - in those horrible Silence of the Lambs movies. Then she sticks these little pads up under the cage over my ears. I don't know if that was to further protect my ears from the noise of if it was to prevent me from moving my head. But I suddenly start feeling very helpless.
All this time I'm lying on the piano bench grasping the edges because my dizziness and panic have made me feel like I'm going to fall off.
Then she gives me this little squeezie thing and says "squeeze this if you need to come out. Of course if you sqeeze it; it will scare me to death."
Nice.
I tell her "I don't mean to be any trouble, but I am just much more anxious about this than I thought I'd be." So she says to just try thinking of other things "Are you preparing Thanksgiving dinner at home?"
"No."
"Do you work?"
"No."
"Wow you do have an easy life."
Now that kind of ticks me off but I can't jump up and throttle her because I am restrained with the face mask thingee. But it did give me an idea for a blog post.
So in I scoot to the middle of the tube. Ironically I start to feel more comfortable in there because I do not have the sensation that I am going to fall off the table. Plus there was a little fan blowing all around in there and the cool air felt nice. Hot flashes and panic don't mix.
And then the noise.
Good Lord the noise. There were four basic noises: staticky radio on high volume, obnoxious buzzer, jackhammer, and what I called the cobbler's bench, because it made me think of the little wooden pounding board (cobbler's bench) my kids had when they were little. The noises came in patterns. For one portion there would be seven loud buzzes in my right ear, then seven poundings from the cobbler's bench in my left. Seven buzzes, seven pounds. That went on for awhile.
Then the static.
Then the buzzing.
Then the jackhammer.
Then the pounding.
Thirty minutes of that, then I was scotted out so they could inject me with some dye; then scooted me back in for another 15 minutes.
Static.
Buzz.
Jackhammer.
Pound.
Repeat.
All the while I'm in there I try to keep my mind busy, first by singing praise songs in my head, then by thinking of my Christmas shopping list, then by composing blog posts. I spent some time trying to figure out how to scratch my chin without moving. Finally I decided to play some word games and went through the alphabet and came up with a noun, verb and adjective for each letter. I tried to think of obtuse words. I know. Weird again. But you spend forty five minutes restrained in a tube and see where your mind goes. Also, tell my what you do when your chin starts to itch.
After it was all over, she showed me some of the pictures, especially of my inner ear, where she had been instructed to get several shots. I tried really hard to see if there were any suspicious spots on the screen but... well... what do I know?
As I was leaving the parking lot, my husband called to ask how it went and to ask "So did they find a brain?"
Um...I forgot to ask.
Ever have one?
I had one yesterday. My second in 10 years. On my brain.
I've been having terrible dizziness and light headedness for about 6 weeks. The last time this started, my family doctor referred me to a great neurologist and she started me on some medication that helped tremendously. A few years ago, we started tapering off the dosage, and I did fine, but now the dizziness is back. I hope, pray, we can just increase the medicine again, but Dr. S wants me to undergo a few tests to rule out some things. I tried to explain what my self diagnosis was and that increasing my dosage was all that was needed; but she insisted on having it her way. Something about all those years in medical school and having so much intricate knowledge about how my brain works, blah, blah, blah, evidently makes her think she is right about this.
Whatever.
So the MRI. When they scheduled it, the nurse asked if I'd need a sedative to help me, in case I was claustrophobic. I said no but that I was dreading the noise more than anything. I know. Weird. The nurse seemed to think so too. But I am VERY sensitive to loud noises, due to my migraines, and that is what I could remember from my previous MRI. That machine is VERY loud. Plus, if they medicated me, I would be loopy for a while and I'd need somebody to go with me and I didn't think that was necessary.
So I arrive at the Imaging Center "15 minutes early to fill out some forms" only to find I was answering the same questions on the form that they had asked me over the phone on my "pre-screening call." Seriously. What's that about?
I changed into a gown and scrub pants. Let me just say - those scrubs are very comfortable. Are you allowed to wear those if you aren't in the medical field? Cause I totally am thinking of getting some. I mean if there's not a law or something.
So then I walk into the Imaging Room and look at the machine and all my confidence melts away. Not only does the memory of the noise start flooding back, but I see the table I will be lying on. It is about as wide as our piano bench. When you are having dizziness and balance issues, you do not want to be lying on a piano bench that will then be raised even further off the groud so they can scoot you into the tube.
Then the tech says I had to have something for my ears - "radio, television, or ear plugs." When I said "ear plugs, please," She said "REALLY?" I don't bother to explain that the noise of radio or television mixed with the EXTREME noise of the machine would be just the thing to send me into a migraine. So I put my ear plugs in and lie down. Then she brings the face cage down and I start sweating and thinking "I don't remember THIS; this isn't going to work...I cannot do this." Seriously it was like that thing they put on Hannibal Lector -is it Lector or Lecter? Hannibal the Cannibal - in those horrible Silence of the Lambs movies. Then she sticks these little pads up under the cage over my ears. I don't know if that was to further protect my ears from the noise of if it was to prevent me from moving my head. But I suddenly start feeling very helpless.
All this time I'm lying on the piano bench grasping the edges because my dizziness and panic have made me feel like I'm going to fall off.
Then she gives me this little squeezie thing and says "squeeze this if you need to come out. Of course if you sqeeze it; it will scare me to death."
Nice.
I tell her "I don't mean to be any trouble, but I am just much more anxious about this than I thought I'd be." So she says to just try thinking of other things "Are you preparing Thanksgiving dinner at home?"
"No."
"Do you work?"
"No."
"Wow you do have an easy life."
Now that kind of ticks me off but I can't jump up and throttle her because I am restrained with the face mask thingee. But it did give me an idea for a blog post.
So in I scoot to the middle of the tube. Ironically I start to feel more comfortable in there because I do not have the sensation that I am going to fall off the table. Plus there was a little fan blowing all around in there and the cool air felt nice. Hot flashes and panic don't mix.
And then the noise.
Good Lord the noise. There were four basic noises: staticky radio on high volume, obnoxious buzzer, jackhammer, and what I called the cobbler's bench, because it made me think of the little wooden pounding board (cobbler's bench) my kids had when they were little. The noises came in patterns. For one portion there would be seven loud buzzes in my right ear, then seven poundings from the cobbler's bench in my left. Seven buzzes, seven pounds. That went on for awhile.
Then the static.
Then the buzzing.
Then the jackhammer.
Then the pounding.
Thirty minutes of that, then I was scotted out so they could inject me with some dye; then scooted me back in for another 15 minutes.
Static.
Buzz.
Jackhammer.
Pound.
Repeat.
All the while I'm in there I try to keep my mind busy, first by singing praise songs in my head, then by thinking of my Christmas shopping list, then by composing blog posts. I spent some time trying to figure out how to scratch my chin without moving. Finally I decided to play some word games and went through the alphabet and came up with a noun, verb and adjective for each letter. I tried to think of obtuse words. I know. Weird again. But you spend forty five minutes restrained in a tube and see where your mind goes. Also, tell my what you do when your chin starts to itch.
After it was all over, she showed me some of the pictures, especially of my inner ear, where she had been instructed to get several shots. I tried really hard to see if there were any suspicious spots on the screen but... well... what do I know?
As I was leaving the parking lot, my husband called to ask how it went and to ask "So did they find a brain?"
Um...I forgot to ask.
Monday, November 19, 2007
I AM WITHOUT WORDS...
But apparently my son isn't.
Each week or so, he has to write a paragraph for English. I do not see these paragraphs until I sit down at the computer to proof read them for him. I have been struck by his use of words, his apparent ease in putting his thoughts on paper. At 16, he is a man of few words much of the time. But apparently when asked to put words to paper, he just has a way.
This past weekend, he asked me once again to proof read his assignment. The assignment was to write about your greatest moment, and what you regret in life. I asked him, before he started, "Are you going to write about winning regionals in wrestling?" And he said, "No, because I don't think I've had my greatest moment yet."
Below, is what I found, untouched by adult hands, when I pulled his paper up on the computer. I simply read it and sat silently for a moment and said to the empty room "I am without words." This is reprinted with Blake's permission.
Still waters run deep.
Blake W_ _ _
English 2
Persuasive Paper
11/17/07
In my short life I have experienced many highs and many lows. Has there been a moment or situation in my life that I would change or undo? Have I ever been so close to rock bottom that I would change a moment in my life? On a lighter note; what is my greatest moment? When have I been at my best? When have I been at the top?
American chess player and a grandmaster, Robert Byrne once said “The purpose of life is a life of purpose”. If we as a society truly live lives of purpose then why change something that has a purpose? I would not want to change one thing in my past nor would I omit any event, situation, or even second of my 16 year long life. Just imagine if everyone on this planet walked around regretting past events in there lives. Our planet would be a very unhappy place.
Today, the current average of years a human being will live is 67. I am 16 years old. With my calculations I have exactly 51 years of life remaining on my timer. That is a prolonged amount of time remaining on my clock. But, what is the best moment of my first 16 years? When was I closest to the clouds? Truthfully, I don’t believe I’ve had my greatest moment. I certainly hope that is the case. If one was to have a greatest moment what is there to look forward to? Why continue to strive to be the greatest? What is the motivation to be the best if you have already done your best? I feel that a human being cannot have one great moment. There is simply no way to choose that one great moment.
Overall, No one should go about their life regretting or second guessing every other move they have made. Why torment yourself with those negative thoughts? Also, why choose one great moment that defines your life on earth? Shouldn’t all of us want to make each new day our best and forget about the problems of yesterday? I feel we should.
Each week or so, he has to write a paragraph for English. I do not see these paragraphs until I sit down at the computer to proof read them for him. I have been struck by his use of words, his apparent ease in putting his thoughts on paper. At 16, he is a man of few words much of the time. But apparently when asked to put words to paper, he just has a way.
This past weekend, he asked me once again to proof read his assignment. The assignment was to write about your greatest moment, and what you regret in life. I asked him, before he started, "Are you going to write about winning regionals in wrestling?" And he said, "No, because I don't think I've had my greatest moment yet."
Below, is what I found, untouched by adult hands, when I pulled his paper up on the computer. I simply read it and sat silently for a moment and said to the empty room "I am without words." This is reprinted with Blake's permission.
Still waters run deep.
Blake W_ _ _
English 2
Persuasive Paper
11/17/07
In my short life I have experienced many highs and many lows. Has there been a moment or situation in my life that I would change or undo? Have I ever been so close to rock bottom that I would change a moment in my life? On a lighter note; what is my greatest moment? When have I been at my best? When have I been at the top?
American chess player and a grandmaster, Robert Byrne once said “The purpose of life is a life of purpose”. If we as a society truly live lives of purpose then why change something that has a purpose? I would not want to change one thing in my past nor would I omit any event, situation, or even second of my 16 year long life. Just imagine if everyone on this planet walked around regretting past events in there lives. Our planet would be a very unhappy place.
Today, the current average of years a human being will live is 67. I am 16 years old. With my calculations I have exactly 51 years of life remaining on my timer. That is a prolonged amount of time remaining on my clock. But, what is the best moment of my first 16 years? When was I closest to the clouds? Truthfully, I don’t believe I’ve had my greatest moment. I certainly hope that is the case. If one was to have a greatest moment what is there to look forward to? Why continue to strive to be the greatest? What is the motivation to be the best if you have already done your best? I feel that a human being cannot have one great moment. There is simply no way to choose that one great moment.
Overall, No one should go about their life regretting or second guessing every other move they have made. Why torment yourself with those negative thoughts? Also, why choose one great moment that defines your life on earth? Shouldn’t all of us want to make each new day our best and forget about the problems of yesterday? I feel we should.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
LET'S TALK ABOUT "DOG"...
This morning while I fixed breakfast I was watching Fox News. Dog the Bounty Hunter was on it. My husband walked through and said "I can't believe THIS is what our news coverage is all about..."
Basically Dog the Bounty Hunter is in the news for using the N word. A despicable word, a word of hate. He used it several times in a phone conversation to his son; going into a rant about why his son should not date a Black woman "because we use the N word and I won't have our life's work destroyed by someone hearing that and turning it over to the National Enquirer." So his son taped the conversation and sold the tape to the National Enquirer.
Thanksgiving Dinner will be interesting at the Dog House.
There are many many things I would consider questionable about Dog the Bounty Hunter. And I admit I list these without knowing the man personally:
1. He obviously lacks common sense and common courtesy. He failed to jump to the obvious conclusion: STOP USING THE N WORD. Seems he had decided it would be easier to surround himself with other people who accept such vile language than it would be to clean up his act and enlighten himself.
2. He is self-centered. He had chosen to pressure his son to end a relationship that he perceived would impact negatively on his own career. Nice dad.
3. His name. Come on, folks. Where else would it be considered a positive thing to be called a dog?
4. His hair. I am nearly without words on this. Is it a mullet? Is it a mullet gone wrong? Is it a mullet...super sized? Is there NOBODY in his bounty hunter camp that loves him enough to pull him aside and say "Uhm... Dog? It's your hair. See....well...MAYBE if we tried a deep conditioning treatment? Perhaps take 2 inches off the back....or 10? Maybe we could get some publicity out of this and turn it into Locks of Love...? I'm just makin' suggestions, Man. You know, now that we're in a bit of a pickle with your image, maybe now's a good time to make a change toward the more clean cut look. Again, just a suggestion. I'm not lookin' for trouble."
You know, something like that. Maybe somebody could be lovingly honest with him about his hair.
So Dog has been deemed important enough to be on all the news casts for nearly a week.
I believe anybody can change and I will be hoping for that. And I am certain the news will be covering those changes.
I hope he starts on the inside and works his way out.
Basically Dog the Bounty Hunter is in the news for using the N word. A despicable word, a word of hate. He used it several times in a phone conversation to his son; going into a rant about why his son should not date a Black woman "because we use the N word and I won't have our life's work destroyed by someone hearing that and turning it over to the National Enquirer." So his son taped the conversation and sold the tape to the National Enquirer.
Thanksgiving Dinner will be interesting at the Dog House.
There are many many things I would consider questionable about Dog the Bounty Hunter. And I admit I list these without knowing the man personally:
1. He obviously lacks common sense and common courtesy. He failed to jump to the obvious conclusion: STOP USING THE N WORD. Seems he had decided it would be easier to surround himself with other people who accept such vile language than it would be to clean up his act and enlighten himself.
2. He is self-centered. He had chosen to pressure his son to end a relationship that he perceived would impact negatively on his own career. Nice dad.
3. His name. Come on, folks. Where else would it be considered a positive thing to be called a dog?
4. His hair. I am nearly without words on this. Is it a mullet? Is it a mullet gone wrong? Is it a mullet...super sized? Is there NOBODY in his bounty hunter camp that loves him enough to pull him aside and say "Uhm... Dog? It's your hair. See....well...MAYBE if we tried a deep conditioning treatment? Perhaps take 2 inches off the back....or 10? Maybe we could get some publicity out of this and turn it into Locks of Love...? I'm just makin' suggestions, Man. You know, now that we're in a bit of a pickle with your image, maybe now's a good time to make a change toward the more clean cut look. Again, just a suggestion. I'm not lookin' for trouble."
You know, something like that. Maybe somebody could be lovingly honest with him about his hair.
So Dog has been deemed important enough to be on all the news casts for nearly a week.
I believe anybody can change and I will be hoping for that. And I am certain the news will be covering those changes.
I hope he starts on the inside and works his way out.
Monday, November 05, 2007
ANOTHER GLIMPSE...
A recent cell phone conversation between my daughter and myself:
Me: Hi Sweetie, are you with S?
Daughter: Yeah, we're at the mall.
( I mean where else would they be?)
Me (with a little bit of dread): Are you spending your money?
Daughter: Yeah, we picked a name off the angel tree and pooled our money to buy a present for a six year old girl. We bought her some "My Little Pony Stuff." We already turned it in to the angel tree people. I also picked up a tag for a 3-year-old boy that I thought our family could do.
Me: *gulp*
I don't remember the rest of that conversation.
I was listening to the sounds of my bursting heart.
Me: Hi Sweetie, are you with S?
Daughter: Yeah, we're at the mall.
( I mean where else would they be?)
Me (with a little bit of dread): Are you spending your money?
Daughter: Yeah, we picked a name off the angel tree and pooled our money to buy a present for a six year old girl. We bought her some "My Little Pony Stuff." We already turned it in to the angel tree people. I also picked up a tag for a 3-year-old boy that I thought our family could do.
Me: *gulp*
I don't remember the rest of that conversation.
I was listening to the sounds of my bursting heart.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
DO NOT ASK ME HOW MY EVENING WAS
Can I say HELLACIOUS on here?
Yes? No?
Cause that is the kind of evening I've had.
This morning I drove Kayla to school and then ended up at Wal-Mart by 8:00. I was feeling pretty good about that, assuming that I would beat the crowd by arriving so early.
Turns out the other 20 people in the store were all in the same checkout line as I. Apparently Wal-Mart stays open 24 hours, but doesn't find it necessary to actually STAFF their store adequately the whole time. Now if I'd been there at, say, 3 in the morning, I could understand there only being one checkout line open. But at 8:00?
I'm just sayin'.
Anyway, while I was unloading groceries, I noticed one of my tires was low. Now my husband thinks I am paranoid about my tires being low, but this one was FLAT. I know because the little color gauge on the air thingy was red instead of green. And also, it was pretty much deflated - definitely not just my flat tire paranoia surfacing. And, upon closer inspection, I found the slit in the tire.
No problem. I will not panic. Sure the husband is gone for the week, but I have another vehicle and a teenage son that can help when he gets home from wrestling practice. He even has buddies that will help. Right? I'm sure to get this tire taken care of tonight, and if not, there's always the jeep. The mustang is parked in the airport parking lot, 45 miles away or we'd have TWO vehicles to fall back on. But, SURELY Blake and I can manage to share ONE vehicle (gasp) for 3 days. Right?
Well, the idea of having to share a vehicle with me for 3 days was enough to motivate Blake to get busy changing that tire, with the help of his friend Cody. When I tried to say "Look, this is not an emergency, we have another vehicle. We can make do and everybody will still get to where they need to be," You'd have thought I was beating him with a chair. I see a lecture in his future. I am already planning it in my mind.
"Mom, we can do this. Just don't be checking in on us."
"Fine. I'll be inside. Just don't let that van fall on your heads. And if it does, don't come crying to me..."
Inside is where I needed to be helping Kayla with her Social Studies project (a time capsule) and where I needed to be making the chicken enchiladas I had PROMISED her I'd make for dinner, thus the need to go to Wal-Mart this morning. Amid the search for the perfect time capsule and items to go in it, neighbor children kept coming by to deliver the cookie dough I'd purchased for the school fundraiser. Good Lord. Did I buy from EVERY BODY'S child?
Anybody need cookie dough?
I finally decided to take a quick walk to clear my head. As soon as I walked out the door, the boys gave me a look. You know, a look that said "Don't even ask." "I'm just taking a walk, I'm not saying a word," I told them. After a quick mile, I returned home and chatted with my neighbor in her driveway. I told her I was concerned because the boys were changing my tire and I hear lots of hammering.
I don't think you're supposed to need a hammer while changing a tire.
Are you?
Of course, it wasn't a hammer, it was the lug nut wrench they were using as a hammer to try to loosen the spare.
That made me feel much better.
Still I went inside to try to decide just how much time to give them to finish the job. Or completely total my van, whichever came first. And also to check on Kayla and her time capsule. And to put another bucket of cookie dough in the freezer.
The next time I looked out, Cody's dad was under the van.
Now I'm really embarrassed. I went out and said "You know, this could have waited. I absolutely did not mean for them to call you." And he, being the kind, chivalrous man that he is, said "No problem at all. You can call any time you need something like this." And I said "Well, it probably was time for somebody to step in because I didn't think they should be hammering on anything under there." And he said "No. Hammering definitely isn't called for when changing a tire." And the boys just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
So he proceeded to guide his son and mine in changing the tire.
In the meantime I have allowed Kayla to become weak with hunger. There were no chicken enchiladas for supper. I tossed Blake some money and said "Treat Cody to dinner. I appreciate your help, guys. Oh, and Cody can you drive?" and loaded Kayla into the jeep to buy her supper at Panda Express, her absolute favorite place in the whole world.
As we passed the van in the driveway, she said "That spare looks pathetic. Now our van looks ghetto."
So I was just wondering.
Can I say HELLACIOUS on here?
Yes? No?
Cause that is the kind of evening I've had.
This morning I drove Kayla to school and then ended up at Wal-Mart by 8:00. I was feeling pretty good about that, assuming that I would beat the crowd by arriving so early.
Turns out the other 20 people in the store were all in the same checkout line as I. Apparently Wal-Mart stays open 24 hours, but doesn't find it necessary to actually STAFF their store adequately the whole time. Now if I'd been there at, say, 3 in the morning, I could understand there only being one checkout line open. But at 8:00?
I'm just sayin'.
Anyway, while I was unloading groceries, I noticed one of my tires was low. Now my husband thinks I am paranoid about my tires being low, but this one was FLAT. I know because the little color gauge on the air thingy was red instead of green. And also, it was pretty much deflated - definitely not just my flat tire paranoia surfacing. And, upon closer inspection, I found the slit in the tire.
No problem. I will not panic. Sure the husband is gone for the week, but I have another vehicle and a teenage son that can help when he gets home from wrestling practice. He even has buddies that will help. Right? I'm sure to get this tire taken care of tonight, and if not, there's always the jeep. The mustang is parked in the airport parking lot, 45 miles away or we'd have TWO vehicles to fall back on. But, SURELY Blake and I can manage to share ONE vehicle (gasp) for 3 days. Right?
Well, the idea of having to share a vehicle with me for 3 days was enough to motivate Blake to get busy changing that tire, with the help of his friend Cody. When I tried to say "Look, this is not an emergency, we have another vehicle. We can make do and everybody will still get to where they need to be," You'd have thought I was beating him with a chair. I see a lecture in his future. I am already planning it in my mind.
"Mom, we can do this. Just don't be checking in on us."
"Fine. I'll be inside. Just don't let that van fall on your heads. And if it does, don't come crying to me..."
Inside is where I needed to be helping Kayla with her Social Studies project (a time capsule) and where I needed to be making the chicken enchiladas I had PROMISED her I'd make for dinner, thus the need to go to Wal-Mart this morning. Amid the search for the perfect time capsule and items to go in it, neighbor children kept coming by to deliver the cookie dough I'd purchased for the school fundraiser. Good Lord. Did I buy from EVERY BODY'S child?
Anybody need cookie dough?
I finally decided to take a quick walk to clear my head. As soon as I walked out the door, the boys gave me a look. You know, a look that said "Don't even ask." "I'm just taking a walk, I'm not saying a word," I told them. After a quick mile, I returned home and chatted with my neighbor in her driveway. I told her I was concerned because the boys were changing my tire and I hear lots of hammering.
I don't think you're supposed to need a hammer while changing a tire.
Are you?
Of course, it wasn't a hammer, it was the lug nut wrench they were using as a hammer to try to loosen the spare.
That made me feel much better.
Still I went inside to try to decide just how much time to give them to finish the job. Or completely total my van, whichever came first. And also to check on Kayla and her time capsule. And to put another bucket of cookie dough in the freezer.
The next time I looked out, Cody's dad was under the van.
Now I'm really embarrassed. I went out and said "You know, this could have waited. I absolutely did not mean for them to call you." And he, being the kind, chivalrous man that he is, said "No problem at all. You can call any time you need something like this." And I said "Well, it probably was time for somebody to step in because I didn't think they should be hammering on anything under there." And he said "No. Hammering definitely isn't called for when changing a tire." And the boys just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
So he proceeded to guide his son and mine in changing the tire.
In the meantime I have allowed Kayla to become weak with hunger. There were no chicken enchiladas for supper. I tossed Blake some money and said "Treat Cody to dinner. I appreciate your help, guys. Oh, and Cody can you drive?" and loaded Kayla into the jeep to buy her supper at Panda Express, her absolute favorite place in the whole world.
As we passed the van in the driveway, she said "That spare looks pathetic. Now our van looks ghetto."
So I was just wondering.
Can I say HELLACIOUS on here?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
LIFE IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR...
I ask him to follow me.
After keeping his grandparents' van in our garage for a week, it was time to take it back to the parking lot to which they would be returning late tonight after a bus trip to Texas. I would drive the van, park it, and then hop in the jeep to pick up his sister. Always picking up. Always dropping off. This is my phase of life.
We are at a stoplight and I look in the rear view mirror.
There he is in the vehicle behind me, sitting taller behind the wheel even than his dad; red hair spiky and disheveled in the just-grown-out-buzz-cut look. He has left two buddies at home playing x-box to help me with this errand. He's like this when Dad's gone - solicitous, chivalrous, protective, responsible. And funny. Always funny.
Suddenly, I have about two blocks to pull myself together. One look in the rear view mirror and I am a puddle of goo in my in-laws mini van. His life, my life, becomes an instant movie in my heart. His life as viewed in a rear view mirror. Scenes from a car seat.
The rear facing infant car seat that appeared empty the first couple of weeks, because he was too tiny for his head or feet to show out of either end. Then catching glimpses of the top of his head, in that same car seat, covered with just a little bit of red fuzz; and the tips of his toes, clad in tiny socks and soft baby shoes.
The front facing car seat where I could watch him as he watched passing cars, played with a toy, drank from a sippy cup, pointed out diggers and dumpers, looked at his baby sister. The days I became adept at driving with one arm twisted behind me; picking up dropped toys, handing back suckers from the bank, passing out french fries. The days where errands were never a quiet affair. Squabbles. Questions. Why? Can I? What's that? Giggles. Tears. Long days.
No car seat. Nothing but long legs twisted at odd angles as he tries to get comfortable in the back seat. Size 13 high tops sticking up in odd places. Disheveled hair (always) as he leans back against the head rest, sleeping. Always sleeping on a family trip.
And now, a SEPARATE vehicle. Driving behind me. Following me. Pitching in.
I get behind the wheel of the jeep and resist the urge to turn the radio down.
I have to move the seat forward. HOW? HOW did he get so tall? Could he be six foot already? I think he is. I should measure him tonight. He'll love that.
"Mom, I'm going to church with Jake tonight. I'll be home by 9. " And out the door he goes, size 13's jumping off the porch, spiky hair still going every which way. "Love you Mom."
Always the "Love you , Mom" even when his buddies are here.
Blessed. I'm so blessed.
Long days. Short years.
After keeping his grandparents' van in our garage for a week, it was time to take it back to the parking lot to which they would be returning late tonight after a bus trip to Texas. I would drive the van, park it, and then hop in the jeep to pick up his sister. Always picking up. Always dropping off. This is my phase of life.
We are at a stoplight and I look in the rear view mirror.
There he is in the vehicle behind me, sitting taller behind the wheel even than his dad; red hair spiky and disheveled in the just-grown-out-buzz-cut look. He has left two buddies at home playing x-box to help me with this errand. He's like this when Dad's gone - solicitous, chivalrous, protective, responsible. And funny. Always funny.
Suddenly, I have about two blocks to pull myself together. One look in the rear view mirror and I am a puddle of goo in my in-laws mini van. His life, my life, becomes an instant movie in my heart. His life as viewed in a rear view mirror. Scenes from a car seat.
The rear facing infant car seat that appeared empty the first couple of weeks, because he was too tiny for his head or feet to show out of either end. Then catching glimpses of the top of his head, in that same car seat, covered with just a little bit of red fuzz; and the tips of his toes, clad in tiny socks and soft baby shoes.
The front facing car seat where I could watch him as he watched passing cars, played with a toy, drank from a sippy cup, pointed out diggers and dumpers, looked at his baby sister. The days I became adept at driving with one arm twisted behind me; picking up dropped toys, handing back suckers from the bank, passing out french fries. The days where errands were never a quiet affair. Squabbles. Questions. Why? Can I? What's that? Giggles. Tears. Long days.
No car seat. Nothing but long legs twisted at odd angles as he tries to get comfortable in the back seat. Size 13 high tops sticking up in odd places. Disheveled hair (always) as he leans back against the head rest, sleeping. Always sleeping on a family trip.
And now, a SEPARATE vehicle. Driving behind me. Following me. Pitching in.
I get behind the wheel of the jeep and resist the urge to turn the radio down.
I have to move the seat forward. HOW? HOW did he get so tall? Could he be six foot already? I think he is. I should measure him tonight. He'll love that.
"Mom, I'm going to church with Jake tonight. I'll be home by 9. " And out the door he goes, size 13's jumping off the porch, spiky hair still going every which way. "Love you Mom."
Always the "Love you , Mom" even when his buddies are here.
Blessed. I'm so blessed.
Long days. Short years.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
ACCEPTING MY ROLE
Last night I decided to take a break from making change for swindlers (see previous post) and wander into the hallway to get a little fresh air. The gym was quite hot and stuffy so I left my husband with the cash box to sit on the steps in the cool hall way.
I had just gone into the school office to purchase a book, DREAM SEASONS; by Scott Wentworth and J. Thomas McNamara. It's a nice little book about the dual championship our high school earned last year in football and basketball. I doubt it will be a New York Times best seller, but what a great memento for the community, especially for the players and their parents. Many thanks to the men who took the time to capture this history making year in book form.
As I sat on the steps with my book, I did what I usually do first with books like this. I flipped to the photo section. I love photos. Especially photos that capture emotion. You can be sure there was a lot of emotion captured between the covers of this book.
One photo I keep coming back to is of my favorite player, Dustin. They call him D-Moe. I've mentioned him before. What an incredible young man. What an incredible role model for younger kids. He was such a positive influence on my son, on everybody, while he was in high school. And I'm not just talking about sports. He has to be one of the most respectful, diligent, friendly, humble young men I have ever met. EVER.
He is a gentle giant.
The caption by his photo, taken during a basketball game says:
As a defensive and rebounding specialist, Dustin M_ _ _ _, typified the Trojans' acceptance of their roles. Despite being a starter, Dustin took fewer than three shots a game in 2006-2007. "The whole team accepted their roles to perfection," (one coach) says of the Trojans.
This caption describes Dustin so well. At 6 foot 5 inches tall and 260 pounds, according to the football roster; I'm sure this young man is quite intimidating on the football field. I am sure if I had to face him in any competition, I'd simply put my hands up in the air and say "look, fella, I don't want any trouble. Just take the ball. It's yours. Ok? Are we cool?"
And the ease and finesse with which he moved on the basketball court was always a surprise, considering his size.
I'm not an expert on sports but I know enough to know that I would certainly not want to be the man in Dustin's path on the football field. If his job is to move you out of the way so his teammate can score, he WILL move you out of the way. Over and over again. And if his job was to stop you from scoring he, along with his fellow linemen WOULD stop you from scoring. Sometimes even if you only had one yard to go. With 3 attempts. Really. We saw it happen.
And in basketball, if his job is to rebound the ball, or steal the ball, he WILL rebound the ball and steal the ball. Over and over again.
In both sports, his job is NOT to score. His job is to make sure his teammates score. The ones who have THAT role. Doing his job so well, despite the fact that he was not a headliner, gave him a fantastic reputation in the sports pages, in the school hallways, and in the community.
So all this to say; I cannot get this caption out of my head "....accepted their roles to perfection."
What is my role? Am I accepting it to perfection?
Probably not, since right now I cannot seem to define my role. Oh, I know I am a wife and mother, daughter and friend, Bible class teacher and school volunteer. DAUGHTER OF CHRIST. But what am I DOING with my role? How am I EMBRACING my role? How am I, for lack of a better word showcasing my role? How am I going to use my role to shine a light?
How do I know what my gifts are? How do I know how to use those gifts to glorify Christ, to set an example for my children so that they will one day use their own gifts to glorify Christ?
My prayer of late is that God will open my eyes, my heart, my spirit, to the knowledge of what my role is; and that He will enable me to embrace that role, ACCEPTING IT TO PERFECTION so that I may touch hearts.
Even just one heart.
I had just gone into the school office to purchase a book, DREAM SEASONS; by Scott Wentworth and J. Thomas McNamara. It's a nice little book about the dual championship our high school earned last year in football and basketball. I doubt it will be a New York Times best seller, but what a great memento for the community, especially for the players and their parents. Many thanks to the men who took the time to capture this history making year in book form.
As I sat on the steps with my book, I did what I usually do first with books like this. I flipped to the photo section. I love photos. Especially photos that capture emotion. You can be sure there was a lot of emotion captured between the covers of this book.
One photo I keep coming back to is of my favorite player, Dustin. They call him D-Moe. I've mentioned him before. What an incredible young man. What an incredible role model for younger kids. He was such a positive influence on my son, on everybody, while he was in high school. And I'm not just talking about sports. He has to be one of the most respectful, diligent, friendly, humble young men I have ever met. EVER.
He is a gentle giant.
The caption by his photo, taken during a basketball game says:
As a defensive and rebounding specialist, Dustin M_ _ _ _, typified the Trojans' acceptance of their roles. Despite being a starter, Dustin took fewer than three shots a game in 2006-2007. "The whole team accepted their roles to perfection," (one coach) says of the Trojans.
This caption describes Dustin so well. At 6 foot 5 inches tall and 260 pounds, according to the football roster; I'm sure this young man is quite intimidating on the football field. I am sure if I had to face him in any competition, I'd simply put my hands up in the air and say "look, fella, I don't want any trouble. Just take the ball. It's yours. Ok? Are we cool?"
And the ease and finesse with which he moved on the basketball court was always a surprise, considering his size.
I'm not an expert on sports but I know enough to know that I would certainly not want to be the man in Dustin's path on the football field. If his job is to move you out of the way so his teammate can score, he WILL move you out of the way. Over and over again. And if his job was to stop you from scoring he, along with his fellow linemen WOULD stop you from scoring. Sometimes even if you only had one yard to go. With 3 attempts. Really. We saw it happen.
And in basketball, if his job is to rebound the ball, or steal the ball, he WILL rebound the ball and steal the ball. Over and over again.
In both sports, his job is NOT to score. His job is to make sure his teammates score. The ones who have THAT role. Doing his job so well, despite the fact that he was not a headliner, gave him a fantastic reputation in the sports pages, in the school hallways, and in the community.
So all this to say; I cannot get this caption out of my head "....accepted their roles to perfection."
What is my role? Am I accepting it to perfection?
Probably not, since right now I cannot seem to define my role. Oh, I know I am a wife and mother, daughter and friend, Bible class teacher and school volunteer. DAUGHTER OF CHRIST. But what am I DOING with my role? How am I EMBRACING my role? How am I, for lack of a better word showcasing my role? How am I going to use my role to shine a light?
How do I know what my gifts are? How do I know how to use those gifts to glorify Christ, to set an example for my children so that they will one day use their own gifts to glorify Christ?
My prayer of late is that God will open my eyes, my heart, my spirit, to the knowledge of what my role is; and that He will enable me to embrace that role, ACCEPTING IT TO PERFECTION so that I may touch hearts.
Even just one heart.
Monday, October 15, 2007
AN OPEN LETTER
To THE spectator at the Junior High Girls Basketball Game (You know who you are)
First, thanks for coming out to support your very special player. Our girls need our support. All kids need a cheerleader. We were thrilled to host you this evening, along with all the other visitors. Especially since you had to drive over an hour. In the Rain.
But.
Please remember that we are a small school in a tiny town. But you are a small school too, or you wouldn't be playing against us. Remember, the town you were in this evening does not even have a traffic light. Seriously, it has a cafe that closes at 2 in the afternoon, one gas station, and one questionable little "greasy spoon." Oh and a tavern.
So why, may I ask, did you think it was a good idea to show up at the door to pay admission to a JUNIOR HIGH GIRLS BASKETBALL GAME, where there were probably 75 people in attendance, and hand me a HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL? Did you think for a moment that you were at Madison Square Garden? Is that why you acted all surprised that I couldn't make change for you.
I have a sneaking suspicion that you were hoping I'd say "Oh, I can't make change for that. Just go on in with no charge." Well, fella, I was on to you. That is why I handed that HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL right back to you and said "I'm going to send my husband down to get more bills so we can break that for you. I'll find you in the stands in a few minutes so we can take care of this." After all, it WAS $14 you owed us for your two adult admissions and 4 student admissions. I don't set the prices. I just take the money on my appointed day.
So when you came back down the bleachers and said to me "How much did you say that was again?" and I said "Fourteen Dollars" and you said "Oh, I have that with me," I was a LIT.TLE suspicious.
And then when I had to take the bills back to the other cash box from which my husband had borrowed; the ladies there heard my story and said "Sounds like someone was hoping to get in for free." And I said "AH! HA! I thought so too. " I couldn't prove it, of course, but I was just picking up a bad vibe, you big spender you.
So, Sir, may I suggest you take that hundred dollar bill to a bank, or even a grocery store and have them break it into smaller bills for you? That way you won't be tempted to try to swindle anybody else.
If that doesn't appeal to you, may I suggest another place for you to put it?
Thank You.
First, thanks for coming out to support your very special player. Our girls need our support. All kids need a cheerleader. We were thrilled to host you this evening, along with all the other visitors. Especially since you had to drive over an hour. In the Rain.
But.
Please remember that we are a small school in a tiny town. But you are a small school too, or you wouldn't be playing against us. Remember, the town you were in this evening does not even have a traffic light. Seriously, it has a cafe that closes at 2 in the afternoon, one gas station, and one questionable little "greasy spoon." Oh and a tavern.
So why, may I ask, did you think it was a good idea to show up at the door to pay admission to a JUNIOR HIGH GIRLS BASKETBALL GAME, where there were probably 75 people in attendance, and hand me a HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL? Did you think for a moment that you were at Madison Square Garden? Is that why you acted all surprised that I couldn't make change for you.
I have a sneaking suspicion that you were hoping I'd say "Oh, I can't make change for that. Just go on in with no charge." Well, fella, I was on to you. That is why I handed that HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL right back to you and said "I'm going to send my husband down to get more bills so we can break that for you. I'll find you in the stands in a few minutes so we can take care of this." After all, it WAS $14 you owed us for your two adult admissions and 4 student admissions. I don't set the prices. I just take the money on my appointed day.
So when you came back down the bleachers and said to me "How much did you say that was again?" and I said "Fourteen Dollars" and you said "Oh, I have that with me," I was a LIT.TLE suspicious.
And then when I had to take the bills back to the other cash box from which my husband had borrowed; the ladies there heard my story and said "Sounds like someone was hoping to get in for free." And I said "AH! HA! I thought so too. " I couldn't prove it, of course, but I was just picking up a bad vibe, you big spender you.
So, Sir, may I suggest you take that hundred dollar bill to a bank, or even a grocery store and have them break it into smaller bills for you? That way you won't be tempted to try to swindle anybody else.
If that doesn't appeal to you, may I suggest another place for you to put it?
Thank You.
Friday, October 12, 2007
THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING
Those of you who have little ones who still snuggle in your laps for stories, do you have Little New Kangaroo by Bernard Wiseman and illustrated by Theresa Burns?
If not, please pick it up the next time you are at the library or the book store.
It is about a baby kangaroo who is riding around in his mama's pouch and, every time he spots a friend, he offers them a ride. By the end of the story, mama is carrying a koala, a bandicoot, a wombat and a platypus, along with her own baby. Each page shows mama getting more and more tired; until she eventually drops them all off at their homes for bedtime.
It was one of our kids' favorite stories and still sits on the bookshelves in our basement where the treasured children's books remain because I could not part with them.
I always told the kids I could relate to mama kangaroo because it seemed our mini van kept filling up with children. No matter where we stopped, there were more children getting in or out than had been there originally. No kidding, sometimes I feel a little worried if I only have 1 or 2 kids in the van.
Well just now I heard a reporter on Animal Planet say this about kangaroos: Most of a kangaroo's waking moments are spent searching for or eating food. At least this week I have related to that because it has been, well, a bad week to be a woman. You know, one of those weeks where it is best to avoid the kitchen if you can or you might just open the bottle of Hershey's syrup, tilt your head back and chug-a-lug like a football player drinking Gatorade.
OK, that never happened. Seriously, it didn't. I just thought about it.
Or you might stop at Mrs. Fields to pick up a few cookies FOR THE CHILDREN and end up eating two before they come home from school. That's all I'm going to say about that.
I KNEW Mama Kangaroo touched me in a peculiar way. I KNEW there was some connection there that went way beyond a simple children's story. Now when somebody asks me "If you could be any animal, what would you be?" I know how to answer.
Kangaroo. Definitely a kangaroo.
If not, please pick it up the next time you are at the library or the book store.
It is about a baby kangaroo who is riding around in his mama's pouch and, every time he spots a friend, he offers them a ride. By the end of the story, mama is carrying a koala, a bandicoot, a wombat and a platypus, along with her own baby. Each page shows mama getting more and more tired; until she eventually drops them all off at their homes for bedtime.
It was one of our kids' favorite stories and still sits on the bookshelves in our basement where the treasured children's books remain because I could not part with them.
I always told the kids I could relate to mama kangaroo because it seemed our mini van kept filling up with children. No matter where we stopped, there were more children getting in or out than had been there originally. No kidding, sometimes I feel a little worried if I only have 1 or 2 kids in the van.
Well just now I heard a reporter on Animal Planet say this about kangaroos: Most of a kangaroo's waking moments are spent searching for or eating food. At least this week I have related to that because it has been, well, a bad week to be a woman. You know, one of those weeks where it is best to avoid the kitchen if you can or you might just open the bottle of Hershey's syrup, tilt your head back and chug-a-lug like a football player drinking Gatorade.
OK, that never happened. Seriously, it didn't. I just thought about it.
Or you might stop at Mrs. Fields to pick up a few cookies FOR THE CHILDREN and end up eating two before they come home from school. That's all I'm going to say about that.
I KNEW Mama Kangaroo touched me in a peculiar way. I KNEW there was some connection there that went way beyond a simple children's story. Now when somebody asks me "If you could be any animal, what would you be?" I know how to answer.
Kangaroo. Definitely a kangaroo.
Friday, October 05, 2007
CHOOSING THE BATTLE....
So last week was parent/teacher conference week at our kids' schools.
We usually go together but, because this has been an excruciatingly hectic time for our family, we parents split up. My husband went to our son's conferences Thursday night because he had to be at the high school anyway. I went to our daughter's Friday morning.
I always get a good report on our daughter. A sampling of comments from teachers:
- If all my students could be like her, it would be great.
- She is so fun, but also a hard worker.
- She is going to do so well in high school. She wants to succeed.
- I just LOOOOVE having her in class.
I always end the meeting with each teacher by asking "And her behavior? Is she respectful and cooperative in class?" And they always say "Oh my, yes."
And that means more to me than her straight A's.
The general consensus from our son's teachers:
If he tried a little harder, he could be a straight A student. He doesn't work to his potential but he really is a fun, respectful kid.
And again we always ask the question "Any behavior problems? Is he respectful.?" You know? just to clarify things.
And they say "Oh yeah, he's great. I really enjoy his personality."
It has always really bothered us that our son does not do better in school. Not because we expect perfection, but because we expect our kids to work to their fullest potential. We simply cannot comprehend NOT putting forth your best effort in school.
But I have come to terms with his B/C average because I have learned that perhaps he is working to his fullest potential in one regard; and that is to show the character and values we have tried to impart to him. At least most of the time.
When he was in sixth grade his teacher explained to me that she had to move our son's seat and she wanted to clarify that it was not because he was misbehaving. It was because he was the only kid in the class she could trust to sit by the boy whom nobody liked. He was the only one that tolerated him and showed a little kindness and compassion to him. I told him that meant more to me than if he received straight A's.
And so yesterday when my husband reported the same old thing "he could be a straight A student if he tried, but every one of the teachers loves him and says he's respectful and lots of fun..." I didn't feel the familiar twinge of frustration that I usually feel at conference time. Instead I just told myself "Character counts for something."
For now I have called a truce in the battle for good grades, which in this case is the battle to work to one's fullest potential. I will not wave the white flag in this battle. But I have decided to lay down my arms for a time and choose to focus on another battle we parents fight daily.
The battle to build character, impart values, turn our children into decent, pleasant members of society. Because at this point in life, I am seeing more success in that battle than in the grade/potential battle. Like all parents, there are moments I slap my forehead and ask the good Lord above "Will I EVER get them raised?" There are times when I am so completely floored by his (lack of) logic, and his outrageous requests, that I actually throw my hands in the air and say "NYAAAAAAAH!"
Each of my children has heard me say to them "I have to choose my battles. Well I CHOOSE this battle and you WILL NOT WIN," when dealing with certain situations. I choose to fight the battle of potential. At a later date. I choose to fight the battle of character daily - minute by minute, hour by hour. Because, in the end, this has been my j0b - to raise these two kids into people that others enjoy, people that love other people. In the end, the grades on a junior high or high school report card, are NOT what are shaping them into the people they are destined to become. Am I making excuses? Maybe. Am I shirking my responsibility? Maybe. But I think I'm just trying a different approach, hoping that if I lay off, the good grades will appear to be his idea and suddenly look more appealing and attainable.
For now, I am going to allow myself the small pleasure of enjoying the fact that the teachers at
We usually go together but, because this has been an excruciatingly hectic time for our family, we parents split up. My husband went to our son's conferences Thursday night because he had to be at the high school anyway. I went to our daughter's Friday morning.
I always get a good report on our daughter. A sampling of comments from teachers:
- If all my students could be like her, it would be great.
- She is so fun, but also a hard worker.
- She is going to do so well in high school. She wants to succeed.
- I just LOOOOVE having her in class.
I always end the meeting with each teacher by asking "And her behavior? Is she respectful and cooperative in class?" And they always say "Oh my, yes."
And that means more to me than her straight A's.
The general consensus from our son's teachers:
If he tried a little harder, he could be a straight A student. He doesn't work to his potential but he really is a fun, respectful kid.
And again we always ask the question "Any behavior problems? Is he respectful.?" You know? just to clarify things.
And they say "Oh yeah, he's great. I really enjoy his personality."
It has always really bothered us that our son does not do better in school. Not because we expect perfection, but because we expect our kids to work to their fullest potential. We simply cannot comprehend NOT putting forth your best effort in school.
But I have come to terms with his B/C average because I have learned that perhaps he is working to his fullest potential in one regard; and that is to show the character and values we have tried to impart to him. At least most of the time.
When he was in sixth grade his teacher explained to me that she had to move our son's seat and she wanted to clarify that it was not because he was misbehaving. It was because he was the only kid in the class she could trust to sit by the boy whom nobody liked. He was the only one that tolerated him and showed a little kindness and compassion to him. I told him that meant more to me than if he received straight A's.
And so yesterday when my husband reported the same old thing "he could be a straight A student if he tried, but every one of the teachers loves him and says he's respectful and lots of fun..." I didn't feel the familiar twinge of frustration that I usually feel at conference time. Instead I just told myself "Character counts for something."
For now I have called a truce in the battle for good grades, which in this case is the battle to work to one's fullest potential. I will not wave the white flag in this battle. But I have decided to lay down my arms for a time and choose to focus on another battle we parents fight daily.
The battle to build character, impart values, turn our children into decent, pleasant members of society. Because at this point in life, I am seeing more success in that battle than in the grade/potential battle. Like all parents, there are moments I slap my forehead and ask the good Lord above "Will I EVER get them raised?" There are times when I am so completely floored by his (lack of) logic, and his outrageous requests, that I actually throw my hands in the air and say "NYAAAAAAAH!"
Each of my children has heard me say to them "I have to choose my battles. Well I CHOOSE this battle and you WILL NOT WIN," when dealing with certain situations. I choose to fight the battle of potential. At a later date. I choose to fight the battle of character daily - minute by minute, hour by hour. Because, in the end, this has been my j0b - to raise these two kids into people that others enjoy, people that love other people. In the end, the grades on a junior high or high school report card, are NOT what are shaping them into the people they are destined to become. Am I making excuses? Maybe. Am I shirking my responsibility? Maybe. But I think I'm just trying a different approach, hoping that if I lay off, the good grades will appear to be his idea and suddenly look more appealing and attainable.
For now, I am going to allow myself the small pleasure of enjoying the fact that the teachers at
our schools like my kids.
Cause I kinda do too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)