The Talk

My 8 year old son came to me and said, “Mom, kids on the bus call privates something else...”  At that moment time stopped and the list of expletives that ran through my mind would make Quentin Tarantino blush.  Oh, no.  It’s time for “The Talk.”

I asked him if he knew what his “wee” (as I call it) was really called.  He said, with a look and an attitude that I’m a moron, “Duh, it’s a wee WEE.”  After a lengthy internal debate about whether to just say, “You’re right” or go down the road to “Penisville,” I decided to jump in, eyes closed and terrified.

Coincidentally, not long before this conversation, I attended a fantastic training about child sexual abuse prevention and one point was that parents should speak to their children about sex by third grade.  Upon hearing that, the moms in the room sat up straight in shock.  What?  Third grade?  Why, that’s my son’s age!  The training said that you want your child to hear all sexual facts from you first.  Don’t sit back and let them learn from friends.  My thought was that my son wasn’t learning anything sexual in third grade.  Then the above happened.  Point, taken, training.  You win.

I didn’t go into how babies are made or in depth into functions of sexual organs.  But, I took a small step in that direction, and the giant leap will come soon.  We discussed the real names of parts that he has, and the different parts that girls have.  He asked questions (like if I didn’t have a penis, how could I pee), and I answered them.  And despite both of our trepidation treading into new territory, I was glad we had the talk.

Now, not only will my son know that his wee wee is really a penis, he also knows that he and I can discuss it.  Anything that comes up (no pun intended, well… maybe a little), he can come to me. He will not be lost in a world of denial where sex and anatomy don’t exist, and he certainly won’t feel shame or embarrassment.  My son will talk to me about the hardest topics to talk about… and that talk is the best talk of all.

The Nightmare of 3rd Grade

My most vivid memory of my education is from third grade.  I will never forget Mr. Priester, the science teacher, accusing me of cheating on a communicable disease test.  I got all of the diseases correct and they were spelled right, so when he realized a study guide was left out on my neighbor's stack of books, he accused both of us of cheating.  That moment ruined my third grade year.  Though my mom stood up for me and the grade was kept, I can honestly tell you that in all of my years of elementary, middle, high school and college, third grade was my worst year.  (FYI, I can also spell thrombocyticpeniapurpura, Mr. P, so take that!  Yes, I'm still bitter.)

Interestingly, I now have a third grader and I can say without a doubt that this is the worst school year for him, too.  No one is accusing him of cheating, though.  This year is a nightmare for a whole host of other reasons. 

1.  The pressure.  They start harping on standardized tests in second grade, making it very clear that if  you don't pass your IREADs and ISTEPs, you're held back no matter what.  I am super glad my kid, and others that I know, were able to dwell on that all summer.  Threats and fear are super ways to motivate the kids that may struggle.

2.  The workload.  In years past, we were given packets on Monday and homework was turned in Friday.  You pace it out or procrastinate and do it Thursday...  Your call.  We now have math packets that are similar, but we're also getting pretty detailed reading comp assignments due the next day, plus spelling words, grammar study, and fact test studying.  Oh yeah, and fluency if your child failed the fluency screening at the beginning of the year.  Oh, and if they struggle academically, it is recommended that you find standardized test prep materials and add that onto their homework time.  No big deal.  Why would we want 8 and 9 year olds to have time to play outside, be well rounded by participating in activities and sports or sleep?

3.  The struggle.  In our case, we deal with additional challenges.  In the past they were passed off as "age appropriate," but that ship has sailed.  Upon his 8th birthday, what was age appropriate has become undiagnosed learning disorders.  While we go through the long and drawn out process of determining what is hindering his learning, he is still graded and worked as if his brain functions normally.  I realize we don't know what to do for sure until we know what we're working with, but how is it helping to write in bold marker the mediocre scores he's getting and the time it takes to complete his work?  FYI, we get it.  He's struggling.  But maybe it would behoove us to get thrown a lifeline or even a life jacket to stay afloat instead of a couple bricks to hold while trying to tread water.  Let's start finding positive proactive assistance instead of negative reactive grading procedures.

I am not blaming our school or our teacher specifically for the nightmare that makes me sick every time I unpack Will's backpack and makes him hate going to school everyday.  Its the system.  Its whoever decided that one test score determines your placement.  Its whoever decided a teacher's merit and pay is based on those scores.  Its whoever decided that we teach to pass tests now instead of teaching to educate our kids.  I blame those people.  And I hope they experience the sleepless nights of a worried parent, headaches and stomachaches of anxious kids and the high blood pressure of stressed out teachers that they've created.  I hope they feel it, and I hope it hurts, because their system is punishing the very kids they didn't want left behind.  Instead of leaving them, we're shoving them underwater and hoping they can hold their breath forever.  Here's a little tip from a former third grader who now parents one, its not going to work.  They'll gasp for breath and until you pull them back out of the water, they'll swallow water until they drown.  This is third grade, and its my nightmare.

Winners V Athletes

In my sports days, and now in my sons' sports, I've met a lot of coaches.  I've learned that there are two types of coaches in the world.  They may both love the game they are coaching, but they teach two totally different ways.  One creates winners.  The other creates athletes.

At first glance, you want the "winner." But, let me tell you about the winners.  They may learn the skills to play the game, but they won't learn the skills to participate in sports.  They're two different things.  Games have rules... you can't double dribble, you can't move before the center hikes the ball, three strikes and you're out.  The rules are the same for everyone and they're black and white.  You can do this, you can't do that.  Participating in sports is way bigger.  Sports is made up of teams, teammates, coaches, opponents, ethics and outcomes.  A winner may win the game, but they'll never show the sportsmanship, gracefulness, ethical play and lessons learned from losing.  A winner is the kind who teaches to play dirty.  He doesn't break the rules, but he'll devise a strategy to win that bends the rule as far as it can.  He'll justify playing only certain players, even if the league is a 5 and 6 year old learning league, because the chosen ones will win.  He'll ignore the positive aspects of playing sports and focus on only one thing... the win. 

The coach that creates athletes is the coach you want.  He is focused on fostering love of the game, the skills needed to play it and the respect to be a sportsman.  An athlete will show grace in defeat, humility in success, and respect for those involved.  Athletes don't fight the other players, use scapegoats for losses and badmouth.  Athletes play the game, but they're also learning about life.  That's the team that really wins.  The one that takes their lessons from the field into the world and runs with them.  "I've missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I've lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I've been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed."  Michael Jordan, athlete.

My kids may not be winners.  In fact, I hope they aren't.  My kids will be athletes, and with that, they'll kick the winners asses in real life.  Try to block that shot, Coach.

I Think I'm Alone Now...

I knew I was going to have a good day today when I got the good bagger at Kroger.  The one who uses the least number of bags possible and puts all like items together.  That blissful moment of serendipity was going to shave countless... seconds...  off my "put the groceries" away time and get me straight on to "work at my desk time." 

Time has become my most precious possession these days. Picture me all Gollum-like

holding a clock and stroking it while I call it "my precious," because that's how much I treasure it now that I have gone back to work.  Not back full time, but full-er time than when I was teaching preschool.  I work from the time I put the kids on the bus until ten minutes before they get off.  Our evenings and weekends are packed with soccer, football and scouts, so I have one day that I get "off."  One magical Thursday when I drop the kids off at school and then I go about my business.... ALONE.  I get to grocery shop alone. I am typing at my desk ALONE.  I even went potty ALONE without someone asking for a drink or banging on the door because he has to go, even though we have two other bathrooms available.  My house is silent but for the tappity tap of my fingers on my keyboard.  I'm ALONE!!!

Though I like to pretend that somehow all this aloneness means I'll spend the day being fanned with palm fronds by manly professional soccer players (no offense to other athletes, it just seems like the futbol dudes are the cutest), the real world manages to eek its way in.  A phone call from the principal...  Laundry...  the bills that are staring at me right now while I ignore them to write this post.  My off day is not an off day, as I leave all my "chores" to be completed between the hours of 9:00am and 3:45pm.... but its quiet.  And I may be doing the laundry, but I'm doing it ALONE!!!

Letter to Will's 3rd Grade Teacher and Jack's Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Mrs. L,

I want to introduce you to my son Will.  He's an in-betweener.  You might be thinking that as an adult who is fairly literate, I probably shouldn't waste time making up words, but let's just call it "creative writing." 

Will is 8 years old and stuck in between.  He's not yet a young man, but he's no longer a child.  He is thinking about things at a higher, deeper level than before.  I see him caring more about physical appearance, clothing, meeting people's expectations.  He's maturing in ways that I did not yet expect.  Then, in a flash, my little boy is back.  The one who cuddles with him mom when he's sleepy, and still wants light up shoes.  He's in between right now, and he'll be here for awhile.

You will be navigating him through the between for this school year, and all I ask is that you embrace the between, too.  Keep my boy still a boy in all the ways that really matter.  I want him to still believe in magic with wide-eyed wonder and believe in his heart that he can really be President of the United States some day.  But, guide my young man.  Show him that the way magic really happens is by being a good and worthy person.  Show him that the President only gets that far with hard work.  Make this portion of his between a learning period, but let him dream the dreams of a young boy at the same time.

I did his beginning, and I pray that his end is so far from now, I can't even guess who will have his end.  But, I'm trusting you with his between, and its the most important part.

Sincerely,
Me

Dear Mrs. V.,

Today you met Jack.  He smiled and seemed ready to return tomorrow.  He even hugged you upon our departure, responding to your request.  Let me tell you, I was shocked.  The Jack you met today was the very best case scenario Jack.  But be aware, that Jack might not come back tomorrow.

My Jack is a mystery.  Despite his excitement today and his little dancing jig, my Jack is an introvert.  In fact, we should probably change his middle name to Introvert so people can fully comprehend the depth of his shyness.  He may surprise me again tomorrow, and the next day, and be open to the school experience.  But, he may also shut down.  He may be nervous and fight off tears, not wanting to show his vulnerability.  He may be quiet.  He may ignore others and be solitary.  He may...

I knew exactly what to expect of Will at this age, but Jack is a mystery.  He is complex, bright, quick witted, literal, moody, creative, adverse to change, goofy, and shy.  He's tumultuous and passionate.  He's a series of opposites, a mystery to me and I've known him for almost 6 years.

All I ask, Mrs. V., is that you turn the pages of the mystery.  If Jack enters tomorrow nervous and shy, please take the time to turn the page to see what else is in there.  If Jack amazes you with his quick wit, please be prepared for the awkwardness that may follow.  He's layered and surprising.  He's up and he's down, and inside out.  But, please spend the time to see all of his sides and please, let's make this chapter excellent.

Sincerely,
Me

Un-Named Killer

In January of 2011, I wrote a blog post on the shooting of Senator Gabby Giffords.  I wrote it appalled at the evil behind a mass shooting.  Shocked by the senseless tragedy and crushed by the death of innocent people.  I wrote it because I couldn't let it go by without expressing my tidal wave of emotion brought about by a single madman.  I sit here today in May of 2014, barely phased by the mass shooting that took place over the weekend.  Saddened, yes.  Disgusted, yes.  But filled with a torrent of confusion and overwrought by the cruelty, no.  Because now I know that there isn't a single madman.  There are madmen, they are everywhere and they strike often. 

What is worse... I think we are making them.  When I wrote about Gabby Giffords and the 9 year old girl who died that day, I vowed to not name the shooter.  To this day, I don't know his name.  Or the man who shot up the theater in Colorado or the young man that took out the classroom in Connecticut.  I don't want to know who they are.  I don't want to see their faces and know their names.  Be they mentally ill or just evil, I don't know.  Its too late to know the whys of their actions, and to stop them.  I want to know who they are when they're young and we can save them.  I want to see them coming with enough time to save their victims' lives.  After the fact, I don't want to know them at all.

After their evil deeds, I won't give them notoriety. I know the names of actors, sports legends, heroes and government officials.  I know the name of people who matter (and people who really don't... Kanye and Kim... I'm looking at you).  But, I won't let these murderers win by gaining fame.  I don't need to know the name of a gunman that put himself on YouTube and authored a hate filled manifesto.  I won't learn his name and I would like the world's media to try the same. 

Would these mass killings still happen if the killer wasn't highlighted?  What if this young man, now dead, didn't have his face, his video ranting, his pages of hatred spilled across all the sites, pages and news reports.  What if we showed the victims, outlined their stories, their lives and their potential, all the while just calling the do-er the murderer, the criminal, the subject.  Make him anonymous.  Make him nothing.  Make his face disappear and his tirades go unheard and unread.  Make these people who plan to make others disappear, disappear themselves.  What if we grant the fame and the glory to the survivors, the first responders, the heroes.... and put the do-er where he belongs.... in the dirt.

Asthma

I will start out by acknowledging the obvious.  I know that my son is not dying.  I know that there are many children and parents that suffer way more than we do.  We are not a tragic tale.  Disclaimer inserted so that anyone reading this doesn't feel the need to tell me that we could have it way worse.  I am well aware.  But, I am also aware that just because others have it way worse, doesn't mean that we have it easy.  Disclaimer over.

I never had asthma.  When I was growing up, I knew kids with asthma.  The ones with the inhalers out at recess and they'd puff a few times and go on.  I even remember being jealous of it.  The same way kids want glasses and braces until they get them and realize that its not nearly as fun as you thought it was going to be.  Until Will, I didn't know asthma.  Now, I do... and I hate it.

Will has struggled with asthma since his second year of preschool.  He gets flare ups that are all but debilitating.  He talks, he coughs.  He moves, he coughs.  He lays down, he coughs.  And, in case you've never experienced an asthmatic cough, let me inform you.  The word cough isn't big enough to impart the appropriate image.  He coughs so hard and so long that he can't inhale again.  Imagine violently pushing all your breath out without a pause to get more air in.  It sometimes leads to vomiting.  It often leads to panic.  It always takes the energy level of his which usually hovers around 100 to a level 0.  His body hurts.  His throat hurts.  His head hurts.  He's exhausted.  That's asthma.  And I hate it.

Doctors are hopeful he'll grow out of it, and the improvements he's had are amazing.  He is starting a flare up now, but he hasn't had one since September.  That's huge.  But, in September it took a month to get under control.  So, the start of this one is not met with relief that its been so long without, but with the dread of how long its here to stay.  Its not just his physical self that suffers.  There is nothing worse than attempting to go to school and knowing you're distracting the entire class repeatedly, but there is nothing you can do to stop.  Do we keep him home for a month?  I know his teachers get frustrated. I do, too.  I get the distraction, the desire for quiet, and they don't have the sleepless nights and don't even have to deal with the huge amount of money we've spent monthly on his medications.  I get being frustrated.  But, think of the frustration, and worse the embarrassment, he has.  Everyone is silently watching as he is running to the trashcan because this time he coughed up phlegm.  He wants to run and play at recess, but the staff won't let him because it may cause an attack.  He suffers socially, academically, emotionally, and of course physically.  All because of asthma, and I hate it.

I know that mothers all over the world have worse to deal with, but I'm talking about me now and the worse thing in my world is when my son can't breathe.  He is looking to me, gasping for breath and all I can say is "it will be ok."  It is not ok.  He ought to be able to breathe.  I'm not asking for a 5 minute mile, a 100mph fastball or a MENSA acceptance letter.  I just want my boy to breathe.  But, today he can't.  Thanks to asthma.  And, I hate it.

Work Ethic

Will has taekwondo every Tuesday and Thursday.  He's been doing it for months, achieved his yellow belt and loves it.  However, every Tuesday and Thursday without fail he will complain about going.  He's good when he gets there, but he doesn't want to go.  The same was the case during football, swimming, even scouts on some nights.  The gist of it is that he wants to do the fun stuff, but not the work.

Tabbi was the same way.  She purported to love volleyball, and we even agreed to pay the $1,000 minimum fee to get her into club volleyball.  However, she went so far as to quit before her first practice.  She quit violin, too.  She was so afraid of doing the work, she just wouldn't.

I'm sitting here after giving Will five more minutes to play with his friends before getting ready to go and I'm at a loss.  How do I instill a work ethic in my sons?  Mark sort of has it.  He goes to work ill, or on no sleep.  Even the kind of yucky sick when your coworkers are pissed that you came in because they're going to catch it.  When we were dating, he went to work so sick with the flu that was killing people, he semi-passed out driving and totaled his car.  However, at home... he doesn't have it.  He won't mow today, when he could mow tomorrow (or never).  He won't stake our newly planted weeping willow up without me nagging at him to death  to the extent that he'd rather walk away from Mine Craft than have me utter another word about the tree.  And, I fear that I don't have it either.

I was kicked out of band in middle school essentially because I refused to practice.  In college, looking back, I'm pretty sure I graduated with an English Lit degree just because it was easy for me.  Was it a lot of work?  Yes.  I giggle when I hear people complain about 10 page papers and reading a novel a month.  (Hee hee, amateurs).  But, it wasn't HARD work.  That's the difference.  When I was a working professional, I worked hard.  I succeeded.  But, I can honestly say that now as a semi-professional part timer, there are days when I phone it in.  At home, I am a get the job doner, but I am not sure the kids even see it that way.  I do laundry and cook dinner because I have to.  Not because I'm getting my work done.

So, I am left with the question of how to make the practice that is required for my children's success seem like a good idea?  How do I get Will to see that he'll never reach a black belt without the work?  I have no answers, so I am truly writing this, not to give my point of view, but in search of others.  Because right now, I can't find the answer.  Or maybe I'm just too lazy to try.

You Can't Write About Fat Girls

I just finished reading a book last night that was about a fat girl.  I realized upon its completion that I've read a lot of fat girl books and they all annoy the poo out of me.  It must be my holier than thou attitude thanks to my supermodel thin physique.  Stop laughing....

This book was about a fat girl who meets a personal trainer by happenstance and he takes pity on her and decides to make her his project and once she is fit and skinny, he actually falls in love with her despite her former fatness and magnanimously decides to ignore the extra 20 pounds she still could stand to lose.  You'd think I'd be thin after reading 200+ pages of this barftastic book.

Other fat girl books are different.  They are based on the fatties who find men to love them in spite of their girth.  Those are gems, too.  The man finally realizes that her witty personality is all that matters, not her dress size.  In addition to the men being willing to love them, they're filled with women just sitting around waiting to be loved.  Often our heroines have great careers, friends, etc, but without the man, they are worthless.  Those books don't induce my urge to purge.  Instead, they make me want to track down the authors and punch them.  In the face.  With their books.

I realize that there should be books about pleasantly plump people, because the world is full of this epidemic of obesity (one that I am a shameful member of).  But, it would be nice if the books were a little less, I don't know.... INSULTING.  Maybe men do fall in love with fat women in spite of their looks, but I'd like to think that some men just fall in love, looks and all. Not that I'm praising those pervs trolling the 500 lbs. and up porn sites, but maybe some guys find curves appealing.  Maybe some men don't need a stick person to be happy.  Maybe husbands of women that aren't thin are just happy.  Not in spite of anything....  just in love with everything.  And maybe some overweight women don't sit around pining for a husband.  Hard to imagine, but maybe they have self confidence even though they could use a Zumba class or two, and lead full lives with or without a man in it.  Maybe it would be refreshing to see a book like that.  Then again, a book about two normal people who meet, fall in love and just live probably wouldn't sell.  But, I for one would like to see someone try.

What Men See

Disclaimer:  The following is an anthropological essay on differences between husbands and wives.  Mark, this isn't entirely about you, nor is it from a place of anger.  It is about most men in general, and comes from a place of utter mystery and confusion.  End disclaimer.

My husband is a good man.  You can ask him to do things and while he will heave a hefty sigh of "I Don't Want To" (which he denies, by the way), he will do it.  But, my utter mystification comes not from the things he/they are willing to do, but from the fact that he/they don't do it until you ask them to.  Let me explain.

If Mark suspects the computers, Internet, laptop, Xbox, or smart phones are running improperly... he can sniff that problem out from a mile away and devote endless hours to its repair.  Endless.  However, if the pictures on our walls need leveling and sticky tacking, even if he sits in that room to Xbox with the boys on a daily basis, either he doesn't see that the pictures are so crooked it looks like a blind person hung them, or he feels there's no time to get such a monumental task accomplished (which took me 10 minutes today to do all our pictures in our house) or he likes them like that.  I don't know the answer.  I only know that is man-land, it doesn't exist and will not get done until I ask.  Wait... let me rephrase.  Until I nag him to death.

Other men have similar blind spots.  Some men will use a glass, walk over to the kitchen and deposit the used glass either on the counter or in the sink, seemingly blissfully unaware of this machine just inches below that if you open the door and deposit said glass, it will eventually come out clean.  I'm not sure if its the abundance of science fiction that most men watch or sheer ignorance of how things become clean, but if you put the glass on the counter, its never going to get inside the washer without a human's help.  There's no teleportation.  There's no little arm that comes out of the machine and reaches for the glass and sets it on the rack.  Another person (I'll go out on a limb and assume its the other adult living in your home) has to do that step. 

Another conundrum...  In our house, we have a relatively new dog who occasionally seems to confuse our playroom with a park full of fire hydrants in the middle of the night and leave a little present on our carpet. See above where said husband plays video games with my boys in that room every day.  I'm guessing that his laser sharp vision is so acutely aware of the critical happenings on Lego Marvel that he is blind to the yellow circle on the carpet.  My vision must be more suited to pee spots than Lego versions of Pepper Potts, because I tend to spot them upon entry. 

These things are not worth fighting about.  They are not reasons for divorce or even the female patented snippy "I'm fine" followed by the silent treatment.  Its just something that I ponder.  If men are from Mars, who puts the dishes in the dishwashers there, and how many pictures are permanently crooked?  Wait, who would tell them to purchase and hang pictures in the first place?  Mars must be the land of blank walls and unlimited supplies of Solo cups.  I know that the genders are chromosomally different, but until marriage I had no idea the affect that Y chromosome has on vision.  That, or it stand for "y bother to clean up the urine if there's a digital citizen in peril on my video game?"

I Love My Son

Today, I am honored to be featured in the Hendricks County Home online magazine.

Take a gander here...

http://www.hendrickshome.com/i-love-my-son/

Then make sure and read the rest of the magazine and subscribe.  You may not be in Hendricks County, but the articles are fantastic wherever you are. 

Things I Just Don't Understand

There are several things on a daily basis that just don't make sense to me.  Now, keep in mind, MENSA has never knocked down my door or anything, but still... I'm not Sarah Palin.  I am a reasonably intelligent functioning adult, but still.  Sometimes, I just don't get it.

For example... 

Why do people feel the need to open conversations by asking stupid questions?  For a short time, we owned a Great Pyrenees, which is basically a giant white snow beast of a dog.  When walking that dog, people would ask me "Is that your dog?"  No.  This canine is really a figment of your imagination.  Actually, even though I have three children and another dog, I just find strays and walk them when I have free time.  Ha ha,  free time.  Get it?

Why do people feel the need to point out that you don't look very good?  I'm at Meijer today and my cashier, who I don't know, feels the need to exclaim that I look "toe up."  I'm not sure what that means, but when I googled it, it doesn't seem like a compliment.  Clearly, I have a cold.  You can hear it when I speak or sniffle, and I have a droopy eye that is following in Bob Costas's eyesteps... but that doesn't mean I still don't pretend in my head that I look like Heidi Klum. (I realize I don't look like her when I'm healthy either, but my mental picture of myself doesn't have to know that.)

Why do people say things like, "This smells bad.  Smell it" or "this tastes bad.  Taste it."  My answer to both.... no.  I am more than willing to take you word for it.  I don't need to confirm it by experiencing the yuck for myself.

My son will not wear lip balm on his chapped red lips because he says he doesn't like the way it feels wet and slimy.  Then he licks his lips 100 times a minute.  How is that not wet and slimy?

Its not just other people, either.  Sometimes, I confound myself. 

When given too much time on my hands these past few weeks, I decided we needed a complete rearrangement of the playroom.  I executed this mission with the precision of a marine and the time frame of a.... well, I can't think of anything that actually works on time and efficiently anymore.  But, in a matter of two days, it was repainted, rearranged, reconfigured, etc.  I work tirelessly until its done.  However, it resulted in several photos that I chose not to rehang, and while I needed to get that room done immediately, I am quite content to let the stack of photos sit on my dresser upstairs indefinitely before I put them with the other photos in the bin in my closet.  But, by God, I got the playroom done.

I know that I need a pair of clean black yoga pants to wear to work tomorrow, but I just keep restarting the dryer instead of switching the laundry. In my head, I know I can take it out and move forward, but in my laziness, I feel like it needs a little touch up.

I menu plan for the week and grocery shop Monday mornings.  I rarely actually cook Monday night.  I feel that much effort should be rewarded with take away or eating out. 

So, with all that being said, I am heading to Cheddar's for dinner, because I shopped today and probably wearing dirty yoga pants at work tomorrow. But, if you see me, don't mention how bad I look.  I'm over it.

The Price of Being a Pushover

I, like every woman, am a weird combination of personality traits.  Not weird in a Cybil way, but more in a Meredith Brooks, "I'm a bitch, I'm a lover / I'm a child, I'm a mother / I'm a sinner, I'm a saint" kind of way.  And yes, I realize every reader now has that song stuck in their heads.  You're welcome. 

I am steadfast in my beliefs and I do not cower.  If you say the R-word, I am on it like a dog on a bone (or a dog on my shoes, if we're using my actual dog as an example).  I am pro things and against things, and while I know my friends and family might disagree, I will respect that, but I won't change.  In contrast, I am a complete wet mop, door mat, knock me over with a feather pushover if you need something.  I am easily guilted into doing whatever project or serving whatever function you need.  Make a note, because if you need something, I will agree to it even when I don't want to.  I'm handy to have around.

I used to assume that this need to please just affects me.  I am pressed to fit it all in and I have the need to make it all really good, so I won't even half ass the stuff I don't want to ass at all.  I'll do it well, but I've come to realize that it isn't just a weight I put on my shoulders.  Its shouldered by my family as well.

When I am stressed to fit it all in, I stress my kids out, too.  I work three part time jobs so I can be home with my children, but I am not doing them any favors when I bite their heads off constantly because their wants aren't fitting into my hectic schedule.  How fair is that?  We're tightly scheduled with the things that my kids want to do, and I'm fine with that because they deserve to participate in scouts and sports.  But, then I add in my own junk and suddenly the 2 minute window I've created for a potty break is gone and my kid needs a drink of water which is outside the time allotted to getting him drinks and suddenly I'm snapping at him for the fact that he dare get thirsty when I am busy.  Good thing I don't have him in daycare when he can get cared for with this much love and affection, right???

The funny part is that I can say no to my friends.  I can tell them that I don't have time to go out, or I don't feel up to it.  I know that they will love me (and/or tolerate me) regardless.  Its the acquaintances I can't say no to.  In my need to prove to a total stranger that I can do it all and help where needed, I am proving to my kids that I put a stranger's needs above their own.  I'm showing that my time is most important solving problems that someone else can solve, instead of the ones in my home which need a mommy to do it best. 

Well, I've decided today that I'm done with that.  I am going to be a good mother, and to do that I might not be able to be a good school, PTO, church, scouts, work volunteer.  I am going to say no to others so that I can say yes to my kids.  I will still have my three part time jobs, but when I'm home with my kids, I'll focus on them full time.  And for that, I'll be liked and appreciated by the ones that mean the most instead of those that matter least. 

Really, Girls???

I have a serious pile of work to do today.  Will has been home sick the past two days, and for a 7 year old, he takes up more time than a baby!  Either he feels so awful he needs constant cuddling or he feels decent and is B-O-R-E-D.  Luckily, he's at school and today is my day to "make like a burger and KETCHUP!"  But, today I am sitting at my computer and every site I open has the same story over and over and I finally have to have my say.  Pause while I step onto my soap box...

To Avon (and all other) Teen and Tween Girls With Cell Phones, Ipods, and Other Gadgets:

Your generation is the first of its kind.  You have grown up with technology that I could not have imagined at your age.  I had Prodigy Internet that basically did nothing and a cell phone when I hit college.  You had phones in your hands at birth.  Your phones have Internet, cameras, and the ability to connect to anyone and everyone at the touch of a button (or screen)!  You are connected and tech savvy in a way that my generation was not.  But, here's the part that's a problem.  You are equally as STUPID as all past generations of teens.

The difference between your stupid and my stupid is that my stupid didn't result in a permanent record.  Your stupid does.  I knew girls that would flash their ta-tas to attract boys or keep boys or just make the boys talk about them, but that flashing, while still dumb, stayed between them.  You put your ta-tas out there for the whole world to see.  Really, girls?  Two things to consider....

1.  Because you are the generation of technology rich teens, you ought to know better.  You've been raised in a world where social media spreads faster than the common cold.  Sex tapes and embarrassing photos of celebrities are media frenzies and you know that. No matter how much your boyfriend says he loves you, you know that things happen.  Break ups happen.  Remember how you were in love with a different boyfriend last week, month or year?  And what happens when that love dies, and yet your ta-tas live on in his phone?  IT NEVER GOES AWAY!!!  Look at SnapChat, the app meant to let you send naked selfies and they disappear. Let's all pause to thank the moron who thought that was a good idea.  You and I both know, there are ways around it.  One little button push and the image is saved as a screen shot to be passed around to the masses.  And, maybe you won't see it today.  Maybe not tomorrow.  Maybe when you're running for Senator and your naked teen body is splashed around the tabloids.  Maybe when you're getting married and your future in-laws Google you and they get an eyeful of their new daughter.  You have the technology ladies, don't be ignorant to how it works.

2.  You're better than that.  Boyfriends will love you without selfies.  Nudity is not required to get a boy's attention.  I can picture your eye rolls now, but speaking from someone who may be (gasp) 35.... I was once 15.  I get the pressure you're under, but rather than bowing to the pressure to impress a boy, think about the person that you should value most.  Not him, you!  A boy should earn the right to see that part of you, and that doesn't come quickly.  If you profess love, make him prove it, not you.  And in this case, proof is in the lack of pudding!  If your boyfriend says he loves you, he won't pressure you for something that is just plain DUMB!  It could get you both in trouble, result in  your humiliation and exploitation, and he shouldn't want that for you.  If you are trying to get a boy's attention, that's not the right way.  Dazzle him with your class, your mind, your self esteem.  If it takes your bare breasts to make him see you, he's not really seeing you at all.  He's using you.  Don't volunteer to let someone use you.  You're better than that.  I know that even if I don't know who you are.  If I can tell that, you should be able to see that, too.

I was seriously disappointed to learn about this story.  As the step-mother of an almost 15 year old, it takes my breath away.  Be smarter than this, ladies.  Be stronger than this, girls.  Protect yourselves, women, because I am promise you this, no one else is going to look out for your best interests except you.  Be smart enough to do it.  

Do Go Changing

You know that song that has the lyrics about not changing to try and please him?  The ones where he loves you just the way you are?  Its here in case you don't.

  Billy Joel - Just the Way You Are 

I was thinking about this song today, because I secretly like Billy Joel AND because its not true.  The song should really say something along the lines of "I'd prefer it if you'd go ahead and change, but that's probably not going to happen so I'll love you anyway."  I'm not sure it has the same ring to it, but it sure rings more true to me. 

In reality, there are plenty of people we "love" but would love even more if they would just be exactly the kind of person we want them to be. Is that really too much to ask? I don't mean little stuff, either.  I have broken my husband of quite a few annoying little traits that I won't mention here.  But, I'm talking about the kind of people who you don't know well enough or they won't love you unconditionally enough to change FOR you. 

I was talking to my mom about someone today, and we both agreed that we wish they would see the unfair things they do that are so clear to us.  That rang a bell about some other people that I spend a good deal of time wishing would change but don't seem able or willing to.  So, it takes us to a crossroads.  These people are not going to change for us.We have to be the changers, and change the way we react to the things they do.  If not, it will stay stuck in our craw (to use a good ol' southern phrase) and they will stay going right on along doing what they're doing.  They don't suffer... we do, because we stew.  But, stewing is a lot easier than a craw removal.

I can talk the talk, but I struggle to accept things I cannot change.  I'd be a terrible AA member.  I want to be able to talk through the issue and let them see the light.  However, that has blown up in my face quite a bit.  Usually its because the thing I am seeing just isn't seen.  Apparently, my light is not universal.  Who knew?  Other times it could be because they see it, but they don't care enough to change.  Another shocker!  People might actually not want to mold themselves into my perfect image of them. Wacky.  So, I am trying to change myself.  To let things go.  Put them down.  Recognize that I cannot change people and make them who I want them to be. What I can change is how much room they take in my head, in my heart and how much time they take up in my day.  I can change that, I think.  But if not, I may need a recommendation of a good craw surgeon in the future.

I Am Old

I am not the kind of person who fears getting older.  Hitting 30 was not a trauma, I welcomed it.  Of course, I had already pretty much hit my milestones by then.  I built a successful career (and then walked away from it, which was kind of fun, too).  I got married (for the first time so far) and had kids.  In fact, by the time I hit 30, I was good. I celebrated with pink hair extensions.  No sadness there.  Each year after that has been just an other candle on the cake.  After all, getting older sure beats the alternative, right?  But, suddenly as I am within weeks of 35, I am feeling O L D.

I am not sure its even the date that is morphing my Google searches from combat boots to orthopedic shoes, but the fact that I feel old.  I am the oldest 34 year 50 week old on the planet.  Case in point (or points):

• My birthday and Christmas wish list for my parents and husband includes a Shark Steam Mop and a Dustbuster.  Hello, Middle Age.  My name is Lynn, but at least I'll be clean.
• I have plantar fasciitis.  While that is a foot thingy, it just sounds like the scientific term for "old."
• When I stand from a seated position, there is a cacophony of sounds from creaking ankles, cracking knees, and a guttural groan from the exertion.
• I seriously look forward to the days where I can wear elastic waist pants (but I blame it on work.)
• When my friends came over on Halloween with their little baby, I spent a great deal of time discussing my ulcer and trying to determine if my friend has one, too.  Once you stop talking current events and gossip and start comparing ailments, its all down hill from there.
• I have gone from being the youngest in the group, be it at work or the neighborhood, to not.  I work with a 24 year old and my next door neighbor is one, too.  For those of you doing the math, I am a decade older than my peers.  So, when I talk to my friend about how I was in middle school when she was graduating college.... there are now people who can say that to me!  TO ME!!!!

So, the long and the short of it is that I'm old.  I am turning 35 and I am moving like an old person, shopping like an old person, talking like an old person.  I am an old person.  And, if I am this old at only 35...  God help us all when I hit 40!

Bunco

Every month I get together with a group of women to play Bunco.  Its a funny thing, because number one, they all joked about me blogging about them last night and now I am doing it  and two, because when I was first invited, I scoffed about it.  I thought it was a game for old ladies and I didn't know most of the other women well, if at all.  I am not a good "make new friends-er" and I was hesitant to join the group.  But, my desire to abandon my husband and children for the night won out and I went.  

There is absolutely no reason why this group works.  We are all women who live in the same neighborhood, but the similarities stop there.  I am a pretty liberal lady, and the woman who started the group is anything but.  Last night's hostess was an animal lover to put it mildly with three rescued dogs, some number of cats and rumor has it there was a guinea pig in the house somewhere.  Others were cringing at the furry visitors as they came by.  There are mothers, marrieds, singles, divorcees, grandmothers, career professionals, stay home moms, public schoolers, home schoolers, health nuts and some are just plain nuts.  But, we come together on the second Friday of the month and we play a silly little dice game of luck and we talk... and we laugh... and we learn from each other anything from recipes to health plans to how to get my new dog to stop pooping upstairs.

It is odd to think that a group like ours could forge friendships with people who have nothing in common, but it did.  We are a melting pot of women who don't get together and worry about competing.  We cheer the other team as they score higher points and the usual female cattiness is left at the door.  Its a weird thing, this Bunco.  Its brought together a group of neighbors and turned us into friends.  Maybe the world would be a better place if there was a little more Bunco going on.

I Don't Drink From A Glass

You know that inane cliché of someone being a glass half empty or a glass half full kind of person?  Well, I am not that person.  My glass isn't half empty and its not half full.  In fact, I drink mostly out of a Diet Coke can that you can't even see inside.  I don't know if its half empty, three quarters full or a sip left.  I know that its a soda.  When I open it, its full.  Then I drink it.  Then when its gone, its empty.  That's my can.  Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

I'm not an optimist, pessimist, or anesthesiologist.  I have no ist at all.  If I had to add an ist to my personality, I guess I'd be called a realist.  I tend to look at things as they are.  I don't add in a hopeful rose colored view and I don't doomsday it to death either.  It is what it is.  React accordingly.  When something goes amok (a word my mother embraces for most things), I try to live by the philosophy of "don't panic until there's something to panic about."  Deal with the problem, move on.  I don't stick my head in the ground and Ethel Merman "every thing's coming up roses" either.  I have no roses.  Well, that's not true.  I planted a rose bush about a month ago.  But, I'm not sure its going to survive my black thumb.  That's not cynicism, mind you, that's reality.  The Jolly Green Giant, I am not.

Nine times out of ten, any comment from me either written on a social media site or coming out of my mouth is an attempt to get a laugh.  I tend to blurt out sarcastic nothings rather than serious somethings because I like the laugh.  I'm a regular Jim Carrey, minus the facial expressions and paycheck.  The reality is negativity gets more laughs.  Does that mean I am negative?  No.  It means the response is funnier that way.  Does it paint me in the best light to announce to the Facebook world that my bra snapped open in Meijer and I had to tuck the twins into my waistband and slump out of the store?  No.  But was that damn funny?  YES.  Should anything funny be shared with the world even though its embarrassing?  YES YES.  If it made someone laugh that day, then it was worth it to share my humiliation. 

So, that's just a little bit of me.  I look at the world and all of its happenings as it is.  Sometimes negative, half empty and full of weeds.  Sometimes positive, half full and full of flowers.  All times worth the joke if you can make it.

Letter to Will's Second Grade Teacher

I wrote to Will's first grade teacher, his Kindergarten teacher, and his first preschool teacher.  Tomorrow, my not so little man walks into his elementary school for the third year.  Second grade.  It's time for another letter.

Dear Miss K,

Let me introduce you to my son, Will. I know you already know him since he is hard to miss, but, I am pretty sure you don't really know him.  So, I am going to take a minute to introduce you to my boy. 

Will is a kid who will love you at first sight.  In fact, he has hoped for you to be his teacher all summer, so really, the love has already started.  He is excited to see all the kids, and every single one of them will be referred to as his "best friend."  With that, comes great potential to hurt.  He will be deflated when criticized.  Heartbroken when ostracized.  He is love and pain wrapped up in one.

He is no perfectionist.  He will write sloppily because it gets done faster that way. He won't read words, but will guess what a page says because its quicker.  His mind will wander while you teach, no matter how interesting you may be.  He's a do-er.  He's not a sitter.  He's not meticulous or careful. He's a bull in a china shop and rushed to do everything so he misses out on nothing.  But, he will hold himself to an insanely high standard.  He will be crushed by poor grades, despises missing baskets, and often opts to quit something if he thinks he can't do it. He wants perfection, but he's not going to work for it.

Will's smart, but goofy.  Happy, but easily dismayed.  He's loud, but sensitive to noise.  He's a million different things and then the complete opposite in one.  He's both ying and yang, up and down, back and front.  He's a little of everything and a lot of somethings.  He's Will.  He loves you and the class and is super excited, but if you ask him, he hates school.  He's so very many things these days, so just be sure to see it all.  Like Will, you're not going to want to miss a thing!

Thanks!
Me  

The Joy Less Club

I live for my kids.  I do.  When Will was born, I say I made a decision to stay home, but it wasn't even that logical.  It wasn't a choice.  It was a need.  A must.  The first day I spent with him, I knew I was never going back.  The day before he was born, I had the daycare all picked out.  The day after, I knew.  It wasn't happening.  That was almost seven years ago. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love my kids, and not just in a "they are yours so you have to" kind of way, but a lay down and die for them, take a bullet for them, beware if you hurt them because you'll feel my wrath kind of way. But, I find myself sitting at my desk today tracking responses to Will's birthday party invitations, organizing my VBS stuff, scheduling my next Cub Scout pack meeting, and remembering that PTO elections are tomorrow, and I wonder.... where is my joy?  I may be in a slump, or it may be just that this time of year is over scheduled and emotionally hard....  but I have lost my joy and I can't seem to find it.

My calendar is packed.  My days are full.  Its not that I am wandering around lonely or with nothing to do... but there are days that I sit back and wonder... what do I want to do?  Do I do this because I want to, or because I made the choice to be a stay home mom and this comes with the territory.  Is this a life of want or necessity?  Should I be taking joy in it?  Does everyone have joy or is that too much to expect?  Am I overlooking all of my blessings?

Mother's Day was a prime example.  I don't know what I was expecting, but maybe a sense of feeling like "this is it."  This is why I do what I do.  They appreciate it, we have joy as a family.  But, my expectations were too high and the day was like any given Sunday.  Church, lunch, chores, dinner, bedtime.  The gifts were nice, but just the little things I mentioned to make it easy to buy stuff.  Its not like I was waiting for a BMW to magi-ppear in my driveway with a  big red bow, but I guess I needed that feeling of "yes, this is worth it."  It doesn't even have to come in a gift bag.  It can be as small as a Jack cuddle or a Will hug (which is actually anything but little).  Something to make me know that I am doing a good job.  I would get joy from that, I think. 

I think I am just in a slump, and as Dr. Seuss so elegantly puts it, "unslumping yourself is not easily done."  I'm trying to get there.  I'm trying to look at the day with the eyes of someone who takes joy from the little things...from living the life that I chose.  But, as I look at my agenda of garage sale prep and laundry....  I'm not sure I have the rose colored glasses I need for that right now.