I need structure.
Without structure, I am a mess. I wander from point to point doing random little things, never accomplishing much. For me, "unstructure" is like treading water...I stay in one place, work really hard, but never go anywhere.
Without structure, I don't function well. I get edgy - I feel uncomfortable. I stress, and I don't sleep.
Without structure, I forget to do the things that need to get done. Usually, the things I don't do are the things I need to do to keep my sanity: I don't write a blog post for 49 days. I don't work on my book idea for 32 days. I don't workout for 14 days. I shove things into a storage closet that I cleaned out thoroughly four months ago, and then I have to clean it out again. I go to the grocery store daily because I forget to thaw out food for dinner. I'm keeping my head above the water, but I'm not going anywhere.
I've had really good reasons for feeling so unstructured, so I'm not going to beat myself up too much. And with the end of the year approaching, I kept thinking, I will start anew on January 1.
But even knowing that big change is coming in 2013, I couldn't stop feeling edgy.
So thankfully, during yesterday's lunch, I realized that waiting two more days just wasn't going to cut it. It was Tate who triggered this epiphany.
Tate: Mom, can I tell you a secret?
Me: Yes.
Tate climbs off his chair, walks around to mine, and whispers in my ear: I dipped my little weenie in yogurt, and it tasted good.
Me, horrified: What?
Me, realizing what we are having for lunch - Little Beef Smokies, mac-n-cheese, green beans, (and Tate's having a side of yogurt): Oh!
Me, smirking: Go tell your dad.
Thanks to Tate for providing me with this anecdote that reminded me that I need to sit down and write - that this is a part of the structure that I need.
I feel better already. Maybe I'll even workout today.
Cheers to a happy and healthy 2013!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Inspired!
Last night I had the opportunity to see one of my very best friends accept an award for Excellence in Education for what she's done as a middle school social studies teacher. During her acceptance speech, she captivated the audience with an allegory of the teaching profession. Heading into last night, I knew that whatever she was going to say during her acceptance speech would be awesome. See, my friend is incredibly intelligent. She's witty. She's a fantastic writer. She takes pride in her job. She loves history. She thrives in the spotlight. And, she's good; she's very, very good.
As it turned out, it was not one of those well-written speeches delivered by a person who's an amazing speaker, which she is, but has no substance. And yes, she had a very receptive audience; it was filled with a mix of education professionals who love what they do and people who love their educational professionals and were there to support them. However, I think you would've had to have been made of stone to not feel inspired during her speech - it was packed with substance.
It's not that I felt as if I wanted to run right back into the teaching profession, even though as a former educator, I felt myself connecting to those amazing moments when you really get things right. It was the passion she spoke with about the awesome responsibility she has and how much she loves what she has the opportunity to do each day. Her message was yet another reminder to me that no matter what you're doing, you need to do it with fervor, and no matter how big or small someone else might deem the task, what's really important is what it means to you. Yes, there will be ups and downs - after teaching together for four and a half years and a friendship that has spanned almost ten - I know she's had her share, yet her passion for what she does helps her roll with the punches when times are tough.
I left the award ceremony last night feeling inspired, and it's a feeling that lingered as I woke up this morning. I realized that I have people in my life who are passionate about what they do; it's just that with everything that goes on in our lives, sometimes it's hard to see.
Like every other emotion, inspiration is contagious. I have been "afflicted" by this feeling of excitement and hope, and I feel good about what I get to do today. I am excited for the what the future holds and the opportunities that will come with it.
I have been inspired.
As it turned out, it was not one of those well-written speeches delivered by a person who's an amazing speaker, which she is, but has no substance. And yes, she had a very receptive audience; it was filled with a mix of education professionals who love what they do and people who love their educational professionals and were there to support them. However, I think you would've had to have been made of stone to not feel inspired during her speech - it was packed with substance.
It's not that I felt as if I wanted to run right back into the teaching profession, even though as a former educator, I felt myself connecting to those amazing moments when you really get things right. It was the passion she spoke with about the awesome responsibility she has and how much she loves what she has the opportunity to do each day. Her message was yet another reminder to me that no matter what you're doing, you need to do it with fervor, and no matter how big or small someone else might deem the task, what's really important is what it means to you. Yes, there will be ups and downs - after teaching together for four and a half years and a friendship that has spanned almost ten - I know she's had her share, yet her passion for what she does helps her roll with the punches when times are tough.
I left the award ceremony last night feeling inspired, and it's a feeling that lingered as I woke up this morning. I realized that I have people in my life who are passionate about what they do; it's just that with everything that goes on in our lives, sometimes it's hard to see.
Like every other emotion, inspiration is contagious. I have been "afflicted" by this feeling of excitement and hope, and I feel good about what I get to do today. I am excited for the what the future holds and the opportunities that will come with it.
I have been inspired.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Time Flies
I always thought the reason that the school year went by so quickly was due to the fact that I was so insanely busy being a teacher. My normal schedule would be to wake up around 4:00AM, workout/grade papers, get ready for school, teach, do homework, make dinner, clean up, get ready for bed, grade some more papers, go to bed, and then repeat for 179 days. Throw in a husband and two kids, and it made perfect sense for time to fly.
But even now that I'm not teaching full-time, I have noticed that time is still flying by...how can this be?
Take for instance, the school year. Even without me teaching, first quarter has come and gone. We've had school conferences and Halloween. Thanksgiving break is only 13 school days away, and Christmas and the end of the second quarter will come and go before we even realize it. This doesn't even account for my kids' and husband's sports' schedules. Throw them into the ring, and now we're traveling at warp speed and arriving at the end of May. Another school year down.
But what about each individual day? With no one at home, some people might think time moves slow. I met another stay at home mom shortly after the school year started, and she commented to me how bored she gets during the day. I wondered if I would ever feel this way? Occasionally, people like to tease me about all my "free time." I play along to be polite:
I have come to realize time flies whether you're having fun or whether you're too busy to realize you're not having fun.
Luckily, I'm happy to report that I'm having fun. During the time of the day that I should be sitting around being fantastic, I am instead constantly on the go trying to tackle never-ending, seemingly brainless household chores like doing the dishes, putting laundry away, and making beds. But it's also during this time that I stumble upon little treasure-troves of happiness: finding Tate's trashcan filled to the brim with Halloween candy wrappers and being reminded that while the kid needs to have his candy rationed, he's also incredibly giving, selflessly sharing his favorite candies with us simply because he knows we love them; or finding Ellie's tablet of drawings buried in her bed along with her flashlight, with several sketches of women with the Mona Lisa's curious expression - they're studying her in art - and being able to appreciate her interests and talents even though she's stealthily staying up past her bedtime.
In my current stay-at-home-mom-world, I stay challenged, I'm not bored, and I'm quite content with what I accomplish throughout the course of the day to take care of my family, my house, and myself. It gives me time to appreciate everything going on around me. It gives me time to think about what I want to do when I do go back to work that will allow me to keep this sense of serenity in balance. It gives me time to realize that time will fly by no matter what I'm doing, so I had better make sure whatever I choose to do is worth it.
But even now that I'm not teaching full-time, I have noticed that time is still flying by...how can this be?
Take for instance, the school year. Even without me teaching, first quarter has come and gone. We've had school conferences and Halloween. Thanksgiving break is only 13 school days away, and Christmas and the end of the second quarter will come and go before we even realize it. This doesn't even account for my kids' and husband's sports' schedules. Throw them into the ring, and now we're traveling at warp speed and arriving at the end of May. Another school year down.
But what about each individual day? With no one at home, some people might think time moves slow. I met another stay at home mom shortly after the school year started, and she commented to me how bored she gets during the day. I wondered if I would ever feel this way? Occasionally, people like to tease me about all my "free time." I play along to be polite:
 |
| Yep, this is me. |
I have come to realize time flies whether you're having fun or whether you're too busy to realize you're not having fun.
Luckily, I'm happy to report that I'm having fun. During the time of the day that I should be sitting around being fantastic, I am instead constantly on the go trying to tackle never-ending, seemingly brainless household chores like doing the dishes, putting laundry away, and making beds. But it's also during this time that I stumble upon little treasure-troves of happiness: finding Tate's trashcan filled to the brim with Halloween candy wrappers and being reminded that while the kid needs to have his candy rationed, he's also incredibly giving, selflessly sharing his favorite candies with us simply because he knows we love them; or finding Ellie's tablet of drawings buried in her bed along with her flashlight, with several sketches of women with the Mona Lisa's curious expression - they're studying her in art - and being able to appreciate her interests and talents even though she's stealthily staying up past her bedtime.
In my current stay-at-home-mom-world, I stay challenged, I'm not bored, and I'm quite content with what I accomplish throughout the course of the day to take care of my family, my house, and myself. It gives me time to appreciate everything going on around me. It gives me time to think about what I want to do when I do go back to work that will allow me to keep this sense of serenity in balance. It gives me time to realize that time will fly by no matter what I'm doing, so I had better make sure whatever I choose to do is worth it.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
What I know for sure after 39 years
Since today's my birthday, a friend suggested I write about what I know for sure after 39 years. Always thinking about my next topic, I found this idea intriguing, but challenging...which, as it turns out is good for me. Read on!
No one likes cheaters, so in this game of life, play fair.
It doesn't matter whether you're playing a board game or dodgeball or basketball, what kind of relationship you're in, how hard the test is, or how you wish some aspect of your life could be different - cheating, synonymous with lying, is never acceptable. Besides losing the trust of others, how can you even begin to respect yourself?
Challenge yourself.
By nature, I'm a highly competitive person, so the challenges I thrived on when I was younger almost always revolved around sports. Over the years, I've realized that I find great satisfaction in setting goals and achieving them. So, whether the challenge has been improving my time, winning a game, eating healthy, remodeling our house, paying off a bill, or finally getting that last load of laundry put away, it's the challenge that motivates me. The times in my life when I've really struggled have been the times that I've lost track of exactly what I'm shooting for.
Laugh...a lot.
I am so lucky to have married someone who finds humor in the same situations I do. Our humor may be dark and twisted; it may be slapstick; it may be downright inappropriate; at times, it's definitely stupid. But, we laugh. And thank goodness, our kids are following in our footsteps.
Look for the positive.
Sometimes, this is really hard. The birth of my son was one of the hardest days of my life. I could not see the positive when my baby boy, who I made inside of me, was born with a cleft lip, a misshapen nose, and a bluish tint because the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. Even though the doctor said the facial deformity could be fixed cosmetically, all that registered to me was that there could be numerous other problems involving his heart, hearing, or brain. Tests would need to be run, and specialists consulted the next day. However, we didn't have to wait until the next day because Ellie dropped a plate. In a simple, clumsy act of a three year old, I saw the positive when Tate flinched at the sound of a plate crashing on the floor. After that, I knew that no matter what the doctors and tests said, everything was going to be just fine.
If you don't like something, fix it or get over it.
Negativity drags everyone down, and complaining incessantly doesn't help. If you're not willing to remedy the situation, then it's time to move on. If it's something that's very important to you, then you have to take action and make the change for the better. Either way, you will have improved your mental well-being (and the well-being of those who surround you as well).
Learn from your mistakes.
If I have come off sounding preachy, that wasn't my intention. It has been my intention to share with you those qualities that have shaped me over the past 39 years. I am not perfect. I will admit that I've been a cheater, but I've also been someone who's been lied to. I have risen to the challenge, but I've also failed miserably. I have let negativity consume me, but I've also been the unstoppable, believing, positive force. I have become so serious that I had forgotten to laugh. But along the way, I began recognizing what was good for me and what was not. I learned that mistakes are a part of life, and you can either ignore them or learn from them.
So what do I know for sure? I know I have a choice. I choose to challenge myself. I choose to fix it or forget it. I choose to play fair. I choose to be positive. I choose to laugh...a lot. And, I choose to learn a hell of a lot more over the next 39 years!
No one likes cheaters, so in this game of life, play fair.
It doesn't matter whether you're playing a board game or dodgeball or basketball, what kind of relationship you're in, how hard the test is, or how you wish some aspect of your life could be different - cheating, synonymous with lying, is never acceptable. Besides losing the trust of others, how can you even begin to respect yourself?
Challenge yourself.
By nature, I'm a highly competitive person, so the challenges I thrived on when I was younger almost always revolved around sports. Over the years, I've realized that I find great satisfaction in setting goals and achieving them. So, whether the challenge has been improving my time, winning a game, eating healthy, remodeling our house, paying off a bill, or finally getting that last load of laundry put away, it's the challenge that motivates me. The times in my life when I've really struggled have been the times that I've lost track of exactly what I'm shooting for.
Laugh...a lot.
I am so lucky to have married someone who finds humor in the same situations I do. Our humor may be dark and twisted; it may be slapstick; it may be downright inappropriate; at times, it's definitely stupid. But, we laugh. And thank goodness, our kids are following in our footsteps.
Look for the positive.
Sometimes, this is really hard. The birth of my son was one of the hardest days of my life. I could not see the positive when my baby boy, who I made inside of me, was born with a cleft lip, a misshapen nose, and a bluish tint because the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. Even though the doctor said the facial deformity could be fixed cosmetically, all that registered to me was that there could be numerous other problems involving his heart, hearing, or brain. Tests would need to be run, and specialists consulted the next day. However, we didn't have to wait until the next day because Ellie dropped a plate. In a simple, clumsy act of a three year old, I saw the positive when Tate flinched at the sound of a plate crashing on the floor. After that, I knew that no matter what the doctors and tests said, everything was going to be just fine.
If you don't like something, fix it or get over it.
Negativity drags everyone down, and complaining incessantly doesn't help. If you're not willing to remedy the situation, then it's time to move on. If it's something that's very important to you, then you have to take action and make the change for the better. Either way, you will have improved your mental well-being (and the well-being of those who surround you as well).
Learn from your mistakes.
If I have come off sounding preachy, that wasn't my intention. It has been my intention to share with you those qualities that have shaped me over the past 39 years. I am not perfect. I will admit that I've been a cheater, but I've also been someone who's been lied to. I have risen to the challenge, but I've also failed miserably. I have let negativity consume me, but I've also been the unstoppable, believing, positive force. I have become so serious that I had forgotten to laugh. But along the way, I began recognizing what was good for me and what was not. I learned that mistakes are a part of life, and you can either ignore them or learn from them.
So what do I know for sure? I know I have a choice. I choose to challenge myself. I choose to fix it or forget it. I choose to play fair. I choose to be positive. I choose to laugh...a lot. And, I choose to learn a hell of a lot more over the next 39 years!
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The Birthday Party Fiasco
 | ||
| Birthday '80s Style |
Then again, maybe this was the first birthday party I ever attended, which wouldn't surprise me because when I was growing up, we started everything later than kids do now. In my hometown, T-ball didn't start until the summer after first grade, and kids were sent to a preschool if "problems" were detected during a Kindergarten Round-up screening (and yes, I went to preschool because I was identified with a hearing issue after not being able to hear the beeps during my screening - due to having pneumonia and an ear infection at the time).
Fast forward almost 30 years. My kids went to preschool - Ellie started at four and Tate at two. Soccer began for Ellie in the spring right after she turned five; Tate started basketball at the same age. Birthday invitations started rolling in for Ellie when she was four and for Tate when he was three. So I guess the following should come as no surprise:
- During Tate's two year old preschool assessment, when asked to identify shapes, he answered such difficult questions with, "Pink! You! Me! Two!" Although, he did know oval.
- The little girls on Ellie's 5 year old soccer team just wanted to chase butterflies and hang from the goals. "What's for snack?" was the most crucial soccer related question.
- Cartwheels and kung fu fighting were incorporated into the game of basketball last season. In addition, Tate went through a phase of falling down and rolling across the lane every time ran down the court on defense.
Tate is not normally my worrier, but apparently developed a fear of birthday parties as well, which brings me to last night. This was going to be the first time Tate, age almost seven, went to a birthday party that involved someone outside of our close circle of family and friends. This would be the party where he could play laser tag, video games, eat pizza and cupcakes, drink soda and belch, and run wild with a group of boys his own age. He even told me at 3:30 yesterday, "Mom, just stay for a little while, and then you can go." However, by 5:59, one minute till party-time, that turned into, "Mom, can you stay?" By 6:03 when we walked in and all his friends yelled, "Tate!" he hid behind his father and shoved his head up Pete's sweatshirt. At 6:04, Pete took him aside to talk to him while I explained to Birthday Mom that this is Tate's first big party, and she kindly reassured me that she's been through this as well. At 6:06, Tate ran to the entryway, crying. Ellie followed to let him know how she, too, used to feel this way, but birthday parties are so much fun! At 6:07, I relieved Ellie, but Tate fled the premises and ran outside into the cold, blustery evening, still clutching the Spider-Man gift bag and now blowing snot bubbles out of his nose with every sob. The nurturing side of me won out over the annoyed side of me, who knew if he gave it a chance, he'd have a blast. I was able to patiently listen to his fears between sobs, "But..sniff..Mom..sniff..what if I...sniff...get hurt?...sniff.....W-W-What....sniff...if I...I...sniff...slip and fall....sniff...in a puddle....sniff....of water..sniff..and hit....sniff....my head? All this coming from a child who normally has no regard for his physical well-being.
Finally, by 6:15, I was able to coax him back inside. He still didn't want to go, but I thought if I could get him to tour the joint, he'd be able to see how much fun he could have. Luckily, the other boys had proceeded to laser tag, so we were able to check out all the video games and warm up (both figuratively and literally, after being outside on a cold October evening) to the place. By the time the boys came out of laser tag, he still didn't want me to leave, but at least told Birthday Boy, "Happy Birthday" and said, "Thank you" when Birthday Dad handed out the gaming cards. At his request, I stayed with him and watched him play a few games, and while helping another boy retrieve an errant basketball from a game, Tate disappeared into the crowd of kids playing video games. At 6:35, I found Tate laughing and gaming with his best friend and let him know I was going to go have dinner with his dad and sister. At 8:05, we finally left with a sweaty, exhilarated boy baring Dracula teeth, who asked, "Can we come back tomorrow?"
After last night, I realized that it's okay if they are scared to go to parties. It's okay if they don't take sports seriously or aren't well-versed in naming shapes. I can't compare them to my era because it was a different era, and I was older when I first experienced these same things. For situations like these, I've determined that I need to apply the method we used to potty-train our kids: Be patient, understanding, and encouraging because no matter what, they will overcome their fears and achieve success when they're ready.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
The Sticky Note Reminder
I inadvertently made a huge mistake as a parent last night. I was quickly forgiven, but not before crocodile tears welled up in Ellie's eyes and spilled down her cheeks, and she mumbled, "Well, I just thought it was really important to you."
On a daily basis, the kids bring home work completed in school. Some of these items are big, important assignments - tests, quizzes, projects, or works of art, but others are simply collaborative assignments or assessments done in class. Typically, both Pete and I go over their work with them, praising their effort, correcting incorrect answers, and discussing their problem solving techniques. Usually, I ask them if there is anything they would like to keep or like me to keep and post on the fridge (it is covered in artwork and aced spelling tests), but the kids are good about letting us recycle most of the old assignments.
Two days ago, Ellie tossed a folded sticky note onto my lap, and said, "This is from my teacher." Upon opening it, I found a note from her reading teacher with Ellie's words read per minute score written down - it was a "Hot Read" score, meaning she had practiced it several times prior to this particular timing. Ellie was especially proud of her score because reading does not come easily to her, and apparently, it was 4th grade best. I promptly secured the sticky note to the fridge with a magnet and made the proper big deal out of the accomplishment.
Last night, as she was getting ready for bed, I went through her binder to double check she had completed all the necessary homework to be prepared for today, and I found another sticky note with a "Cold Read" score, showing the words read per minute reading a passage for the first time. Obviously, this score was lower, but again, it must have been one of the higher cold read scores for the year. I told her good job and then made a major blunder - I crumpled up the sticky note and threw it away. Cue tears, a sad little comment, "Well, I just thought it was really important to you, so I asked my teacher write it down so I could give it to you," and sick, crippling guilt felt by Mom.
What I didn't realize was just how important this was to her - and not just important to her because she was proud of the accomplishment - but it was important to her because she knew it was important to me. Understand my gut-wrenching guilt now?
By the time she went to bed, I knew I had been forgiven, but at breakfast, I knew my action had not been forgotten as I saw her eyes glance at the fridge to make sure there were TWO sticky notes stuck to the door.
My parenting faux pas was a good reminder that everyone, young and old, likes to feel important, appreciated, or like he or she is doing a good job. In a world that sometimes seems inundated with negativity, wouldn't it be refreshing to celebrate the positive, even the little things, instead of letting them slide right by? I challenge you to do just that; I plan to leave these sticky notes on my fridge as my reminder to do the same.
On a daily basis, the kids bring home work completed in school. Some of these items are big, important assignments - tests, quizzes, projects, or works of art, but others are simply collaborative assignments or assessments done in class. Typically, both Pete and I go over their work with them, praising their effort, correcting incorrect answers, and discussing their problem solving techniques. Usually, I ask them if there is anything they would like to keep or like me to keep and post on the fridge (it is covered in artwork and aced spelling tests), but the kids are good about letting us recycle most of the old assignments.
Two days ago, Ellie tossed a folded sticky note onto my lap, and said, "This is from my teacher." Upon opening it, I found a note from her reading teacher with Ellie's words read per minute score written down - it was a "Hot Read" score, meaning she had practiced it several times prior to this particular timing. Ellie was especially proud of her score because reading does not come easily to her, and apparently, it was 4th grade best. I promptly secured the sticky note to the fridge with a magnet and made the proper big deal out of the accomplishment.
Last night, as she was getting ready for bed, I went through her binder to double check she had completed all the necessary homework to be prepared for today, and I found another sticky note with a "Cold Read" score, showing the words read per minute reading a passage for the first time. Obviously, this score was lower, but again, it must have been one of the higher cold read scores for the year. I told her good job and then made a major blunder - I crumpled up the sticky note and threw it away. Cue tears, a sad little comment, "Well, I just thought it was really important to you, so I asked my teacher write it down so I could give it to you," and sick, crippling guilt felt by Mom.
What I didn't realize was just how important this was to her - and not just important to her because she was proud of the accomplishment - but it was important to her because she knew it was important to me. Understand my gut-wrenching guilt now?
 | |||||||||||||||||||
| THE sticky notes |
My parenting faux pas was a good reminder that everyone, young and old, likes to feel important, appreciated, or like he or she is doing a good job. In a world that sometimes seems inundated with negativity, wouldn't it be refreshing to celebrate the positive, even the little things, instead of letting them slide right by? I challenge you to do just that; I plan to leave these sticky notes on my fridge as my reminder to do the same.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
What Yoda and I Have in Common
When I went for a follow up appointment for my knee yesterday, the doctor asked if my family has been taking care of me. And I answered yes, because it is true - in their own, different ways - they have been a phenomenal support system.
My husband made sure I got my meds, ice packs, and meals over the first three days, and after that, he became a good listener when I got frustrated because I could not do everything I wanted to do. Ellie's specialties were getting things for me when I asked without complaining and just hanging out with me reading books and watching T.V. However, the most interesting care-taking has been from my son, Tate. This is good to know because someday when I am an old lady and need someone to take care of me, I will be knocking on his door, and hopefully he will be as enthusiastic to spend time with me in the future as he is now. "Yea! Mommy is here!" is something I am sure his wife will appreciate hearing. Although, if his current plans for his future remain unchanged, he'll still be living here: he'll have no wife because girls are gross, and he wants to live with us forever.
The first few days after my surgery were the most shocking. Tate tucked me in each night as I was often in bed before him. He begged me to use his head for a crutch since I was hobbling so much. He wanted so badly for me to put my hand, arm, or armpit (gross!) on his head so I would walk better. Of course, I refused to do this fearing I would damage his neck and spine. When we went on a hike last week to get me out of the house, he inadvertently attempted to steal an old man's walking stick for me to use. When he realized that it was already someone's possession, he looked for twigs and branches that would do. When none really did the trick, he held my hand and simply said, "I just want to walk slow with you Mommy, back here," since Ellie was charging ahead and Pete was trying to keep up with her.
I have been
trying to determine if he is going through a phase or if it is
just his own sweet way of dealing with a mommy who is so out of sorts. I guess it really doesn't matter. My family loves me, and they're here for me. I am glad I know how lucky I am.
My husband made sure I got my meds, ice packs, and meals over the first three days, and after that, he became a good listener when I got frustrated because I could not do everything I wanted to do. Ellie's specialties were getting things for me when I asked without complaining and just hanging out with me reading books and watching T.V. However, the most interesting care-taking has been from my son, Tate. This is good to know because someday when I am an old lady and need someone to take care of me, I will be knocking on his door, and hopefully he will be as enthusiastic to spend time with me in the future as he is now. "Yea! Mommy is here!" is something I am sure his wife will appreciate hearing. Although, if his current plans for his future remain unchanged, he'll still be living here: he'll have no wife because girls are gross, and he wants to live with us forever.
The first few days after my surgery were the most shocking. Tate tucked me in each night as I was often in bed before him. He begged me to use his head for a crutch since I was hobbling so much. He wanted so badly for me to put my hand, arm, or armpit (gross!) on his head so I would walk better. Of course, I refused to do this fearing I would damage his neck and spine. When we went on a hike last week to get me out of the house, he inadvertently attempted to steal an old man's walking stick for me to use. When he realized that it was already someone's possession, he looked for twigs and branches that would do. When none really did the trick, he held my hand and simply said, "I just want to walk slow with you Mommy, back here," since Ellie was charging ahead and Pete was trying to keep up with her.
| Really, this is me? |
Monday, October 1, 2012
Happy Juice
This morning, I feel a renewed sense of energy. I started feeling it yesterday, but I wasn't sure I could let myself go with it as I didn't want to get too excited and realize I had overdone it. However, I can now safely say that I am on my way to returning to whatever normalcy I am accustomed to in my life.
I feel it's safe to say that I have survived my surgery - which I still look at as being more of a procedure but no longer a PROCEDURE done by TOM. (I didn't realize until writing this today that the all caps must have been some sort of subconscious connection to the The Shining and little Danny's inability to process such things as "REDRUM" which, as we know, is just murder spelled backwards. Can you sense the horror I felt before?) Since I'm no longer scared, I'm not afraid to call it either surgery or procedure, and TOM can go back to being Tom.
I did manage to somewhat block the procedure out of my thoughts until about ten minutes before the orderly wheeled me back to pre-op. Until that point, my husband had been supporting me quietly, just listening to me when I needed to talk, probably still thinking he'd be the loser in the battle between Irrational and Rational me. However at this particular moment, he tried to give me his suck-it-up pep talk usually reserved for his male athletes who are having difficulty facing the challenge presented to them. Looking back, I feel almost honored that he thought I had the mental toughness to handle what he said to me, however at the moment, I dissolved into tears. And while I did try to show him I had some fight in me by giving him a sign of my displeasure with that pep talk, I turned into a blubbery mess admitting that, "I am scared, and I hate being scared, and I hate even more admitting that I am scared." In response, he gave me a kiss on the forehead, and I was wheeled out.
Along the way, the orderly tried to make some small talk to lighten the situation, but probably should have just not talked at all, asking how I incurred my injury, and then commenting, "Well, I guess that's what you get for being active." I said nothing, but seriously wanted to reach up and punch the guy in the face (maybe a residual feeling toward my husband's pep talk?). Even though I was scared to death about being put under anesthesia, the alternative and side-effects of an inactive lifestyle is truly unthinkable. I hope the orderly was being sarcastic or maybe this young lad doesn't have a lot of experience dealing with sniffling females, so I cut him a break and kept my hands to myself.
Once back in pre-op, the nurses and doctors were definitely veterans and accustomed to dealing with crybabies like me. When questioned by them, I freely told my story, each time feeling a bit better admitting that I was scared to death about the anesthesia. They all understood my concerns and fears, but the best comfort I received was from my surgeon, Tom, who said, "I felt the exact same way when I had my knee scoped. I got back here, and I started thinking 'Maybe it's not that bad,' but once I had the Happy Juice, I didn't care. You'll feel like you just slammed a six-pack, and you won't care either." Knowing that my doctor wanted to run away from the pre-op bay too helped me settle down. As did the Happy Juice.
The entire procedure went off without a hitch. My husband redeemed himself immediately post-surgery and was promptly forgiven by ordering me a take-out, not drive through, bacon cheeseburger melt with fries. Actually, I had forgiven him even before I left for surgery, but this was icing on the cake - or in my case, bacon on my cheeseburger.
My recovery has gone well, and I'm headed back toward normal, even if showering with Saran Wrap wound tightly over your knee is not. I'm still gimpy, as my daughter reminded me last night when she hunched over and pretended to walk with a cane, mimicking my 95 year-old woman walk. I'm okay with that - it made me laugh. I am also happy that I can go up and down stairs, drive, and even do laundry and clean the litter box again, as being grounded to the couch for three days was definitely a challenge.
Simply put, being able to live my life how I want to leaves me vitalized, and it is worth the fear and frustration and annoyances I might encounter along the way. It's my own brand of Happy Juice.
I feel it's safe to say that I have survived my surgery - which I still look at as being more of a procedure but no longer a PROCEDURE done by TOM. (I didn't realize until writing this today that the all caps must have been some sort of subconscious connection to the The Shining and little Danny's inability to process such things as "REDRUM" which, as we know, is just murder spelled backwards. Can you sense the horror I felt before?) Since I'm no longer scared, I'm not afraid to call it either surgery or procedure, and TOM can go back to being Tom.
I did manage to somewhat block the procedure out of my thoughts until about ten minutes before the orderly wheeled me back to pre-op. Until that point, my husband had been supporting me quietly, just listening to me when I needed to talk, probably still thinking he'd be the loser in the battle between Irrational and Rational me. However at this particular moment, he tried to give me his suck-it-up pep talk usually reserved for his male athletes who are having difficulty facing the challenge presented to them. Looking back, I feel almost honored that he thought I had the mental toughness to handle what he said to me, however at the moment, I dissolved into tears. And while I did try to show him I had some fight in me by giving him a sign of my displeasure with that pep talk, I turned into a blubbery mess admitting that, "I am scared, and I hate being scared, and I hate even more admitting that I am scared." In response, he gave me a kiss on the forehead, and I was wheeled out.
Along the way, the orderly tried to make some small talk to lighten the situation, but probably should have just not talked at all, asking how I incurred my injury, and then commenting, "Well, I guess that's what you get for being active." I said nothing, but seriously wanted to reach up and punch the guy in the face (maybe a residual feeling toward my husband's pep talk?). Even though I was scared to death about being put under anesthesia, the alternative and side-effects of an inactive lifestyle is truly unthinkable. I hope the orderly was being sarcastic or maybe this young lad doesn't have a lot of experience dealing with sniffling females, so I cut him a break and kept my hands to myself.
Once back in pre-op, the nurses and doctors were definitely veterans and accustomed to dealing with crybabies like me. When questioned by them, I freely told my story, each time feeling a bit better admitting that I was scared to death about the anesthesia. They all understood my concerns and fears, but the best comfort I received was from my surgeon, Tom, who said, "I felt the exact same way when I had my knee scoped. I got back here, and I started thinking 'Maybe it's not that bad,' but once I had the Happy Juice, I didn't care. You'll feel like you just slammed a six-pack, and you won't care either." Knowing that my doctor wanted to run away from the pre-op bay too helped me settle down. As did the Happy Juice.
The entire procedure went off without a hitch. My husband redeemed himself immediately post-surgery and was promptly forgiven by ordering me a take-out, not drive through, bacon cheeseburger melt with fries. Actually, I had forgiven him even before I left for surgery, but this was icing on the cake - or in my case, bacon on my cheeseburger.
My recovery has gone well, and I'm headed back toward normal, even if showering with Saran Wrap wound tightly over your knee is not. I'm still gimpy, as my daughter reminded me last night when she hunched over and pretended to walk with a cane, mimicking my 95 year-old woman walk. I'm okay with that - it made me laugh. I am also happy that I can go up and down stairs, drive, and even do laundry and clean the litter box again, as being grounded to the couch for three days was definitely a challenge.
Simply put, being able to live my life how I want to leaves me vitalized, and it is worth the fear and frustration and annoyances I might encounter along the way. It's my own brand of Happy Juice.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Irrational Me vs. Rational Me
I have a little bit of paranoia going on. My knee has been bothering me for several months, so I finally bit the bullet and went to see a sport medicine doctor yesterday. What I found out didn't surprise me: my knee needs to be scoped. Once I have this done, I will be relatively pain free, I won't have to ice my knee after running, I won't have to worry about swelling and that irritating, painful, involuntary locking of the knee, etc., etc. It's an outpatient surgery, no crutches will be needed, and I can go back to activity as soon as I am pain-free. Overall, this softening underneath my kneecap is not a big deal. However, I'm completely freaked out.
In my entire life, I have never been put under with anesthesia or had any sort of surgery. I delivered two babies without much medical intervention, which have been my only experiences as a patient in a hospital. I know I am being completely wimpy. My husband said, "You just need to accept the fact that you are going to be put under, and everything will be fine." The rational side of me knows this will most likely be true. Unfortunately, it is the irrational side that is winning the mental toughness war raging in my head.
Irrational Me thinks back to a movie or Twilight Zone-like television show I saw in middle school or high school. In this movie, some guy dies in horrible car-bicycle accident, and while he's pronounced dead, his brain is still processing everything that is going on around him. I'm pretty sure he ended up being buried with a still active brain. Combine that with the thought of a short story I read at some point in my life in which a person is put under anesthesia, yet they can feel everything that is happening to them. The theme from the aforementioned movie, brain activity and/or feelings when you shouldn't have them, is still prevalent. I'm pretty sure no one in the operating room will notice the tears trickling out of my seemingly sedated closed eyes as I undergo this routine surgery.
Words like surgery and operating room are terrifying to me as well. Can't we just call it a procedure? As the doctor, who asked me to call him by his first name - Tom (probably some sort of attempt to gain my trust; I'm very suspicious now), as TOM explained the PROCEDURE to me, he told me that he'd make three small incisions to insert the scope and clean out the soft, rough surface underneath my kneecap. I thought covering my ears while rocking in the fetal position and singing, "La! La! La!" might be rude, so sat there listening like a big girl trying not to vomit. Again, in an attempt to calm my nerves when I shared these thoughts with my husband, I was advised, "They're just very small instruments that he inserts into your knee to clean out all of the crud." To which I responded, "Really? Because I thought TOM was going to use something the size of a garden hose or maybe that pick-axe tool that the dentist uses to scrape plaque off your teeth to clean out the crud." There is no rationalizing with Irrational Me.
I really don't know who will be considered the winner in the battle of Rational Me vs. Irrational Me. In the end, I am pretty sure that I will follow through with this PROCEDURE as it will allow me to continue living an active lifestyle, and realizing that is what I will focus on to get me through this. However, in the meantime, I will choose to not think about what will happen next Wednesday. Is blocking it out being rational or irrational? Does it even matter? I have found a way to move past my paranoia with no harm done.
In my entire life, I have never been put under with anesthesia or had any sort of surgery. I delivered two babies without much medical intervention, which have been my only experiences as a patient in a hospital. I know I am being completely wimpy. My husband said, "You just need to accept the fact that you are going to be put under, and everything will be fine." The rational side of me knows this will most likely be true. Unfortunately, it is the irrational side that is winning the mental toughness war raging in my head.
Irrational Me thinks back to a movie or Twilight Zone-like television show I saw in middle school or high school. In this movie, some guy dies in horrible car-bicycle accident, and while he's pronounced dead, his brain is still processing everything that is going on around him. I'm pretty sure he ended up being buried with a still active brain. Combine that with the thought of a short story I read at some point in my life in which a person is put under anesthesia, yet they can feel everything that is happening to them. The theme from the aforementioned movie, brain activity and/or feelings when you shouldn't have them, is still prevalent. I'm pretty sure no one in the operating room will notice the tears trickling out of my seemingly sedated closed eyes as I undergo this routine surgery.
Words like surgery and operating room are terrifying to me as well. Can't we just call it a procedure? As the doctor, who asked me to call him by his first name - Tom (probably some sort of attempt to gain my trust; I'm very suspicious now), as TOM explained the PROCEDURE to me, he told me that he'd make three small incisions to insert the scope and clean out the soft, rough surface underneath my kneecap. I thought covering my ears while rocking in the fetal position and singing, "La! La! La!" might be rude, so sat there listening like a big girl trying not to vomit. Again, in an attempt to calm my nerves when I shared these thoughts with my husband, I was advised, "They're just very small instruments that he inserts into your knee to clean out all of the crud." To which I responded, "Really? Because I thought TOM was going to use something the size of a garden hose or maybe that pick-axe tool that the dentist uses to scrape plaque off your teeth to clean out the crud." There is no rationalizing with Irrational Me.
I really don't know who will be considered the winner in the battle of Rational Me vs. Irrational Me. In the end, I am pretty sure that I will follow through with this PROCEDURE as it will allow me to continue living an active lifestyle, and realizing that is what I will focus on to get me through this. However, in the meantime, I will choose to not think about what will happen next Wednesday. Is blocking it out being rational or irrational? Does it even matter? I have found a way to move past my paranoia with no harm done.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Today's Agenda: Finishing One Project
When I quit my job, I realized somewhat inadvertently that my suddenly open schedule would allow me time to finish some projects that I previously didn't have time for (the irony is that I decided to quit my job while finishing a project). Truth be told, these were tasks I didn't want to make time for because they were difficult or time consuming.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am awful about completing projects. Take for instance, the deck. Two summers ago, we decided to refinish our deck and put up a new railing. Surrendering weeks to this project, I spent time: stripping the paint with noxious chemicals, power washing the boards, sanding the splintery 2x6's, fighting to remove the old railing (this battle involved my husband and a few neighbors), and putting up the new railing. The part I was looking forward to the most was staining it. And, lucky for me, I found the perfect color of stain on clearance at a local hardware store. Armed with my purchase, I was informed that I needed to let the new lumber weather. Disappointed, I put the stain in the basement, thinking that it would have to wait till a nice fall day. That nice fall day didn't arrive until a mild summer day, two years later.
This isn't the only project I've procrastinated completing. Drywalling, texturizing, and painting the header beam we installed to replace the wall we removed when we bought our house took two years, painting the trim in the living room, kitchen, and hallway took three years, which happened long before we finished painting the trim in the bedrooms. I still need to paint the ceiling in the stairwell and basement. The wood trim in the basement also needs to be completed. The cabinets could use another coat of paint, the bathroom walls need to be retextured (attempt two - now that I've mastered this skill) and then repainted, and the list goes on an on.
Thankfully, with my husband's help, I have completed many projects. About a month ago, we made a huge "To Do" list, and I've kept adding to it, but most importantly, I've been crossing off quite a few things as well. That's the best part - crossing off those nagging items. Of course, upon completing each one, I make my husband view it and provide feedback, just like when the kids come home from school and show me their school work, "Look what I did today! Isn't this a good job? I messed up a little bit here, but then I figured out what I did wrong, so then I fixed it. Do you like it?" Of course, his answer is always positive, and even if he is feigning enthusiasm, as I sometimes do with the kids school work (because let's face it, how many times can you really get excited about an organized storage closet or a freshly painted room?), I appreciate the positive feedback.
I enjoy projects. I don't mind the labor, and I'm always excited to see the improvements. I especially love the projects that make something look fresh and new - like a warm, cheerful coat of paint (Lowe's calls it Whipped Apricot) on the office/guest bedroom walls. But what I do not enjoy is the finishing touches - the details that don't seem to be that big of a deal, but still need to be completed.
Which brings me to today's agenda - finish painting the trim in the office/guest bedroom, hang decor on the walls, and put everything back in its place. And, as I sit here typing, one coat of paint along the trim is drying. One more to go!
My little home improve projects have made me remember something I already knew about life in general. Sometimes it's the big things that we get excited about. But often, it's the little things that make us feel complete.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am awful about completing projects. Take for instance, the deck. Two summers ago, we decided to refinish our deck and put up a new railing. Surrendering weeks to this project, I spent time: stripping the paint with noxious chemicals, power washing the boards, sanding the splintery 2x6's, fighting to remove the old railing (this battle involved my husband and a few neighbors), and putting up the new railing. The part I was looking forward to the most was staining it. And, lucky for me, I found the perfect color of stain on clearance at a local hardware store. Armed with my purchase, I was informed that I needed to let the new lumber weather. Disappointed, I put the stain in the basement, thinking that it would have to wait till a nice fall day. That nice fall day didn't arrive until a mild summer day, two years later.
This isn't the only project I've procrastinated completing. Drywalling, texturizing, and painting the header beam we installed to replace the wall we removed when we bought our house took two years, painting the trim in the living room, kitchen, and hallway took three years, which happened long before we finished painting the trim in the bedrooms. I still need to paint the ceiling in the stairwell and basement. The wood trim in the basement also needs to be completed. The cabinets could use another coat of paint, the bathroom walls need to be retextured (attempt two - now that I've mastered this skill) and then repainted, and the list goes on an on.
Thankfully, with my husband's help, I have completed many projects. About a month ago, we made a huge "To Do" list, and I've kept adding to it, but most importantly, I've been crossing off quite a few things as well. That's the best part - crossing off those nagging items. Of course, upon completing each one, I make my husband view it and provide feedback, just like when the kids come home from school and show me their school work, "Look what I did today! Isn't this a good job? I messed up a little bit here, but then I figured out what I did wrong, so then I fixed it. Do you like it?" Of course, his answer is always positive, and even if he is feigning enthusiasm, as I sometimes do with the kids school work (because let's face it, how many times can you really get excited about an organized storage closet or a freshly painted room?), I appreciate the positive feedback.
I enjoy projects. I don't mind the labor, and I'm always excited to see the improvements. I especially love the projects that make something look fresh and new - like a warm, cheerful coat of paint (Lowe's calls it Whipped Apricot) on the office/guest bedroom walls. But what I do not enjoy is the finishing touches - the details that don't seem to be that big of a deal, but still need to be completed.
Which brings me to today's agenda - finish painting the trim in the office/guest bedroom, hang decor on the walls, and put everything back in its place. And, as I sit here typing, one coat of paint along the trim is drying. One more to go!
My little home improve projects have made me remember something I already knew about life in general. Sometimes it's the big things that we get excited about. But often, it's the little things that make us feel complete.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
What's your "activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation"?
Over the last few weeks, I've come to realize how much I enjoy my hobbies. For years, I've been answering different sorts of questionnaires that ask me about my hobbies - whether online or simply as a get to know you activity at a workshop. A hobby, by definition, is "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation." Coming up with an answer for something that I pursue for "pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation" was always a tough question for me to answer. Why? Because according to this definition, I had none.
The thoughts that rolled through my head when asked this simple question usually went like this: Hobbies? Do I have any? What do I do for pleasure or relaxation? Well, something that gives me pleasure is being caught up with my school work, yet since a hobby is not supposed to be a main occupation, I can't list that. Plus, I'll sound like a workaholic. Cleaning? Again, something that I don't necessarily enjoy doing, but I do feel better when our house doesn't look like a tornado swept through, which in turn makes me feel less tense, but I don't recall "less tense" being a part of the definition. Running, hmm.... I don't necessary feel "pleasure" when doing this, but running consistently is good for my health, and when I feel strong, I do feel better about myself. Sometimes a good run does give me that runner's high. Okay, that's one that I will write down, but I'm not truly convinced it's a hobby, by definition. Cooking - well, not the daily stuff, there's no pleasure there. I like to make pies and cupcakes and try out new recipes, and all that takes time, and I sure as hell don't have time to do that which is too bad because both kids love to do it too, and it's so cute and fun when they help, but then the process takes so much longer, and I really don't have time for that. What about reading? I love to read, but after reading papers and prepping for school and cleaning the house and reading with the kids before bedtime (not my choice of reading materials), the last thing I have the energy to do is keep my eyes open and read at bedtime. Plus, if I do actually sit down and get engrossed in a book, then I can't get anything else done because I become so wrapped up in the book that I lose track of time and forget to feed the kids and don't get that damn school work done. Writing...yeah, right. I do love to write - even in college when it was papers for class, that was easy, but that was a long time ago, and I didn't get to choose the topics. When did I actually write something when I chose the topic? Ah, the Christmas letter from three years ago. That was fun, unfortunately, it doesn't quite classify as a hobby if it's been three years since I've done it, and last year's letter was never written even after I ordered the "Here's to a Happy 2012" cards - those are still sitting in a box downstairs. Scrapbooking! Rats! I spent $300 at a Creative Memories party when I was pregnant with Ellie. I busted that thing out and made a scrapbook of our wedding - that was fun. I haven't scrapbooked since, and Ellie's almost 10. Oh! I love a good glass of wine or a flavorful beer, and I do this "for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation"! But, I probably shouldn't list that because even if I write "fine wine connoisseur" or "beer aficionado" I will look like a drunk. Hmm.
So I lied.
If I had the time, my hobbies would be.....reading, running, cooking. I will leave out writing (I don't want anyone to know that it's my dream, but I never do it), relaxing with an adult beverages (we'll keep this our little secret), and traveling (because let's face it, even though I want to do it, it doesn't make it a hobby).
A friend recently told her husband to get a hobby. They bought a smoker, and now he smokes their own meat. It's tasty, too. I looked at my own husband, and thought, he does not get a hobby if I don't, but at the time, I was sour grapes because I was still working, and why should he get one if I don't? But does watching sports on T.V. or playing video games with our son count as a hobby? Maybe. Another friend says she runs for sanity. My own father has always had an interest in horses. The math teacher I worked with was always borrowing books off my shelves to read before bedtime.
The point it, it's important to have "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation." I think that's part of the reason why I was teetering on the edge. In the last year, I read four books. Four! And I was an English teacher. And those books didn't really count because I had read them before, and I was reading them section by section with my seventh graders "as [my] main occupation." I had started a few books at home, but I hadn't completed them. Now that I am committed to making time for my hobbies, I am reading a non-fiction book by one of my all-time favorite fiction writers, Stephen King. In On Writing (another book I started years ago and never finished), he says you can't be a writer if you don't read, and he personally is a slow reader, yet he manages to read 70-80 books a year. I was simply amazed; he takes the time to read all of those books and still manages to crank out a few books of his own.
Maybe you have already figured out this balance between work and pleasure, but I know that there are a lot of people out there who haven't. And until recently, I was one of those people. For years I had been telling myself that I would be okay as long as I could keep my head above the water with my job. I didn't realize just how exhausting treading water becomes if you never stop. I simply never felt I had the time to enjoy "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation."
I am looking forward to maintaining a balance between work and pleasure. I can't wait to see how many books I can read, miles I can log, and cupcakes I can bake all because I'm doing "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation." And, putting all of this in writing helps keep me focused and accountable.
What will you do?
Monday, September 10, 2012
Organizing, Cleaning, and Scrounging for Sanity
When I quit teaching, someone asked me what I was going to do with my free time. My answer was that I was going to clean the closet in our guest bedroom. She pointed out to me that eventually all of my closets would be clean, and then I'd have to do something else. However, knowing just how many closets and storage areas in our basement were crammed full of long-forgotten items and random things that didn't have a home, I felt good about the fact that it would be a long time before I got this mess I call my home straightened out and had to worry about what to do next.
The purging and organizing began with easy items. With each trip to Goodwill and the many trips to the trash and recycle bins, my house began to feel lighter.
But things have drastically slowed down these last few days as I have developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder looking for missing game and puzzle pieces. For example, Ellie went through a phase where she would stack the deck with all the good picture pieces in the game Candy Land. At some point, years ago, all of the good picture pieces went missing. I am happy to say, today they've been located in boxes of dried out Play-Doh, race tracks, and Legos. It's too bad we don't have the game anymore since we discreetly trashed it when playing the game became too traumatic because all of the good pieces were gone.
Today I hit jackpot, or so I thought, when I found, mixed in with the 10,962 Duplo pieces stored in our basement, all of the white marbles from Hungry Hungry Hippo, the cherries from Hi Ho Cherri-O, and the pegs for the game Trouble. Upon reassembly of these games, I've realized that while we do have all four blue pegs for Trouble, we are missing two yellow, one red, and one green. Hi Ho Cherry-O isn't much better off - this summer's drought must have affected the cherry crop because we don't have enough cherries to fill the cherry trees equally, and as all of us moms know, "That's not FAIR!" Two more games out to the trash. I did manage to scrounge up enough marbles for Hungry Hungry Hippo, but that game will go into the Goodwill box because it's just too loud. The kids have outgrown playing that game by the rules anyway, as they just like to see how hard they can slam the hippos tail-lever while marbles fly around the room and the pink hippo's neck breaks.
And don't get me started on the puzzles! Because they're educational, I thought I would be a good friend and pass along some of my kids' puzzles to a friend. Most of the girl puzzles are in good shape, as Ellie has always been good about keeping her puzzles in tact. However, the boy puzzles were apparently missing many pieces, and I started receiving texts from my friend stating, "Tate is killing us!" followed by picture texts of the Lightening McQueen puzzle and the Thomas the Tank Engine puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Ugh! The missing pieces are as bad as the flu spreading from house to house. This is not a good way to keep friends.
Before I lost a complete grip on my sanity earlier today scrounging through boxes, drawers, and couch cushions for the elusive Polly Pocket light blue sparkly pump while trying to avoid the sharp Lego pieces that always seem to hide in the carpet waiting to create a puncture wound in my foot, I decided if the game/puzzle/toy didn't look like it had all the necessary parts to function in a somewhat normal way, it was going to the trash. And, as long as I get the games out of the house before the kids come home from school today and then bury them deep in the garbage can underneath real trash, all will be well in my house.
The purging and organizing began with easy items. With each trip to Goodwill and the many trips to the trash and recycle bins, my house began to feel lighter.
But things have drastically slowed down these last few days as I have developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder looking for missing game and puzzle pieces. For example, Ellie went through a phase where she would stack the deck with all the good picture pieces in the game Candy Land. At some point, years ago, all of the good picture pieces went missing. I am happy to say, today they've been located in boxes of dried out Play-Doh, race tracks, and Legos. It's too bad we don't have the game anymore since we discreetly trashed it when playing the game became too traumatic because all of the good pieces were gone.
Today I hit jackpot, or so I thought, when I found, mixed in with the 10,962 Duplo pieces stored in our basement, all of the white marbles from Hungry Hungry Hippo, the cherries from Hi Ho Cherri-O, and the pegs for the game Trouble. Upon reassembly of these games, I've realized that while we do have all four blue pegs for Trouble, we are missing two yellow, one red, and one green. Hi Ho Cherry-O isn't much better off - this summer's drought must have affected the cherry crop because we don't have enough cherries to fill the cherry trees equally, and as all of us moms know, "That's not FAIR!" Two more games out to the trash. I did manage to scrounge up enough marbles for Hungry Hungry Hippo, but that game will go into the Goodwill box because it's just too loud. The kids have outgrown playing that game by the rules anyway, as they just like to see how hard they can slam the hippos tail-lever while marbles fly around the room and the pink hippo's neck breaks.
And don't get me started on the puzzles! Because they're educational, I thought I would be a good friend and pass along some of my kids' puzzles to a friend. Most of the girl puzzles are in good shape, as Ellie has always been good about keeping her puzzles in tact. However, the boy puzzles were apparently missing many pieces, and I started receiving texts from my friend stating, "Tate is killing us!" followed by picture texts of the Lightening McQueen puzzle and the Thomas the Tank Engine puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Ugh! The missing pieces are as bad as the flu spreading from house to house. This is not a good way to keep friends.
Before I lost a complete grip on my sanity earlier today scrounging through boxes, drawers, and couch cushions for the elusive Polly Pocket light blue sparkly pump while trying to avoid the sharp Lego pieces that always seem to hide in the carpet waiting to create a puncture wound in my foot, I decided if the game/puzzle/toy didn't look like it had all the necessary parts to function in a somewhat normal way, it was going to the trash. And, as long as I get the games out of the house before the kids come home from school today and then bury them deep in the garbage can underneath real trash, all will be well in my house.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The Differences Between a Boy and a Girl
Raising my son has been a completely different experience than raising my daughter, and he's only six. I know there is much more to come, but so far the differences, at least in my household, have been astounding.
The wildest, most out of character thing Ellie has ever done was when she was three. We happened to have a halogen pole floor lamp in our living room at the time. Ellie climbed onto the edge of the couch and took a flying leap onto the lamp, expecting, I suspect, to slide down it like a fireman slides down a pole in a firehouse. I will never forget the image of her soaring through the air, blonde hair flying back, arms outstretched and knees hitching forward, grasping for the lamp. Nor will I forget the subsequent crashing of the lamp, into the corner, bulb flashing out, lamp busting in half, and the shocked look on her face as she climbed from the rubble. Ellie also went through through a cussing stage when she was three - she's always had a strong vocabulary - but nothing she said then truly shocked me like the lamp incident.
My son, on the other hand, blows my mind on a daily basis. Take last night, for instance. In his bedroom after his bath, Tate began a very inappropriate naked dance, changing the words to a popular song to fit his bodily contortions. I am not comfortable sharing the specific words and gyrations, and unlike Ellie, he's never gone through that cussing phase, so it wasn't awful, but I did let him know that if he tried something like that in school, he could be suspended. And then I turned around to my husband, who also witnessed this fine performance, and shared a look of awe, horror, and slight amusement. Where does he get this stuff?
Tate's also had his own run in with a lamp, which makes me extremely happy I only buy $10 lamps. Tate loves the Indiana Jones movies. One of Indiana Jones's most necessary and reliable props is his whip. The arm of the floor lamp made a great place for my young Indy to swing from with his whip (known to you and me as a Spiderman action figure with a shoe string and plastic web attached). Lamp number two, destroyed.
He's at that age where he's not afraid to be creative. He's not afraid to imagine "What if" situations or think outside the box, like:
Tate: Mommy, what if, there was a bomb, and it created a mushroom cloud on our street, but there was a force field around our house, and around (insert all the names of the neighbors, individually, on our street)'s house, and what if I was outside, when the mushroom cloud came, and I was walking around in my own force field....
Me, interrupting: Like a hamster in a hamster ball?
Tate, continuing: Yeah, and Beau (the neighbor dog), was outside, and he was in a hamster ball force field too?
Me: Well, I guess we'd all be okay then.
Tate: Yeah, it couldn't touch me.
Sometimes, I know exactly where he gets this "stuff," yet Ellie can watch the exact same scene from a movie or listen to a story in a book, and come away with a completely different conversation. Ellie sees the mushroom cloud and asks, "Why?" She wants to know the scientific facts behind what she's experiencing. And if we can't give her an answer, she will look it up. She's logical, which probably explains why she wants to be an archeologist when she grows up. Relentlessly digging for answers, literally.
Logic holds no boundaries for Tate. At times, I am honestly thankful for this; I hope it will serve him well in the future. Our world needs people who can come up with creative ideas to solve problems. Granted, these problems will need to have more depth than, "What if I'm on the Space Shot (a ride at the nearby amusement park that shoots its riders straight up into the air and then drops them quickly back down), and I wet my pants....." Other times, I fear these antics and scenarios will make him wildly popular in college, but not for the reasons that makes a mom proud. In the meantime, I will remember to stay firm with what's appropriate and what's not. I will not laugh (when he can see me) because I know that only encourages his behavior. I will also begin cataloging these stories, because eventually, when I get around to writing books, he will have provided me with some fantastic material.
The wildest, most out of character thing Ellie has ever done was when she was three. We happened to have a halogen pole floor lamp in our living room at the time. Ellie climbed onto the edge of the couch and took a flying leap onto the lamp, expecting, I suspect, to slide down it like a fireman slides down a pole in a firehouse. I will never forget the image of her soaring through the air, blonde hair flying back, arms outstretched and knees hitching forward, grasping for the lamp. Nor will I forget the subsequent crashing of the lamp, into the corner, bulb flashing out, lamp busting in half, and the shocked look on her face as she climbed from the rubble. Ellie also went through through a cussing stage when she was three - she's always had a strong vocabulary - but nothing she said then truly shocked me like the lamp incident.
My son, on the other hand, blows my mind on a daily basis. Take last night, for instance. In his bedroom after his bath, Tate began a very inappropriate naked dance, changing the words to a popular song to fit his bodily contortions. I am not comfortable sharing the specific words and gyrations, and unlike Ellie, he's never gone through that cussing phase, so it wasn't awful, but I did let him know that if he tried something like that in school, he could be suspended. And then I turned around to my husband, who also witnessed this fine performance, and shared a look of awe, horror, and slight amusement. Where does he get this stuff?
Tate's also had his own run in with a lamp, which makes me extremely happy I only buy $10 lamps. Tate loves the Indiana Jones movies. One of Indiana Jones's most necessary and reliable props is his whip. The arm of the floor lamp made a great place for my young Indy to swing from with his whip (known to you and me as a Spiderman action figure with a shoe string and plastic web attached). Lamp number two, destroyed.
He's at that age where he's not afraid to be creative. He's not afraid to imagine "What if" situations or think outside the box, like:
Tate: Mommy, what if, there was a bomb, and it created a mushroom cloud on our street, but there was a force field around our house, and around (insert all the names of the neighbors, individually, on our street)'s house, and what if I was outside, when the mushroom cloud came, and I was walking around in my own force field....
Me, interrupting: Like a hamster in a hamster ball?
Tate, continuing: Yeah, and Beau (the neighbor dog), was outside, and he was in a hamster ball force field too?
Me: Well, I guess we'd all be okay then.
Tate: Yeah, it couldn't touch me.
Sometimes, I know exactly where he gets this "stuff," yet Ellie can watch the exact same scene from a movie or listen to a story in a book, and come away with a completely different conversation. Ellie sees the mushroom cloud and asks, "Why?" She wants to know the scientific facts behind what she's experiencing. And if we can't give her an answer, she will look it up. She's logical, which probably explains why she wants to be an archeologist when she grows up. Relentlessly digging for answers, literally.
Logic holds no boundaries for Tate. At times, I am honestly thankful for this; I hope it will serve him well in the future. Our world needs people who can come up with creative ideas to solve problems. Granted, these problems will need to have more depth than, "What if I'm on the Space Shot (a ride at the nearby amusement park that shoots its riders straight up into the air and then drops them quickly back down), and I wet my pants....." Other times, I fear these antics and scenarios will make him wildly popular in college, but not for the reasons that makes a mom proud. In the meantime, I will remember to stay firm with what's appropriate and what's not. I will not laugh (when he can see me) because I know that only encourages his behavior. I will also begin cataloging these stories, because eventually, when I get around to writing books, he will have provided me with some fantastic material.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
What's your time?
I love the early morning. There is just something about the taste of that first cup of coffee once I drag myself out of bed, that makes everything - bleary eyes, aching feet, tripping over the cat in the dark - worth it. There is something about the peaceful quietness of the house, knowing that everyone is still asleep and that no demands can be made upon me until I've finished this first cup of coffee. There is something about the coolness of the air, no matter how high the temperature is supposed to be, when I walk outside to go for that caffeine-fueled morning run. There is something about this time of day that gives me clarity of thought and an ability to focus that I just can't always find later in the day. This is my time of day, and I love it!
Lately, I've been missing out on my morning time. Since my schedule has changed to being pretty much wide-open, I don't have to get up at 5:00 AM to start my day. I don't have to workout before I go to school because I can still get my morning workout in after I drop the kids off at the bus. I don't sit down to write until after all the above has been done, along with morning dishes, straightening up the house, and starting some laundry. But then other things pop up throughout the day - an invitation to lunch? Sure, delicious! A run with a friend? Please! A trip to the grocery store by myself? Heavenly! Tate needs a bigger bike because his knees are getting bruised from bumping the handle bars of the bike we bought him 2 1/2 years ago with each pump of his peddles? Let's go bike shopping! It's the simple pleasures of my newly found "free time" that I've come to enjoy.
However, all this "free time" has really thrown a wrench into my new lack of schedule. The nice thing is, I can always do whatever I need to get done later...but sometimes later doesn't come. So on this Saturday morning, I decided to set my alarm for 5:30 AM, so I could get up and spend some quality time with myself. Today is going to be a day of family, friends, football, and fun, but before all that starts, I want to steal some time for myself. 5:30 AM is that time.
I don't think it matters when your time of day is, but what matters is that you find it. Recently, I read a Facebook post in which a friend said something about sitting outside and reading before she started work that day. I thought, incredulously, "What? That can be done?" I have been thinking about that a lot lately - taking the time to do something you love each and every day - no matter how much time you have or don't have.
My time of day is up - people are on the prowl at my house, and the hustle and bustle of a new day has begun. But that's okay; I've had my time, and I feel rejuvenated. Find your time of day. Do whatever you need to do, even if it's only for a few minutes, and make it your time. That's one thing that you shouldn't put off!
Lately, I've been missing out on my morning time. Since my schedule has changed to being pretty much wide-open, I don't have to get up at 5:00 AM to start my day. I don't have to workout before I go to school because I can still get my morning workout in after I drop the kids off at the bus. I don't sit down to write until after all the above has been done, along with morning dishes, straightening up the house, and starting some laundry. But then other things pop up throughout the day - an invitation to lunch? Sure, delicious! A run with a friend? Please! A trip to the grocery store by myself? Heavenly! Tate needs a bigger bike because his knees are getting bruised from bumping the handle bars of the bike we bought him 2 1/2 years ago with each pump of his peddles? Let's go bike shopping! It's the simple pleasures of my newly found "free time" that I've come to enjoy.
However, all this "free time" has really thrown a wrench into my new lack of schedule. The nice thing is, I can always do whatever I need to get done later...but sometimes later doesn't come. So on this Saturday morning, I decided to set my alarm for 5:30 AM, so I could get up and spend some quality time with myself. Today is going to be a day of family, friends, football, and fun, but before all that starts, I want to steal some time for myself. 5:30 AM is that time.
I don't think it matters when your time of day is, but what matters is that you find it. Recently, I read a Facebook post in which a friend said something about sitting outside and reading before she started work that day. I thought, incredulously, "What? That can be done?" I have been thinking about that a lot lately - taking the time to do something you love each and every day - no matter how much time you have or don't have.
My time of day is up - people are on the prowl at my house, and the hustle and bustle of a new day has begun. But that's okay; I've had my time, and I feel rejuvenated. Find your time of day. Do whatever you need to do, even if it's only for a few minutes, and make it your time. That's one thing that you shouldn't put off!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Anxiety with Cupcakes
Two thoughts dominated my run this morning: cupcakes and anxiety. My mind alternated between the two quite often. Cupcakes, I suppose, because I was hungry and I made some delectable banana cupcakes with a swirly cream cheese frosting a few days ago. They were a hit, and I've been thinking about what kind of cupcake to make next (decision = chocolate) and how to fill them with the homemade creamy frosting I plan to make.
Anxiety was the other topic that kept running through my head. The kids rode the bus for the first time this morning. Both have ridden the school bus before, and both have loved it. However, they had major concerns last night and this morning. Ellie worried about it at bedtime, and Tate complained of a stomachache on the car ride to the bus, which was evident with the windows rolled up. We assured them that everything would be fine, they'd enjoy the ride, they'd see friends on the bus, and in the very worst case scenario, they'd miss the bus on the way home, which means they would go back into the office, and I would have to come pick them up at school. No big deal! I only had the worst case scenario conversation with Ellie though, and in retrospect, I should've had that conversation with Tate as well. He's been known to take matters into his own hands, and I could easily picture him walking the six miles to the bus stop where I pick him up. But, I am not going to worry about that.
What I do worry about is their anxiety. I know it's natural to worry about new experiences, but I don't want them to turn into the anxious child that I was. Second grade was an especially horrific year, and I cannot pinpoint why, although I suspect it had something to do with my teacher. She wasn't mean, but she was stern, and after an incredible first grade year with one of my all-time favorite teachers, Mrs. T was difficult for me to adjust to.
Second grade was the year that I came home with a stomachache a lot, but then would magically feel better once I got home. Once home, my mother would become suspicious when I would request lunch, such as a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, which just doesn't jive with a queasy stomach. This was the year that I broke a lot of lead with yellow No. 2 pencils from pressing too hard - Mrs. T suggested we tape a reminder on my desk that said, "Don't press too hard." Thanks for that brilliant idea - make an already anxious child worry about what other kids will think about the weird note taped to her desk. I still can't use mechanical pencils to this day because the flashbacks to second grade and my super human pencil pressure cause me to snap lead the second I touch it to paper. This was also the year that I took some special tests. At the time, I had no idea why I was being pulled from the regular class to look at funny inkblots and try to explain what big words like "saliva" meant. I actually enjoyed hanging out with the friendly, stranger-lady with the long, black hair from the area education agency, who was probably some sort of child psychologist. Much later on, I found out that lady was testing me for my anxiety issues and to see if I would be able to skip the second grade. Apparently, I was smart enough, but the anxiety of changing to a new grade midyear, would've been too much for my fragile self-esteem. This was also the year I created and broke a pinch pot in art class.
Our class had been waiting all year long to use clay. While I had envisioned myself sitting at the pottery wheel sculpting delicate vases (say "vaw-sez" not "vay-sez"), the reality was a lump of clay that I was supposed to shape into a ball, then stick my thumb into it, and finally pinch and form a small pot. I'm not really sure what order the following events occurred, but I do recall they were painted, glazed, and then baked.
When the art teacher finally returned them to us, she told us we could take them home to our mothers. I was ecstatic to unveil my artistic creation that afternoon when I arrived at home! Unfortunately, what the teacher handed back to me did have my name etched into the bottom of it, but it did not match the stunning vase I had imagined in my head. Before me sat an ugly, sparsely painted, brown and blue, lumpy piece of crap pinch pot. I toted my pinch pot back to class and put it in my cubby to be crammed into my backpack at the end of the day.
When Mrs. T dismissed my row at 3:25 to pack our bags, I had a brilliant idea - I would drop my hideous pinch pot on the floor, letting it shatter into a million pieces, so my mother would not have to be disappointed by her daughter's lack of artistic talent! I went to my cubby and picked up my pinch pot. I turned, and facing the class, dropped my pinch pot. The commotion caused everyone in the classroom to turn. Shockingly, my pinch pot went bouncing, not shattering, across the tile floor. How did it not break? Mrs. T said, "Dawn, be careful! You don't want it to break before you get it home and give it to your mother."
This would be a good time to mention that along with being an anxious child, I was a perfectionist - which meant I was persistent, and while I am sure that didn't help out my anxiety issues, on this particular day, it served me well. I was successful in the destruction of my pinch pot on the second drop, and the remnants of my pinch pot were swept away, along with the anxiety I felt at less than perfection.
If I would have been old enough to play the worst case scenario game with myself that day in second grade, the absolute worst thing that would have happened would have been that my mother would have displayed my abominable creation for all eternity on her bedroom dresser, like my old soup-can-kindergarten-picture-project that still sits there today. While second grade was a rough year for me, I managed through the rest of my school years and adult life without such destructive tendencies.
I think my kids will be okay. In the end, they'll be stronger people because they survived these anxious moments. I know I am a stronger person for surviving them, and I have learned to laugh and not worry so much. No big deal.
Anxiety was the other topic that kept running through my head. The kids rode the bus for the first time this morning. Both have ridden the school bus before, and both have loved it. However, they had major concerns last night and this morning. Ellie worried about it at bedtime, and Tate complained of a stomachache on the car ride to the bus, which was evident with the windows rolled up. We assured them that everything would be fine, they'd enjoy the ride, they'd see friends on the bus, and in the very worst case scenario, they'd miss the bus on the way home, which means they would go back into the office, and I would have to come pick them up at school. No big deal! I only had the worst case scenario conversation with Ellie though, and in retrospect, I should've had that conversation with Tate as well. He's been known to take matters into his own hands, and I could easily picture him walking the six miles to the bus stop where I pick him up. But, I am not going to worry about that.
What I do worry about is their anxiety. I know it's natural to worry about new experiences, but I don't want them to turn into the anxious child that I was. Second grade was an especially horrific year, and I cannot pinpoint why, although I suspect it had something to do with my teacher. She wasn't mean, but she was stern, and after an incredible first grade year with one of my all-time favorite teachers, Mrs. T was difficult for me to adjust to.
Second grade was the year that I came home with a stomachache a lot, but then would magically feel better once I got home. Once home, my mother would become suspicious when I would request lunch, such as a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, which just doesn't jive with a queasy stomach. This was the year that I broke a lot of lead with yellow No. 2 pencils from pressing too hard - Mrs. T suggested we tape a reminder on my desk that said, "Don't press too hard." Thanks for that brilliant idea - make an already anxious child worry about what other kids will think about the weird note taped to her desk. I still can't use mechanical pencils to this day because the flashbacks to second grade and my super human pencil pressure cause me to snap lead the second I touch it to paper. This was also the year that I took some special tests. At the time, I had no idea why I was being pulled from the regular class to look at funny inkblots and try to explain what big words like "saliva" meant. I actually enjoyed hanging out with the friendly, stranger-lady with the long, black hair from the area education agency, who was probably some sort of child psychologist. Much later on, I found out that lady was testing me for my anxiety issues and to see if I would be able to skip the second grade. Apparently, I was smart enough, but the anxiety of changing to a new grade midyear, would've been too much for my fragile self-esteem. This was also the year I created and broke a pinch pot in art class.
Our class had been waiting all year long to use clay. While I had envisioned myself sitting at the pottery wheel sculpting delicate vases (say "vaw-sez" not "vay-sez"), the reality was a lump of clay that I was supposed to shape into a ball, then stick my thumb into it, and finally pinch and form a small pot. I'm not really sure what order the following events occurred, but I do recall they were painted, glazed, and then baked.
When the art teacher finally returned them to us, she told us we could take them home to our mothers. I was ecstatic to unveil my artistic creation that afternoon when I arrived at home! Unfortunately, what the teacher handed back to me did have my name etched into the bottom of it, but it did not match the stunning vase I had imagined in my head. Before me sat an ugly, sparsely painted, brown and blue, lumpy piece of crap pinch pot. I toted my pinch pot back to class and put it in my cubby to be crammed into my backpack at the end of the day.
When Mrs. T dismissed my row at 3:25 to pack our bags, I had a brilliant idea - I would drop my hideous pinch pot on the floor, letting it shatter into a million pieces, so my mother would not have to be disappointed by her daughter's lack of artistic talent! I went to my cubby and picked up my pinch pot. I turned, and facing the class, dropped my pinch pot. The commotion caused everyone in the classroom to turn. Shockingly, my pinch pot went bouncing, not shattering, across the tile floor. How did it not break? Mrs. T said, "Dawn, be careful! You don't want it to break before you get it home and give it to your mother."
This would be a good time to mention that along with being an anxious child, I was a perfectionist - which meant I was persistent, and while I am sure that didn't help out my anxiety issues, on this particular day, it served me well. I was successful in the destruction of my pinch pot on the second drop, and the remnants of my pinch pot were swept away, along with the anxiety I felt at less than perfection.
If I would have been old enough to play the worst case scenario game with myself that day in second grade, the absolute worst thing that would have happened would have been that my mother would have displayed my abominable creation for all eternity on her bedroom dresser, like my old soup-can-kindergarten-picture-project that still sits there today. While second grade was a rough year for me, I managed through the rest of my school years and adult life without such destructive tendencies.
I think my kids will be okay. In the end, they'll be stronger people because they survived these anxious moments. I know I am a stronger person for surviving them, and I have learned to laugh and not worry so much. No big deal.
Monday, August 27, 2012
First Day of School - August 16, 2012
Today was the first time I was able to take my kids to their first day of school. For ten of the last twelve years, I have had a first day of school as well, but today I was able to experience it from a parent's perspective.
My husband, who has taken them to every first day of school, dreads it. As he was explaining to me yesterday, "It makes me feel awful and sick to my stomach. It's the worst day of the year." Of course, I assumed he was exaggerating.
My daughter, who's a veteran at elementary school at 9 1/2, bounded off to her fourth grade meeting area, almost without giving us a hug.
My first grader wasn't quite so confident. He'd been putting a good show the last week or so talking about how he didn't want to go back to school and grumbling, "I don't like school," which I assumed he just picked up from me complaining about my job. But last night, he admitted he was nervous and scared and had come up with wild "what if" scenarios that involved recess and his new teacher. Today, as he had a death grip on my hand walking into the school, he mumbled, "My tummy hurts." This is my brave little man, the kid who isn't afraid of anything. (Except spiders and Winnie-the Pooh!)
After approaching the line where his classmates were sitting, he released his death grip on me, and then mauled his father in a bear hug. Eventually, we were able pry his head from his father's shoulder and coax him into his class's line where thankfully, one of his friends had been calling out his name.
We walked away as the lines of first graders began exiting the gymnasium. As a former teacher, I knew he would be okay if we just kept moving away. Parents always make a situation like this worse when they go back to their whimpering child. I didn't glance back until I got to our van, just to make sure he didn't flee the school and chase us across the street and into the parking lot.
As we drove off, I understood why my husband hates this day so much. In previous years, I had been too preoccupied with the anxiety of my own first days of school - worrying about my incoming 7th graders - to spend much time dwelling on theirs; after all, I knew they would be safe in their school once they got over their jitters. Prior to today, I hadn't been in the trenches of the elementary school, staring into those helpless, sad little eyes. I understand what my husband means when he says, "Walking away from them when they're crying and nervous makes me feel like the worst parent on the planet."
We are trying to build strong kids, who will in turn, grow into strong adults. But, like with everything else, there are growing pains - for the kids and the moms and dads. In the end, everything turned out okay - actually better than okay - as both kids came home thrilled about their first day of school....a first grader wearing a goofy, floppy-eared Clifford the Big Red Dog headband and fourth grader with a precisely organized, labeled, three-ring zippered binder with a planner inside.
And the chocolate chip cookies I made in case they needed an after school pick-me-up? They tasted just as good as celebratory cookies.
My husband, who has taken them to every first day of school, dreads it. As he was explaining to me yesterday, "It makes me feel awful and sick to my stomach. It's the worst day of the year." Of course, I assumed he was exaggerating.
My daughter, who's a veteran at elementary school at 9 1/2, bounded off to her fourth grade meeting area, almost without giving us a hug.
My first grader wasn't quite so confident. He'd been putting a good show the last week or so talking about how he didn't want to go back to school and grumbling, "I don't like school," which I assumed he just picked up from me complaining about my job. But last night, he admitted he was nervous and scared and had come up with wild "what if" scenarios that involved recess and his new teacher. Today, as he had a death grip on my hand walking into the school, he mumbled, "My tummy hurts." This is my brave little man, the kid who isn't afraid of anything. (Except spiders and Winnie-the Pooh!)
After approaching the line where his classmates were sitting, he released his death grip on me, and then mauled his father in a bear hug. Eventually, we were able pry his head from his father's shoulder and coax him into his class's line where thankfully, one of his friends had been calling out his name.
We walked away as the lines of first graders began exiting the gymnasium. As a former teacher, I knew he would be okay if we just kept moving away. Parents always make a situation like this worse when they go back to their whimpering child. I didn't glance back until I got to our van, just to make sure he didn't flee the school and chase us across the street and into the parking lot.
As we drove off, I understood why my husband hates this day so much. In previous years, I had been too preoccupied with the anxiety of my own first days of school - worrying about my incoming 7th graders - to spend much time dwelling on theirs; after all, I knew they would be safe in their school once they got over their jitters. Prior to today, I hadn't been in the trenches of the elementary school, staring into those helpless, sad little eyes. I understand what my husband means when he says, "Walking away from them when they're crying and nervous makes me feel like the worst parent on the planet."
We are trying to build strong kids, who will in turn, grow into strong adults. But, like with everything else, there are growing pains - for the kids and the moms and dads. In the end, everything turned out okay - actually better than okay - as both kids came home thrilled about their first day of school....a first grader wearing a goofy, floppy-eared Clifford the Big Red Dog headband and fourth grader with a precisely organized, labeled, three-ring zippered binder with a planner inside.
And the chocolate chip cookies I made in case they needed an after school pick-me-up? They tasted just as good as celebratory cookies.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Awesome
Bedtime last night with my 6-year-old son Tate was brutal. The rigor of being back in school as a first grader for almost a full week had finally caught up with him - not to mention yesterday afternoon's four mile bike ride, playing outside, and reading for homework. By 7:30 PM and after a meltdown in the bathtub, it was time for bed. Even in bed there were lots of tears, but some snuggling, talking, and singing led to a night of hard sleep.
His mood was much improved when he woke up this morning, got dressed, and had breakfast. But after breakfast, when he was supposed to be in the bathroom brushing his teeth, he was nowhere to be found. As it turns out, he was hiding from us back in bed, upside down, refusing to go to school. My husband tried to discuss with him the consequences of such behavior, but Tate wasn't budging. Normally my husband is the voice of calm and reason in the family, but in my new found role as stay-at-home-mom, I thought I would give this new thing I've found to possess, patience, a try.
Me: Tate, what's wrong?
Tate: I don't want to go to school.
Me: Come on buddy, if you don't go to school and are acting this tired and cranky, you will have to go to bed early tonight, and you won't be able to stay up and have a fire with us. Plus, you can sleep in late the next two days because it's Friday!
Tate: You're not going to school. I don't want to go either.
Me: (Yep, he's got me there.)
Tate: You stay home and do nothing all day. I want to stay home, too.
Me: (Really! Are you kidding me? Kid, you're going down.)
Me: (Remembering to exhibit extreme patience and selecting my words carefully because he's only 6) Well, actually I do things all day long. Usually, I come home and go for a run. Then, I do laundry, make all the beds, vacuum the house, do the dishes, make you brownies, clean the litter box, take a shower.....
Tate: (Giggling and getting out bed to go brush his teeth)
Me:....... mow the grass, water the plants, whack the weeds, scrub the toilet, clean the basement, vacuum the van, pay the bills.....
Tate: Mom, you're awesome.
This moment could have escalated to tears and frustration, fighting, and a miserable start to the school day. We have been there before, and those days were the worst. Instead, it turned silly and funny, and he made my day.
Sometimes, it's the little things that mean the most. I know that, but a lot of the time, I forget. I was reminded this morning with a compliment, a giggle, and a hug and kiss on his way out the door.
His mood was much improved when he woke up this morning, got dressed, and had breakfast. But after breakfast, when he was supposed to be in the bathroom brushing his teeth, he was nowhere to be found. As it turns out, he was hiding from us back in bed, upside down, refusing to go to school. My husband tried to discuss with him the consequences of such behavior, but Tate wasn't budging. Normally my husband is the voice of calm and reason in the family, but in my new found role as stay-at-home-mom, I thought I would give this new thing I've found to possess, patience, a try.
Me: Tate, what's wrong?
Tate: I don't want to go to school.
Me: Come on buddy, if you don't go to school and are acting this tired and cranky, you will have to go to bed early tonight, and you won't be able to stay up and have a fire with us. Plus, you can sleep in late the next two days because it's Friday!
Tate: You're not going to school. I don't want to go either.
Me: (Yep, he's got me there.)
Tate: You stay home and do nothing all day. I want to stay home, too.
Me: (Really! Are you kidding me? Kid, you're going down.)
Me: (Remembering to exhibit extreme patience and selecting my words carefully because he's only 6) Well, actually I do things all day long. Usually, I come home and go for a run. Then, I do laundry, make all the beds, vacuum the house, do the dishes, make you brownies, clean the litter box, take a shower.....
Tate: (Giggling and getting out bed to go brush his teeth)
Me:....... mow the grass, water the plants, whack the weeds, scrub the toilet, clean the basement, vacuum the van, pay the bills.....
Tate: Mom, you're awesome.
This moment could have escalated to tears and frustration, fighting, and a miserable start to the school day. We have been there before, and those days were the worst. Instead, it turned silly and funny, and he made my day.
Sometimes, it's the little things that mean the most. I know that, but a lot of the time, I forget. I was reminded this morning with a compliment, a giggle, and a hug and kiss on his way out the door.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
My love-hate relationship with nature OR How trail running can be a delightful, yet terrifying experience
I love to be outside. Sitting on my deck relaxing, hanging out with friends, swimming, hiking, the sounds of birds singing, the constant buzz of whatever is buzzing, are all very soothing to me. I grew up playing outside as a kid, and it's nice to be able to get outside and enjoy the outdoors, most of the time.
Recently, I've started running on trails. Trail running has been good for me because it gives me something to focus on besides how much further or longer I have to run. The shady trees and the sound of the forest are a nice way to get lost in myself. It gives me a chance to clear my head and think. The other day, I was deep in thought, focusing on things I'd like to do in life, topics I'd like to write about, and things I needed to do to make the family unit run smoothly. Then nature started messing with me.
Let me explain.
Bugs - I like to chew gum with when I run. It keeps my mouth from getting too dry. But I also breathe with my mouth open, so sometimes, I inhale in a bug. I end up chewing gum and bugs. The thought of continuously chewing a bug until it dissolves completely grosses me out. So I stopped chewing gum while running a few months ago. Until yesterday, I forgot. Yesterday, I had cinna-gnat gum.
Spiders - Seriously? How quickly do they build webs? How do they always manage to strategically wrap their webs around my head and face? What are their plans for me if they are able to capture me?
Bunnies, squirrels, and ground squirrels - My kids think they are cute. They give them names like Stripes and Fluffly and S'mores. Not me, I hate the little bastards, always sneaking out in front of me, rustling leaves, making me wonder if its a truly terrifying larger creature about to attack.
Deer - Terrifying larger creatures like deer. I once saw an episode of The Simpsons in which Lisa, an animal lover, encounters a deer. At first, she is awed by its peaceful beauty, until it crouches and begins snarling at her. That is what I always envision from the deer I encounter on the trails. Today one ran away, and the other just stared me down, snarling, waiting till I ran by it, so it could chase me down and trample me and gore me with its wickedly sharp deer horns. They can obviously smell the fear my body is profusely emitting.
Birds - Sometimes they are beautiful, like the vibrant red cardinal flying with its mate or Woody Wood Pecker's cousin tapping on the trees. But today, a murder of crows sat high in the trees, cawing their obnoxious caws. When one swooped at me as I ran through its domain, I had no other escape than sprinting out of their territory. I'm lucky I didn't pull a hamstring.
Trees are even evil. For a moment the other day, I was thankful that a tree happened to catch me before I fell to the ground. Until I realized that I was falling because I tripped over it's strategically placed root. I trip and fall down over roots a lot while running trails; a couple of months ago I had to visit an urgent care clinic to make sure my ankle wasn't broken. Thankfully, just a bad sprain.
And finally - the unknown mysteries deep in the forest. I'm not referencing mythical beings like those found in the Twilight Series - vampires and werewolves are not real. I worry about encountering the one mountain lion spotted in town last fall. What do I even do when I see that? I can't outrun it. I can't fight it off with a stick. Even if I manage to climb a tree, it can follow me up with its razor sharp claws. Not a pleasant way to die. And don't even get me started on the mass murderers hiding in the forest. I know they're out there.
So, what started out as a pleasant, mind-clearing, crisp morning jog, turned in to a trail of terror, a nightmare of ways I could be brutally maimed and killed. The one bright spot was that at least I burned some calories. Actually, a lot of calories with all that adrenaline making me push the pace. Next time, I'll use the buddy system. At best, conversation will distract me. At worst, the rabid deer will attack my buddy first.
Recently, I've started running on trails. Trail running has been good for me because it gives me something to focus on besides how much further or longer I have to run. The shady trees and the sound of the forest are a nice way to get lost in myself. It gives me a chance to clear my head and think. The other day, I was deep in thought, focusing on things I'd like to do in life, topics I'd like to write about, and things I needed to do to make the family unit run smoothly. Then nature started messing with me.
Let me explain.
Bugs - I like to chew gum with when I run. It keeps my mouth from getting too dry. But I also breathe with my mouth open, so sometimes, I inhale in a bug. I end up chewing gum and bugs. The thought of continuously chewing a bug until it dissolves completely grosses me out. So I stopped chewing gum while running a few months ago. Until yesterday, I forgot. Yesterday, I had cinna-gnat gum.
Spiders - Seriously? How quickly do they build webs? How do they always manage to strategically wrap their webs around my head and face? What are their plans for me if they are able to capture me?
Bunnies, squirrels, and ground squirrels - My kids think they are cute. They give them names like Stripes and Fluffly and S'mores. Not me, I hate the little bastards, always sneaking out in front of me, rustling leaves, making me wonder if its a truly terrifying larger creature about to attack.
Deer - Terrifying larger creatures like deer. I once saw an episode of The Simpsons in which Lisa, an animal lover, encounters a deer. At first, she is awed by its peaceful beauty, until it crouches and begins snarling at her. That is what I always envision from the deer I encounter on the trails. Today one ran away, and the other just stared me down, snarling, waiting till I ran by it, so it could chase me down and trample me and gore me with its wickedly sharp deer horns. They can obviously smell the fear my body is profusely emitting.
Birds - Sometimes they are beautiful, like the vibrant red cardinal flying with its mate or Woody Wood Pecker's cousin tapping on the trees. But today, a murder of crows sat high in the trees, cawing their obnoxious caws. When one swooped at me as I ran through its domain, I had no other escape than sprinting out of their territory. I'm lucky I didn't pull a hamstring.
Trees are even evil. For a moment the other day, I was thankful that a tree happened to catch me before I fell to the ground. Until I realized that I was falling because I tripped over it's strategically placed root. I trip and fall down over roots a lot while running trails; a couple of months ago I had to visit an urgent care clinic to make sure my ankle wasn't broken. Thankfully, just a bad sprain.
And finally - the unknown mysteries deep in the forest. I'm not referencing mythical beings like those found in the Twilight Series - vampires and werewolves are not real. I worry about encountering the one mountain lion spotted in town last fall. What do I even do when I see that? I can't outrun it. I can't fight it off with a stick. Even if I manage to climb a tree, it can follow me up with its razor sharp claws. Not a pleasant way to die. And don't even get me started on the mass murderers hiding in the forest. I know they're out there.
So, what started out as a pleasant, mind-clearing, crisp morning jog, turned in to a trail of terror, a nightmare of ways I could be brutally maimed and killed. The one bright spot was that at least I burned some calories. Actually, a lot of calories with all that adrenaline making me push the pace. Next time, I'll use the buddy system. At best, conversation will distract me. At worst, the rabid deer will attack my buddy first.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
No Monday Worries
This is the first Sunday that I haven't worried about a Monday in the last 12 and a half years.
I quit my job as a teacher two weeks ago - just a week before I was supposed to go back to work. The thought of having to go back to my teaching job left me with such a feeling of hopelessness that my husband told me not to go back. This wasn't the first time he had said this to me, but it was the time that I finally listened.
There were many things that led me to this point, but at the end of the day, the thing that really sent me over the edge was that my job exhausted me, mentally and physically. It exhausted me to the point that I felt like every other part of my life was suffering.
When it came down to it, I finally realized that the relationships I have with my husband and two children suffered the most. I was often grumpy, impatient, and resentful. I took out my frustration on them. I felt as if they were the obstacles in my life that made my job stressful, instead of realizing that my job was the obstacle that made my life stressful. No matter what I was doing in the classroom, no matter what I did over my breaks, whether it was Thanksgiving break, Winter Break, Spring Break, or even the "104 days of summer vacation" - the weight of school always bogged me down.
So I quit.
I am so happy with my decision.
I am not far into this world of unemployment, and I know that I'm not going to be able to stay unemployed forever, but quitting my job has left me time to clear my head and think about what makes me happy. At the top of my list - I'm so excited to see my kids at the end of their school day. We come home, we talk about their day, we have a snack, we play, and we do homework, and all of this happens with no regrets - I'm not worried that I should be grading papers or planning for school. I don't think about how if my husband was already home, he could be doing these things with the kids, so I could get some work done. I don't stress over making dinner - I love to cook - because now I have the time. I don't mind doing the laundry or even putting it away, because I have the time. And during the day, when it's quiet around the house, I work on projects started long ago and think about what I am going to do so I can continue feeling this good about my family, my life, and myself. I have the time to think about creating a plan for the future, and all of it involves a happy and healthy family and self.
I will sleep well tonight - no Monday worries here.
I quit my job as a teacher two weeks ago - just a week before I was supposed to go back to work. The thought of having to go back to my teaching job left me with such a feeling of hopelessness that my husband told me not to go back. This wasn't the first time he had said this to me, but it was the time that I finally listened.
There were many things that led me to this point, but at the end of the day, the thing that really sent me over the edge was that my job exhausted me, mentally and physically. It exhausted me to the point that I felt like every other part of my life was suffering.
When it came down to it, I finally realized that the relationships I have with my husband and two children suffered the most. I was often grumpy, impatient, and resentful. I took out my frustration on them. I felt as if they were the obstacles in my life that made my job stressful, instead of realizing that my job was the obstacle that made my life stressful. No matter what I was doing in the classroom, no matter what I did over my breaks, whether it was Thanksgiving break, Winter Break, Spring Break, or even the "104 days of summer vacation" - the weight of school always bogged me down.
So I quit.
I am so happy with my decision.
I am not far into this world of unemployment, and I know that I'm not going to be able to stay unemployed forever, but quitting my job has left me time to clear my head and think about what makes me happy. At the top of my list - I'm so excited to see my kids at the end of their school day. We come home, we talk about their day, we have a snack, we play, and we do homework, and all of this happens with no regrets - I'm not worried that I should be grading papers or planning for school. I don't think about how if my husband was already home, he could be doing these things with the kids, so I could get some work done. I don't stress over making dinner - I love to cook - because now I have the time. I don't mind doing the laundry or even putting it away, because I have the time. And during the day, when it's quiet around the house, I work on projects started long ago and think about what I am going to do so I can continue feeling this good about my family, my life, and myself. I have the time to think about creating a plan for the future, and all of it involves a happy and healthy family and self.
I will sleep well tonight - no Monday worries here.
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