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!
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)