Sometimes parenthood is hard. Understatement, right? This is the drive a knife in your heart, keep you up at night kind of stuff. The shit that drives your spouse crazy because you won't relent and he drives you crazy because he can't see things through your set of lenses. It doesn't really matter what the issue is. Pick any issue; why isn't my kid talking, why isn't my kid reading, why can't my kid hit the ball, why is my kid overweight, why doesn't my kid have friends, why didn't my kid get invited, why didn't my kid get into that school, why did that person break my kid's heart, why didn't they get into medical school, why can't they find a mate, why can't they get pregnant....The anxiety can be overwhelming. There is a natural ebb and flow with parenthood. Times when it's smooth sailing, everyone is happy and healthy and we are all living the American Dream. The trick is to maintain sanity in the valleys. Learning to take deep breaths, trust and have faith.
I'm sure if you looked at a scatter plot of my life and years lived were on the X-axis and prayers uttered were on the Y-axis, you'd see points clustered randomly over time. But if you superimposed a timeline of life's events you'd see that the clusters correlate perfectly with the most stressful moments of life. I wonder if God gets sick of us and the 911 prayers. Does He feel used?
No one wants their kid to face adversity of any kind. It doesn't matter the adversity...the mean teacher, the bad coach, the bullies at school, acne, stuttering, illness...we all want to shield our babies. And no matter the age, they are always our babies.
What I continually have to wrap my mind around is the fact that they are simply on loan to us. They've been entrusted into our care for such a short period of time. And if they don't learn how to handle difficult or uncomfortable or adverse situations while they live with us, it will be so much more painful when they are not with us (and the stakes will be so much higher). Also, the big reveal here is that as much as I love my kid, there is a God in heaven who loves them even more. And that God didn't just put our kid on this planet for the pleasure and enjoyment of his/her parents. That same God in heaven has a purpose and plan for your kid that extend beyond the 18 years they live under your roof. If you kid is fortunate enough to live out their existence that is listed in actuarial table, 18 years is a fraction of their life. So, every time my stomach is in knots and I can't sleep, I hand the kid over one more time. I unclench my hands and say here you go God. He/she is yours. You dry their tears, heal their broken heart, calm their fears and you teach them how to be joyful in spite of their circumstance. And dear, precious, merciful God, show me, guide me, walk the steps for me. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. I repeat. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE F*CK I AM DOING!
And I pray and realize how small I really am. But that is okay. Because just like Horton could hear the Hoo, God can hear me and he can hear my kid. He's not a magical genie, but he is present and that's all that matters.
Breathe in and breathe out.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Bean Bags
It's been awhile since I've written. This past school year I've been busier than necessary. It hasn't been good for anyone. My family suffered, my job suffered and my friendships suffered. I've always learned things the hard way. If someone tells me no then I am going to prove them wrong. Sometimes this quality is advantageous but when you bite off more than you can chew it is not.
It's interesting who is willing to forgive you/give you some latitude. Husband-check (he's a saint). Kids-check, check. Family-check, check, check. Job-check (still functioning at a high enough level that it's only obvious to myself. Not coming to work drunk or anything). House-check minus (but there are other extenuating factors that I will describe later). Friends-mostly check, check, check, check (last time I looked they were all equally as busy and tapped out to even notice me).
Being too busy can be an addiction; a false idol; a sickness. I fully admit that I suffer from it. There is a certain feeling of satisfaction when you can keep multiple balls in the air, even if it is detrimental to others (watch out below for falling plates, bowling pins, balls, etc). Sometimes you forget to pick up a kid from school, sometimes you forget who has practice where, sometimes you don't cook dinner, sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for 2 days, sometimes the dogs don't get walked. But, damn straight, you can balance on a tightrope while peddling on a unicycle and balancing a puppy doing a handstand on your nose and juggling flaming torches at the same time. "See, God, I am worthy! I can do many things at once even if I am doing most of them at 50% effort. Love me. Need someone to balance the federal deficit. I got it. Need someone to reduce carbon emissions. Got it. Need someone to find a cure for halitosis. Got it. Why don't you just come to me, God, for all of your needs. I got 'em covered." It's exhausting.
My kids just got their report cards and all 3 did well, As and Bs, but mostly As. My report card, B- at worst, B+ at best.
There is this intangible thing called grace. Not the kind of grace that you say before meals and not the kind of grace that trained ballerinas have, but grace that is all about forgiveness and mercy and unconditional love. In my belief system (I am a Christian, Presbyterian, but Jesus is my homie), grace is something not earned, but freely given. Some days and periods of time I need it in abundance and other times I just need a trickle. Right now I am feeling like I need a Niagara Falls worth of grace. My mom used to torture my brother and I in our Southern Baptist upbringing and we'd have to get up and read the Bible and pray before school and we'd have to memorize Bible verses. Looking back, it's like anything your parents forced you to do; you can see the utility in it as an adult. So, one of my favorites is 2 Corinthians 12:9 which goes something like this “My grace is all you need". There is more surrounding it, but that is the essence. Grace is sufficient.
I think, at least for the next little while, I am going to curl up into a giant, overstuffed bean-bag full of grace and hunker down there for awhile and maybe learn a thing or two while I'm trying to be still and not wiggle. At the end of the day, no one really cares about the laundry list of things you have accomplished (unless you are uber-rich and leave a lot of money behind. Then they might care b/c it gives your money more credibility. It's not just, hey here is some anonymous hermit who saved his money his whole life and bequeathed the city a library. It's the founder of Wowie Social Media site and electronic wizardry who left his fortune to the city. I'm not that uber-rich person. I'm just messy me). What matters, I think, is the way you have lived your life. That's what I want. To have lived my life well. I just need to slow down and circle my wagons and remember what really matters. Let's hope I don't get distracted by the next shiny object and can really put myself on a slower speed.
Peace out.
It's interesting who is willing to forgive you/give you some latitude. Husband-check (he's a saint). Kids-check, check. Family-check, check, check. Job-check (still functioning at a high enough level that it's only obvious to myself. Not coming to work drunk or anything). House-check minus (but there are other extenuating factors that I will describe later). Friends-mostly check, check, check, check (last time I looked they were all equally as busy and tapped out to even notice me).
Being too busy can be an addiction; a false idol; a sickness. I fully admit that I suffer from it. There is a certain feeling of satisfaction when you can keep multiple balls in the air, even if it is detrimental to others (watch out below for falling plates, bowling pins, balls, etc). Sometimes you forget to pick up a kid from school, sometimes you forget who has practice where, sometimes you don't cook dinner, sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for 2 days, sometimes the dogs don't get walked. But, damn straight, you can balance on a tightrope while peddling on a unicycle and balancing a puppy doing a handstand on your nose and juggling flaming torches at the same time. "See, God, I am worthy! I can do many things at once even if I am doing most of them at 50% effort. Love me. Need someone to balance the federal deficit. I got it. Need someone to reduce carbon emissions. Got it. Need someone to find a cure for halitosis. Got it. Why don't you just come to me, God, for all of your needs. I got 'em covered." It's exhausting.
My kids just got their report cards and all 3 did well, As and Bs, but mostly As. My report card, B- at worst, B+ at best.
There is this intangible thing called grace. Not the kind of grace that you say before meals and not the kind of grace that trained ballerinas have, but grace that is all about forgiveness and mercy and unconditional love. In my belief system (I am a Christian, Presbyterian, but Jesus is my homie), grace is something not earned, but freely given. Some days and periods of time I need it in abundance and other times I just need a trickle. Right now I am feeling like I need a Niagara Falls worth of grace. My mom used to torture my brother and I in our Southern Baptist upbringing and we'd have to get up and read the Bible and pray before school and we'd have to memorize Bible verses. Looking back, it's like anything your parents forced you to do; you can see the utility in it as an adult. So, one of my favorites is 2 Corinthians 12:9 which goes something like this “My grace is all you need". There is more surrounding it, but that is the essence. Grace is sufficient.
I think, at least for the next little while, I am going to curl up into a giant, overstuffed bean-bag full of grace and hunker down there for awhile and maybe learn a thing or two while I'm trying to be still and not wiggle. At the end of the day, no one really cares about the laundry list of things you have accomplished (unless you are uber-rich and leave a lot of money behind. Then they might care b/c it gives your money more credibility. It's not just, hey here is some anonymous hermit who saved his money his whole life and bequeathed the city a library. It's the founder of Wowie Social Media site and electronic wizardry who left his fortune to the city. I'm not that uber-rich person. I'm just messy me). What matters, I think, is the way you have lived your life. That's what I want. To have lived my life well. I just need to slow down and circle my wagons and remember what really matters. Let's hope I don't get distracted by the next shiny object and can really put myself on a slower speed.
Peace out.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Pathways
Everyone has secrets; sins, transgressions, skeletons in the closet, fears, apprehensions. These are the things we want to keep hidden from the world and for which we will go to great lengths to disguise the truth, even from ourselves. In no way am I suggesting that we should suddenly pull all these demons out of their closets and display them for the world to see. But....what if we all lived without fear of judgment? Suddenly that nagging ache might just disappear. If we all knew that no matter what we did or didn't do, we'd still be loved and accepted then we wouldn't have to waste so much energy posturing.
When we were growing up, my mom used to say to Bill and me, "Remember who you are!". This was her admonition whenever we'd leave the house. If I was going out with my friends, going to my father's house, going back to school after a break, at the end of every phone conversation..."Remember who you are!" Mostly I would openly mock her..."yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it mom!" or "Rosa Michelle Schmidt" would be my response. What did she think? That I'd suddenly enter into a psychogenic fugue and assume a new identity? Or I'd collapse into a fit of moral turpitude and start selling pot and sleeping around? Regardless of my mockery, she'd still say it every time I walked out the door or we hung up the phone. Repetition. Consistency.
I guess this is why I suddenly said this to my middle kid as he walked out the door for school on Monday morning. Only moments before I had been lecturing him, Charlie Brown style, about choices and behavior and I could see his eyes glazing over and his agitation escalating. Fidgeting on the bar stool, he was already across the street waiting for his ride and on his way to chess club (the irony of lecturing a kid who is in the chess club on wise choices...so many layers there). The words came out of my mouth reflexively. And they made sense. And in the middle of the street, not looking back, he responded with his full, given, name. I didn't want to leave anything open to loose interpretation, so I screamed back to him, (Oh yes I did. In my pajamas, coffee cup in my hand, crazy hair and crazy eyes right there on the front porch at 7:30 am) "You are a child of the King!". He sprinted the last few steps to his friend's front door.
Sometimes we know each other's secrets. You might come to me and entrust me with some closely guarded apprehension or truth about yourself. The package can be big or small. I'm not really a brunette (I really am...just an example) or I have 3 parking tickets that I never paid and if I get pulled over in New Orleans, I'm going to jail (again, just an example. Actually I'm on the Most Wanted list for removing mattress tags). Why do we share these things? Why am I going to make someone complicit in my secret? Do we want absolution or acceptance? I think we are all just trying to find our way home, which circles back to remembering who we are.
One of the early clues with Alzheimer's Disease is an inability to find your way in familiar surroundings. You might be trying to get to the same grocery store you've been to a thousand times before and it's like you are in a house of mirrors. Or you don't remember the route home, a route traveled so many times that there are ruts in the road. If my judgment lapses and I do something out of character or if I am hiding something deep within myself I might feel lost and confused. I've gotten off the path and I'm wandering in circles like Pooh in the 100 Acre Wood.
Have you ever woken up from a bad dream and it takes you a couple of seconds to reorient yourself and realize you can let go of the fear? If someone is there to hold your hand or comfort you then the process is just a little bit easier. You can fold into the arms of your spouse, your parents or a loved one and the fear gradually subsides.
Another thing my mom always says is "I love your more today than I did yesterday and less than tomorrow." But parents are supposed to love us even when we do bad stuff. Their love is supposed to be unconditional, even if they don't like our choices.
I have a sign in my house that says, "Not all those who wander are lost" (I also have a sign that says "Be nice or leave!") and I think the phrase is correct in the sense that you have to stop and take time to smell the roses, explore, discover. But I don't think it's an endorsement to spend a good portion of your life wandering about like a Bedouin in a sandy desert or a hobo riding the rails, jumping from box car to box car. We all want our own Gypsy encampment to call home. And if I get lost and wander away from my tribe, I want you to take me by the hand and gently lead me home and to leave the judgment at the door. Soon enough we are all going to loose our way, wander off the path, and we all just need to help each other find the way home.
When we were growing up, my mom used to say to Bill and me, "Remember who you are!". This was her admonition whenever we'd leave the house. If I was going out with my friends, going to my father's house, going back to school after a break, at the end of every phone conversation..."Remember who you are!" Mostly I would openly mock her..."yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it mom!" or "Rosa Michelle Schmidt" would be my response. What did she think? That I'd suddenly enter into a psychogenic fugue and assume a new identity? Or I'd collapse into a fit of moral turpitude and start selling pot and sleeping around? Regardless of my mockery, she'd still say it every time I walked out the door or we hung up the phone. Repetition. Consistency.
I guess this is why I suddenly said this to my middle kid as he walked out the door for school on Monday morning. Only moments before I had been lecturing him, Charlie Brown style, about choices and behavior and I could see his eyes glazing over and his agitation escalating. Fidgeting on the bar stool, he was already across the street waiting for his ride and on his way to chess club (the irony of lecturing a kid who is in the chess club on wise choices...so many layers there). The words came out of my mouth reflexively. And they made sense. And in the middle of the street, not looking back, he responded with his full, given, name. I didn't want to leave anything open to loose interpretation, so I screamed back to him, (Oh yes I did. In my pajamas, coffee cup in my hand, crazy hair and crazy eyes right there on the front porch at 7:30 am) "You are a child of the King!". He sprinted the last few steps to his friend's front door.
Sometimes we know each other's secrets. You might come to me and entrust me with some closely guarded apprehension or truth about yourself. The package can be big or small. I'm not really a brunette (I really am...just an example) or I have 3 parking tickets that I never paid and if I get pulled over in New Orleans, I'm going to jail (again, just an example. Actually I'm on the Most Wanted list for removing mattress tags). Why do we share these things? Why am I going to make someone complicit in my secret? Do we want absolution or acceptance? I think we are all just trying to find our way home, which circles back to remembering who we are.
One of the early clues with Alzheimer's Disease is an inability to find your way in familiar surroundings. You might be trying to get to the same grocery store you've been to a thousand times before and it's like you are in a house of mirrors. Or you don't remember the route home, a route traveled so many times that there are ruts in the road. If my judgment lapses and I do something out of character or if I am hiding something deep within myself I might feel lost and confused. I've gotten off the path and I'm wandering in circles like Pooh in the 100 Acre Wood.
Have you ever woken up from a bad dream and it takes you a couple of seconds to reorient yourself and realize you can let go of the fear? If someone is there to hold your hand or comfort you then the process is just a little bit easier. You can fold into the arms of your spouse, your parents or a loved one and the fear gradually subsides.
Another thing my mom always says is "I love your more today than I did yesterday and less than tomorrow." But parents are supposed to love us even when we do bad stuff. Their love is supposed to be unconditional, even if they don't like our choices.
I have a sign in my house that says, "Not all those who wander are lost" (I also have a sign that says "Be nice or leave!") and I think the phrase is correct in the sense that you have to stop and take time to smell the roses, explore, discover. But I don't think it's an endorsement to spend a good portion of your life wandering about like a Bedouin in a sandy desert or a hobo riding the rails, jumping from box car to box car. We all want our own Gypsy encampment to call home. And if I get lost and wander away from my tribe, I want you to take me by the hand and gently lead me home and to leave the judgment at the door. Soon enough we are all going to loose our way, wander off the path, and we all just need to help each other find the way home.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
D.O.D.
I have insomnia. But it's not really insomnia. Recently, and when I say recently I mean the past month or so, I have been waking up at 4 am and then I can't go back to sleep. At first it's an exciting canvas of free time with no husband or children to bother me. I get up, I drink my coffee, I read, I write, I make lunches and then by 5 am I'm back in my bed and when the alarm goes off at 6 am I feel slightly hung over.
When I'm in Atlanta visiting my dad I always wake up early so I can have coffee with him. His house is about 2 square feet so I can hear him puttering around (this is a very dad word...puttering or to putter...it means to do little stuff that on it's own is not of much consequence) so I steal the opportunity to have him one on one and we go and sit on his front porch and drink coffee and talk. Dad is not a big talker. He never has been. But at 4-5 am he is at his chattiest and we have our best conversations in the world before the sun rises. His house, though no where near a beach or water for that matter, sits up on stilts so when you are on the front porch among the trees it's like you are sitting in a tree fort having a secret meeting. Even when I'm not visiting, sometimes I'll wake up early and call him on the phone or send him a text and it feels almost like we are sitting in his tree fort drinking coffee. And days, weeks or a month can go by and I can call him up or send him a text and there is never any bitterness or resentment for the missed time. No apologies or explanations needed. It's like that in our little club.
Now things haven't always been roses or butterflies in our 43 years of acquaintance. He has never really gotten mad at me or if he has he doesn't show it. He just gets silent. That is the absolute worst. Silent judgement...only you don't know if it is judgement or indifference or castigation or agreement or what. It's maddening. When I was a teenager and pushing the boundaries in mostly pretty harmless ways, I could never get a reaction out of him which was quite frustrating and when you were a mildly borderline and narcissistic adolescent as I was you could read all sorts of stuff into his silence. He's not a turtle or an ostrich. He doesn't retreat into his shell or stick his head in the sand. He's like an old oak tree that just stands there rooted despite the storm that is raging around him. Before he and my mom got divorced they would "talk" in the kitchen with the door closed. The den was adjacent to the kitchen and while my brother (who was like 2 or 4 at the time and oblivious) and I watched TV I could hear all sorts of inflections and tones and volumes in my mom's voice but no sound ever came out of my dad. If I'm allowed to speculate, I'd say that his silence is part of the demise of their relationship (among many other things). My mom, who was 23 when she married him & still working out her own issues, couldn't handle the silence. It was like water-boarding and she was the water-boardee.
I can remember 2 times in my life where I got really mad at him. I believe pissed would be the correct term to use. The first time I was a junior in college and the second time was about 5 years ago. Both times it took about a year to get all the kinks worked out. The first time I raged at him via phone and letter and in my mind and then it was over. When you rage and someone doesn't rage back I guess the storm eventually dies. The second time, after I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I was angry, he actually came out with his boxing gloves. There was no TKO but he did spar and it ended in a draw and with greater understanding for the both of us. I lost about 9 months of good communication being resentful before I finally decided to air my grievance but I was kind of proud of him for putting up a defense.
He's always reserved his opinion. Even when you ask him for it directly often he won't give it. Growing up it seemed more elusive than the Loch Ness Monster. Now, if I ask him for his opinion he doesn't come right out with it. He mulls it over for days and days and then when you least expect a response it will come to you...normally by text or email. It always catches me off guard. Not because what he has to say is so shocking but because I mostly don't expect to get it (his opinion, I mean). So I'll be waiting in line at HEB or in the car pool lane or sitting strung out on the couch at the end of the day and I'll check my phone and there it is...the golden ticket...an email or text from dad with his thoughts. Usually by that time I'm 3 or 4 minor crises removed, but I will read it and about 98% of the time it makes good, solid sense. Probably it makes sense 100% of the time but the other 2% I disagree and so discard it as the shortcomings of an older generation.
Another favorite dad display of affection is when he sends me random articles or book suggestions. Sometimes these come by email, sometimes by phone and sometimes even by mail. We are both in the health care profession so I've gotten several esoteric medically related articles. Or sometimes he'll send me a short story out of Mother Jones or some left-leaning political piece (even though I'm more right leaning, I don't mind these articles and enjoy the difference in perspective). But what I really like is when he shares his reflections on his spiritual growth or the most recent Bible passage he has read or the most recent sermon topic he has heard.
The coffee is starting to wear off and I haven't even had time to talk about the simple, yet eloquent way that he walks the walk...there has never been a time that he hasn't been helping someone else, but it is almost always in an understated and quiet way. It might be putting a new roof on someone's house at the church or spending a Saturday doing a build for Habitat or flying across the world to volunteer but there isn't fanfare or self congratulations. If he's in Vietnam or Haiti there might be photos but most of them are of the people he's met or who he is helping. I used to wonder why we didn't get a lot of gifts, but the older I get the more I realize the real gift is the example and I don't think he's ever really meant to do that; be an example. He'll tell me about the new roof he is putting on a church ladies house (this is a 67 yo man climbing up onto someone's roof, shucking shingles in the hot sun or cold air) in the same sentence he's telling me about reorganizing his work room or the dog's most recent antics.
He's a good egg, dear ole dad. And then there are his chickens...but I've gotta go refuel and make pb & js. No going back to bed today.
When I'm in Atlanta visiting my dad I always wake up early so I can have coffee with him. His house is about 2 square feet so I can hear him puttering around (this is a very dad word...puttering or to putter...it means to do little stuff that on it's own is not of much consequence) so I steal the opportunity to have him one on one and we go and sit on his front porch and drink coffee and talk. Dad is not a big talker. He never has been. But at 4-5 am he is at his chattiest and we have our best conversations in the world before the sun rises. His house, though no where near a beach or water for that matter, sits up on stilts so when you are on the front porch among the trees it's like you are sitting in a tree fort having a secret meeting. Even when I'm not visiting, sometimes I'll wake up early and call him on the phone or send him a text and it feels almost like we are sitting in his tree fort drinking coffee. And days, weeks or a month can go by and I can call him up or send him a text and there is never any bitterness or resentment for the missed time. No apologies or explanations needed. It's like that in our little club.
Now things haven't always been roses or butterflies in our 43 years of acquaintance. He has never really gotten mad at me or if he has he doesn't show it. He just gets silent. That is the absolute worst. Silent judgement...only you don't know if it is judgement or indifference or castigation or agreement or what. It's maddening. When I was a teenager and pushing the boundaries in mostly pretty harmless ways, I could never get a reaction out of him which was quite frustrating and when you were a mildly borderline and narcissistic adolescent as I was you could read all sorts of stuff into his silence. He's not a turtle or an ostrich. He doesn't retreat into his shell or stick his head in the sand. He's like an old oak tree that just stands there rooted despite the storm that is raging around him. Before he and my mom got divorced they would "talk" in the kitchen with the door closed. The den was adjacent to the kitchen and while my brother (who was like 2 or 4 at the time and oblivious) and I watched TV I could hear all sorts of inflections and tones and volumes in my mom's voice but no sound ever came out of my dad. If I'm allowed to speculate, I'd say that his silence is part of the demise of their relationship (among many other things). My mom, who was 23 when she married him & still working out her own issues, couldn't handle the silence. It was like water-boarding and she was the water-boardee.
I can remember 2 times in my life where I got really mad at him. I believe pissed would be the correct term to use. The first time I was a junior in college and the second time was about 5 years ago. Both times it took about a year to get all the kinks worked out. The first time I raged at him via phone and letter and in my mind and then it was over. When you rage and someone doesn't rage back I guess the storm eventually dies. The second time, after I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I was angry, he actually came out with his boxing gloves. There was no TKO but he did spar and it ended in a draw and with greater understanding for the both of us. I lost about 9 months of good communication being resentful before I finally decided to air my grievance but I was kind of proud of him for putting up a defense.
He's always reserved his opinion. Even when you ask him for it directly often he won't give it. Growing up it seemed more elusive than the Loch Ness Monster. Now, if I ask him for his opinion he doesn't come right out with it. He mulls it over for days and days and then when you least expect a response it will come to you...normally by text or email. It always catches me off guard. Not because what he has to say is so shocking but because I mostly don't expect to get it (his opinion, I mean). So I'll be waiting in line at HEB or in the car pool lane or sitting strung out on the couch at the end of the day and I'll check my phone and there it is...the golden ticket...an email or text from dad with his thoughts. Usually by that time I'm 3 or 4 minor crises removed, but I will read it and about 98% of the time it makes good, solid sense. Probably it makes sense 100% of the time but the other 2% I disagree and so discard it as the shortcomings of an older generation.
Another favorite dad display of affection is when he sends me random articles or book suggestions. Sometimes these come by email, sometimes by phone and sometimes even by mail. We are both in the health care profession so I've gotten several esoteric medically related articles. Or sometimes he'll send me a short story out of Mother Jones or some left-leaning political piece (even though I'm more right leaning, I don't mind these articles and enjoy the difference in perspective). But what I really like is when he shares his reflections on his spiritual growth or the most recent Bible passage he has read or the most recent sermon topic he has heard.
The coffee is starting to wear off and I haven't even had time to talk about the simple, yet eloquent way that he walks the walk...there has never been a time that he hasn't been helping someone else, but it is almost always in an understated and quiet way. It might be putting a new roof on someone's house at the church or spending a Saturday doing a build for Habitat or flying across the world to volunteer but there isn't fanfare or self congratulations. If he's in Vietnam or Haiti there might be photos but most of them are of the people he's met or who he is helping. I used to wonder why we didn't get a lot of gifts, but the older I get the more I realize the real gift is the example and I don't think he's ever really meant to do that; be an example. He'll tell me about the new roof he is putting on a church ladies house (this is a 67 yo man climbing up onto someone's roof, shucking shingles in the hot sun or cold air) in the same sentence he's telling me about reorganizing his work room or the dog's most recent antics.
He's a good egg, dear ole dad. And then there are his chickens...but I've gotta go refuel and make pb & js. No going back to bed today.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Not So Snowy Day
The kids are home from school today. This is the second day in 2 weeks where school has been cancelled because of inclement weather. Because we are in the south our city isn't equipped to deal with the teeniest amount of ice, sleet or snow. Lucky for me, I don't have to go to work today (clinic was cancelled) so I get to enjoy the day with my kids.
Regardless of your political leanings to the appropriateness of canceling school because it is cold outside, your inner child has to be yahooing with delight. As a kid, it doesn't get much better than school being canceled for any reason. I grew up in Chamblee, Georgia and I remember vividly the wonder of snow days. The only difference is we did get some real snow accumulation. There was a particular hill in my neighborhood of Huntley Hills behind the houses on Plantation Lane...many kids would gather there with sleds or toboggans or anything that would go down a hill. There were no helmets and there were certainly no adults. We'd walk back home cold and dripping wet and make Totino's Pizza Rolls and watch the Price is Right. It was just my brother and me because my mom still had to go to work. I don't remember if we had to make up those days or not because on that one day, it was absolute freedom. For my kids, it's slightly different in Houston, Texas. In the 23 years I've lived here I think we've had snow stick to the ground only twice and it wasn't more than a light dusting. We did get 2 weeks off of school for a Hurricane, but that is a different story. And because it is flatter than a pre-teen girl's chest, there is zero opportunity for sledding even if there was snow. But, you still get to sleep late, watch bad TV, play video games for hours and run back and forth between your house and your friend's house depending on whose mother is the least irritable at the time. The other difference is that my kids aren't completely unsupervised (not mom's fault...the plight of the single parent).
I suppose 35 years ago, it wasn't as big of a deal not to have a parent around all the time. But, my mom didn't really have a choice and she did the best she could. It's only by the grace of God that a lot of bad stuff didn't happen and that my brother and I didn't end up in the prison system. She was meaner than a snake and I was scared to death of her. I guess it's kind of like animals in the wild, they develop defense mechanisms to ward off any one who might try to do them harm. My mom had this scary as hell exterior so we wouldn't f*ck with her and so we'd do what we were supposed to do. In the words of Sweet Brown she must have been thinking, "I ain't got time for that!"
A couple of times I managed to get away with stuff. One afternoon my friend Cathy and I decided we wanted to make French fries and we almost burned down my house in a grease fire. It took several years to get all the smoke stains off the cabinets. Another time, same friend - Cathy, decided to teach me a lesson and not leave her supervising my younger brother while I rode my bike over to another neighborhood to visit my boyfriend who'd just been in a car accident. I had no sooner arrived at his house than the phone rang and she told me I'd better get home quick b/c my 9 year old brother had just fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. I got on my bicycle and raced home to find him lying on the couch, moaning with his arm in a temporary sling. I burst into tears. I'd like to think it was out of concern for my brother, but it was because I knew my a$$ was toast as soon as my mom found out a)I'd left my little brother and b)I went to a boy's house unsupervised. I was weeping great tears of fear. Cathy and my little brother (and by this time my neighbor Mary Ann had joined in the fun) kept up the rouse for about 10 minutes while I tried to think up all sorts of lies to tell my mother. Finally Bill popped up off the couch and scampered off somewhere to play, arm intact, and Cathy laid into me about ditching her for a boy AND leaving her with my little brother.
I doubt my kids will get into that kind of trouble, but they'll manage their own brand of mischief. The boys are the best because they tell me most things and when they don't their friends do, even if it is unintentional. I've gotten more Intel from my sons' friends just by being a fly on the wall. And thankfully my daughter has a 31 year old neighbor to confide in and I trust her (the neighbor) unquestionably.
Gonna go drink my cup of coffee in peace and torment my oldest son's friends as they have already started bullet texting him at 8 am ("Go back to bed you fool"). I guess I am DOM, daughter of Martha...
Everyone have fun today in the not snow!
Regardless of your political leanings to the appropriateness of canceling school because it is cold outside, your inner child has to be yahooing with delight. As a kid, it doesn't get much better than school being canceled for any reason. I grew up in Chamblee, Georgia and I remember vividly the wonder of snow days. The only difference is we did get some real snow accumulation. There was a particular hill in my neighborhood of Huntley Hills behind the houses on Plantation Lane...many kids would gather there with sleds or toboggans or anything that would go down a hill. There were no helmets and there were certainly no adults. We'd walk back home cold and dripping wet and make Totino's Pizza Rolls and watch the Price is Right. It was just my brother and me because my mom still had to go to work. I don't remember if we had to make up those days or not because on that one day, it was absolute freedom. For my kids, it's slightly different in Houston, Texas. In the 23 years I've lived here I think we've had snow stick to the ground only twice and it wasn't more than a light dusting. We did get 2 weeks off of school for a Hurricane, but that is a different story. And because it is flatter than a pre-teen girl's chest, there is zero opportunity for sledding even if there was snow. But, you still get to sleep late, watch bad TV, play video games for hours and run back and forth between your house and your friend's house depending on whose mother is the least irritable at the time. The other difference is that my kids aren't completely unsupervised (not mom's fault...the plight of the single parent).
I suppose 35 years ago, it wasn't as big of a deal not to have a parent around all the time. But, my mom didn't really have a choice and she did the best she could. It's only by the grace of God that a lot of bad stuff didn't happen and that my brother and I didn't end up in the prison system. She was meaner than a snake and I was scared to death of her. I guess it's kind of like animals in the wild, they develop defense mechanisms to ward off any one who might try to do them harm. My mom had this scary as hell exterior so we wouldn't f*ck with her and so we'd do what we were supposed to do. In the words of Sweet Brown she must have been thinking, "I ain't got time for that!"
A couple of times I managed to get away with stuff. One afternoon my friend Cathy and I decided we wanted to make French fries and we almost burned down my house in a grease fire. It took several years to get all the smoke stains off the cabinets. Another time, same friend - Cathy, decided to teach me a lesson and not leave her supervising my younger brother while I rode my bike over to another neighborhood to visit my boyfriend who'd just been in a car accident. I had no sooner arrived at his house than the phone rang and she told me I'd better get home quick b/c my 9 year old brother had just fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. I got on my bicycle and raced home to find him lying on the couch, moaning with his arm in a temporary sling. I burst into tears. I'd like to think it was out of concern for my brother, but it was because I knew my a$$ was toast as soon as my mom found out a)I'd left my little brother and b)I went to a boy's house unsupervised. I was weeping great tears of fear. Cathy and my little brother (and by this time my neighbor Mary Ann had joined in the fun) kept up the rouse for about 10 minutes while I tried to think up all sorts of lies to tell my mother. Finally Bill popped up off the couch and scampered off somewhere to play, arm intact, and Cathy laid into me about ditching her for a boy AND leaving her with my little brother.
I doubt my kids will get into that kind of trouble, but they'll manage their own brand of mischief. The boys are the best because they tell me most things and when they don't their friends do, even if it is unintentional. I've gotten more Intel from my sons' friends just by being a fly on the wall. And thankfully my daughter has a 31 year old neighbor to confide in and I trust her (the neighbor) unquestionably.
Gonna go drink my cup of coffee in peace and torment my oldest son's friends as they have already started bullet texting him at 8 am ("Go back to bed you fool"). I guess I am DOM, daughter of Martha...
Everyone have fun today in the not snow!
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Arduousness
Four kids would be too many. I had 2 miscarriages and I think it was because God knew I'd be a terrible mother if I had more than 3 children. As it is, with 3 kids, I'm a marginal mother at best. You see, everyone has needs. And I am supposed to attend to these needs and I do. But then at 11:30 pm I start getting resentful of neediness and then I'm just plain angry and I honestly don't care how hungry or sad or confused or scared or constipated or febrile someone might be. I just want everyone to leave me the fuck alone. Truth.
Tonight I stayed up to watch a movie with my surrogate young adult child. Side Effects. I wouldn't really recommend that you watch it with your 9 yo daughter and maybe not your 12 yo son. Aside from the lesbian love scenes and graphic heterosexual sex, the movie was a bit creepy and kinda wigged me out, so now my daughter wants me to sleep in her room and my son is asleep in my room. The 20 yo is just fine though it has made her reconsider a career in psychiatry (it might help out her cousins who will need therapy bc their mother/her aunt let them watch developmentally inappropriate movies).
Summer has been incredibly busy for us. My solution to long, hot days is to be inside an air conditioned car as much as possible and this can only be accomplished by scheduling an exponential number of activities. I don't know if this is the solution to slothfulness but it sure as hell has the potential to cause exhaustion in the driver and irritability in the participants. So far kid 1 has 2 water polo teams, swim team, chess club, youth group and Boy Scouts. Kid 2 has lacrosse team, water polo team, swim team, chess club and Boy Scouts. Kid 3 has swim team and water polo and she did a week of basketball camp and she has a weekly reading class because I thought she might be a bit slow in the reading comprehension department (then I got her standardized test scores and I realized she's been fooling me). We still have another 3 weeks of water polo, Junior Olympic water polo, youth group trip, volleyball camp and sleep away camp for all 3. And I work, part time, but it's still work. WTF am I thinking? I hate TV and video games so much that I'm chasing my tale and spending close to $10,000 to torture my kids just to avoid it? Why didn't I just pull the plug?
Honestly, I don't think it was this hard for our parents. All they had to do was yell at us for talking on the phone for too long. They didn't have to contend with social media, assassinating video games, online Minecraft weirdos, electronic envy (my 9 yo has 2 friends with an iPhone 5 and she's outraged that she can't have one). Do I lock them in a closet? Give in? Or keep hemorrhaging cash and keep them so busy that they collapse in bed every night? Do they resent me? And, if it keeps them out of rehab or jail, do I care?
I realize that none of this is funny and I'm only bitching, but tough shit. And these are all rich, white girl problems. Yesterday at the dry cleaner, the kid who took my clothes was 14 yo and he and his 2 younger sisters are spending their summer in the dry cleaner's shop because their mother works there and she has no where else for them to go. Maybe that's the kind of camp in which I need to sign up my kids?
Alright, I'm exhausted now and I've been typing when I should have been cleaning the kitchen or sleeping. My poor husband is still working and he's so tired he could use tooth picks to keep his eyes open. I guess this is how it's gonna be unless we go to year round school...Australia anyone?
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tonight I stayed up to watch a movie with my surrogate young adult child. Side Effects. I wouldn't really recommend that you watch it with your 9 yo daughter and maybe not your 12 yo son. Aside from the lesbian love scenes and graphic heterosexual sex, the movie was a bit creepy and kinda wigged me out, so now my daughter wants me to sleep in her room and my son is asleep in my room. The 20 yo is just fine though it has made her reconsider a career in psychiatry (it might help out her cousins who will need therapy bc their mother/her aunt let them watch developmentally inappropriate movies).
Summer has been incredibly busy for us. My solution to long, hot days is to be inside an air conditioned car as much as possible and this can only be accomplished by scheduling an exponential number of activities. I don't know if this is the solution to slothfulness but it sure as hell has the potential to cause exhaustion in the driver and irritability in the participants. So far kid 1 has 2 water polo teams, swim team, chess club, youth group and Boy Scouts. Kid 2 has lacrosse team, water polo team, swim team, chess club and Boy Scouts. Kid 3 has swim team and water polo and she did a week of basketball camp and she has a weekly reading class because I thought she might be a bit slow in the reading comprehension department (then I got her standardized test scores and I realized she's been fooling me). We still have another 3 weeks of water polo, Junior Olympic water polo, youth group trip, volleyball camp and sleep away camp for all 3. And I work, part time, but it's still work. WTF am I thinking? I hate TV and video games so much that I'm chasing my tale and spending close to $10,000 to torture my kids just to avoid it? Why didn't I just pull the plug?
Honestly, I don't think it was this hard for our parents. All they had to do was yell at us for talking on the phone for too long. They didn't have to contend with social media, assassinating video games, online Minecraft weirdos, electronic envy (my 9 yo has 2 friends with an iPhone 5 and she's outraged that she can't have one). Do I lock them in a closet? Give in? Or keep hemorrhaging cash and keep them so busy that they collapse in bed every night? Do they resent me? And, if it keeps them out of rehab or jail, do I care?
I realize that none of this is funny and I'm only bitching, but tough shit. And these are all rich, white girl problems. Yesterday at the dry cleaner, the kid who took my clothes was 14 yo and he and his 2 younger sisters are spending their summer in the dry cleaner's shop because their mother works there and she has no where else for them to go. Maybe that's the kind of camp in which I need to sign up my kids?
Alright, I'm exhausted now and I've been typing when I should have been cleaning the kitchen or sleeping. My poor husband is still working and he's so tired he could use tooth picks to keep his eyes open. I guess this is how it's gonna be unless we go to year round school...Australia anyone?
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:My messy home
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Summer
It's 90 degrees at 10:30 in the morning, but with the humidity it feels like 98 degrees (according to The Weather Channel app). We are barely into the third week of summer and already I sense mutiny is on the horizon. I don't think there are any correct answers on how best to occupy your kids throughout the months of June - August. If you ask my kids, who are in the throes of/approaching adolescence, they'd tell you this is their ideal schedule:
A) stay up till 12-1 am every night
B) wake up at noon everyday
C) spend the 12 hours in between either playing Black Ops, Minecraft or watching movies on Amazon. (9 yo sister would request play dates with a different friend everyday and want you to do things like, take her ice skating)
I have a problem with their schedule. Maybe it's my mom's fault because she didn't tolerate slothfulness and now I'm conditioned to be the same or more likely, I'm just mean.
I don't mind being mean, because I figure that my popularity as a parent is inversely proportional to my effectiveness. But it can be exhausting, especially since everyone has an opinion now. I had no idea how easy I had it 5 years ago when they did what they were told, more or less.
I see myself as drill sergeant and they are in my boot camp. The really terrifying thing is I have morphed into my parents: "as long as you live under my roof...."
Yesterday as my almost 13 year old was complaining about some injustice, I told him not to worry because he only had to suffer through his father and my rules for 6 more years and then he could make up his own. He was surprised at the relatively little time he has left living with us and suddenly he was little again, "Mom, don't some kids still live with their parents after college?"
Speaking of which, we have the pleasure of my 20 yo niece living with us this summer. She's finished her first 2 years of college and a decade worth of teen years and she is not that much closer to maturity than my 12 year old. Don't get me wrong, she is absolutely lovely, and a joy to have in our home and I can only hope that my kids will be as successful, academically, but adolescence seems to extend into the mid 20s. The next 15 years look bleak for us.
I think I understand why parents want to live long enough to see their own kids struggle through parenthood. There is no price tag on vindication.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
A) stay up till 12-1 am every night
B) wake up at noon everyday
C) spend the 12 hours in between either playing Black Ops, Minecraft or watching movies on Amazon. (9 yo sister would request play dates with a different friend everyday and want you to do things like, take her ice skating)
I have a problem with their schedule. Maybe it's my mom's fault because she didn't tolerate slothfulness and now I'm conditioned to be the same or more likely, I'm just mean.
I don't mind being mean, because I figure that my popularity as a parent is inversely proportional to my effectiveness. But it can be exhausting, especially since everyone has an opinion now. I had no idea how easy I had it 5 years ago when they did what they were told, more or less.
I see myself as drill sergeant and they are in my boot camp. The really terrifying thing is I have morphed into my parents: "as long as you live under my roof...."
Yesterday as my almost 13 year old was complaining about some injustice, I told him not to worry because he only had to suffer through his father and my rules for 6 more years and then he could make up his own. He was surprised at the relatively little time he has left living with us and suddenly he was little again, "Mom, don't some kids still live with their parents after college?"
Speaking of which, we have the pleasure of my 20 yo niece living with us this summer. She's finished her first 2 years of college and a decade worth of teen years and she is not that much closer to maturity than my 12 year old. Don't get me wrong, she is absolutely lovely, and a joy to have in our home and I can only hope that my kids will be as successful, academically, but adolescence seems to extend into the mid 20s. The next 15 years look bleak for us.
I think I understand why parents want to live long enough to see their own kids struggle through parenthood. There is no price tag on vindication.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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