Sunday, January 30, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Valentine of Sorts
Tonight, I watched "Hannah Montana, The Movie"....bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? Now, here I sit blubbering, with snot running down my nose thinking about being 15 years old and the heartbreak of that time in a girl's life. You have no idea who you want to be, you only know that you want the space to figure it out and the world is judging your every (mis)step. You want to feel as safe as you did when you were five and you could crawl into your daddy's lap and he would make all the bad stuff go away. And you want to be free to make your own decisions because you feel ten feet tall and you don't need anyone, especially your daddy, to tell you how to live your life.
I miss my daddy....at the strangest times and under the strangest circumstances...like at 9:52 on a Monday night when I should be folding clothes and getting the lunchboxes ready. Or when I am hanging ornaments on a tree and I unwrap the glittered Santa that he bought my mother the first year they were married. Most likely, I just miss the vision of who I wanted and needed him to be. My dad made a lot of decisions in his life that left me scarred in very deep places, but I have always been madly in love with him, regardless. And the older I get the more I realize how hard he must of tried, how scarred he was from the mistakes his parents made and I can only hope that he did the best he could. Honestly, I am not sure whether he did or not.
I know that I would not be the woman that I have come to be and that my life would not be nearly as amazing as it is today if any day before this one had not occurred exactly as it did. I know that struggling to overcome the baggage I was left with forged me into the parent that I try to be with my boys. And, in that sense, I am grateful for the experiences life has given me.
In the work I do in the court system I see hundreds of parents every year who are struggling to figure out what to do with their children under the most difficult of circumstances. A lot of them are dads who have either worked too much or not worked enough or given too much or too little and now they are faced with re-making their lives as men and as parents. It may sound unbelievable, but a lot of the children in the families I work with end up seeing more of each of their parents after the divorce than they did when their parents lived together. Because when you have your children and you don't have another parent there to share the responsibilities, you do it all...by yourself. I have been at this work for over 11 years and the parents I see now, at least the young ones, often say the same thing...."My parents were divorced and I never had my mom/dad when I was growing up. I want 'our' kids to have both of us." So, from chaos some order is created...and hopefully their children will become more capable and stable because of the chaos.
I don't know that any of these words make much sense. Maybe it is because January is a dark, sleepy month. Maybe it is leftover Hallmark sentiment from the holidays. Maybe I am feeling burned out about my job. But, regardless of where these feelings are coming from, for better or worse, this blog is where I get them out. Sometimes it is funny, sometimes it is controversial, but it is my reality. I know that writing who I am leaves me feeling vulnerable...but also gratified that I can put words to the tides of emotion.
Damn, that Hannah Montana! Now, I have to blow my nose and go pack the lunches....
Footnote: I started watching the movie with my kids before they went to bed because "there was nothing else on, Mom." I got suckered in because my youngest always wants me to tell him how things end. And don't worry, I am not just picking on dads. I feel quite certain that at some point in the near future I will put the moms in my crosshairs, too.
I miss my daddy....at the strangest times and under the strangest circumstances...like at 9:52 on a Monday night when I should be folding clothes and getting the lunchboxes ready. Or when I am hanging ornaments on a tree and I unwrap the glittered Santa that he bought my mother the first year they were married. Most likely, I just miss the vision of who I wanted and needed him to be. My dad made a lot of decisions in his life that left me scarred in very deep places, but I have always been madly in love with him, regardless. And the older I get the more I realize how hard he must of tried, how scarred he was from the mistakes his parents made and I can only hope that he did the best he could. Honestly, I am not sure whether he did or not.
I know that I would not be the woman that I have come to be and that my life would not be nearly as amazing as it is today if any day before this one had not occurred exactly as it did. I know that struggling to overcome the baggage I was left with forged me into the parent that I try to be with my boys. And, in that sense, I am grateful for the experiences life has given me.
In the work I do in the court system I see hundreds of parents every year who are struggling to figure out what to do with their children under the most difficult of circumstances. A lot of them are dads who have either worked too much or not worked enough or given too much or too little and now they are faced with re-making their lives as men and as parents. It may sound unbelievable, but a lot of the children in the families I work with end up seeing more of each of their parents after the divorce than they did when their parents lived together. Because when you have your children and you don't have another parent there to share the responsibilities, you do it all...by yourself. I have been at this work for over 11 years and the parents I see now, at least the young ones, often say the same thing...."My parents were divorced and I never had my mom/dad when I was growing up. I want 'our' kids to have both of us." So, from chaos some order is created...and hopefully their children will become more capable and stable because of the chaos.
I don't know that any of these words make much sense. Maybe it is because January is a dark, sleepy month. Maybe it is leftover Hallmark sentiment from the holidays. Maybe I am feeling burned out about my job. But, regardless of where these feelings are coming from, for better or worse, this blog is where I get them out. Sometimes it is funny, sometimes it is controversial, but it is my reality. I know that writing who I am leaves me feeling vulnerable...but also gratified that I can put words to the tides of emotion.
Damn, that Hannah Montana! Now, I have to blow my nose and go pack the lunches....
Footnote: I started watching the movie with my kids before they went to bed because "there was nothing else on, Mom." I got suckered in because my youngest always wants me to tell him how things end. And don't worry, I am not just picking on dads. I feel quite certain that at some point in the near future I will put the moms in my crosshairs, too.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Love, El-e-men-tar-y Style
So, last week, my fourth grader asked his "girlfriend" to go to the movies. After "going together" (my old-fashioned term) for the last semester of third grade and all of fourth grade, so far, I guess he figured he needed to step up his romance game before Valentine's Day. Actually, I have no idea what he was thinking because he didn't discuss the issue with me before he made his big move. However, he did tell me, once the ask had been made, that they wanted ME to take them to see The Green Hornet; I was free to stay if I wanted to but he didn't want me to sit with them.
At this point, a little background may be in order.If you have read this blog before then you know that I am a liberal, Democratic, give-everyone-a-chance, non-discriminating kind of a girl. But like a lot of liberals who become parents, I seem to be getting more conservative and judgmental as my kids get older. Not in terms of my politics, but in terms of what I want my children exposed to and how I would like to ummmm, "shape", their choices. The young "lady" in question has multi-toned hair....in the 4th grade. Actually, it looks much better this year compared to the dark roots-blonde highlighted ends 'do that she sported last year. I am not sure about her ethnic heritage but she has relatives in Texas and California. And the biggest problem I see, thus far, SHE IS NOT ON THE "A" HONOR ROLL.....SHE ISN'T EVEN ON "A-B" HONOR ROLL....I don't even think she has ever been chosen the "Kid with Character"???
Go ahead, judge me...but I am the Mom who took a pay-cut so that I could pick my kids up on my school days to ensure that homework was completed in their best handwriting, with no more than three erasures per page. I know. I am a hardass. But I am a successful, self-supporting hardass. Obviously, I understand that Honor Roll in 4th grade does not guarantee a college scholarship, but, by middle school, opportunities do come to those who excel; and both my boys excel. (Although in 2nd grade my youngest did tell me that he "didn't want to work hard enough to make A Honor Roll....A/B is fine for me, Mom!" Believe it or not I let him live and for the next six weeks I let "his grades" be his grades. At the end of the semester when his brother received a fancier certificate at Awards Assembly and more reward money for a job well done, there was never again a question of him "working hard enough"...Ah, the beauty of testosterone fueled rivalry! But, I digress.....)
Certainly, there are lots of A/B or even, heaven forbid, C students who have gone on to lead happy, productive lives...but I don't want them "going with" my fourth grader, either! And, The Green Hornet? Has he lost his mind? It is rated PG-13 for "mild drug use, language, violence and sexual situations." Which is NOT APPROPRIATE (one of my all-time favorite Mom phrases). Now that I think about it, that was probably her choice...surely, as a gentleman, he would have allowed her to choose the movie and given, her lack of academic achievement, she is probably has lots of time to go to movies rated PG-13. Or be dropped off at the skating rink on Friday nights without parental supervision. But not my True Lover....I want him to be a dreaded "Mama's Boy." The kind I married the first two times...hmmm, maybe not that kind, but I have a few more years to sort that part out.
Lest you think me cruel and overprotective, I did agree to take them to the movies; after I speak to her mother. I suggested "Gnomeo and Juliet." He said he would think about it and let me know.Given his current taste in the opposite sex, I thought it might be wise for me to keep my enemies close. UGH! How I long for the pre-school days when he "loved" sweet, naturally blonde, Mattie Lou. Now, that girl was a Keeper. She work pink tu-tus with a John Deere sweatshirt and toe socks; her family owned 225 acreas of prime farmland and her brother was a Marine. We saw her last year at the pool and she is still adorable. I could have sworn that her Mom told me she was playing soccer and t-ball....and that she was on the A Honor Roll at her school. I need to dig up her number and see if we can set up a "play" "date" sometime soon.
At this point, a little background may be in order.If you have read this blog before then you know that I am a liberal, Democratic, give-everyone-a-chance, non-discriminating kind of a girl. But like a lot of liberals who become parents, I seem to be getting more conservative and judgmental as my kids get older. Not in terms of my politics, but in terms of what I want my children exposed to and how I would like to ummmm, "shape", their choices. The young "lady" in question has multi-toned hair....in the 4th grade. Actually, it looks much better this year compared to the dark roots-blonde highlighted ends 'do that she sported last year. I am not sure about her ethnic heritage but she has relatives in Texas and California. And the biggest problem I see, thus far, SHE IS NOT ON THE "A" HONOR ROLL.....SHE ISN'T EVEN ON "A-B" HONOR ROLL....I don't even think she has ever been chosen the "Kid with Character"???
Go ahead, judge me...but I am the Mom who took a pay-cut so that I could pick my kids up on my school days to ensure that homework was completed in their best handwriting, with no more than three erasures per page. I know. I am a hardass. But I am a successful, self-supporting hardass. Obviously, I understand that Honor Roll in 4th grade does not guarantee a college scholarship, but, by middle school, opportunities do come to those who excel; and both my boys excel. (Although in 2nd grade my youngest did tell me that he "didn't want to work hard enough to make A Honor Roll....A/B is fine for me, Mom!" Believe it or not I let him live and for the next six weeks I let "his grades" be his grades. At the end of the semester when his brother received a fancier certificate at Awards Assembly and more reward money for a job well done, there was never again a question of him "working hard enough"...Ah, the beauty of testosterone fueled rivalry! But, I digress.....)
Certainly, there are lots of A/B or even, heaven forbid, C students who have gone on to lead happy, productive lives...but I don't want them "going with" my fourth grader, either! And, The Green Hornet? Has he lost his mind? It is rated PG-13 for "mild drug use, language, violence and sexual situations." Which is NOT APPROPRIATE (one of my all-time favorite Mom phrases). Now that I think about it, that was probably her choice...surely, as a gentleman, he would have allowed her to choose the movie and given, her lack of academic achievement, she is probably has lots of time to go to movies rated PG-13. Or be dropped off at the skating rink on Friday nights without parental supervision. But not my True Lover....I want him to be a dreaded "Mama's Boy." The kind I married the first two times...hmmm, maybe not that kind, but I have a few more years to sort that part out.
Lest you think me cruel and overprotective, I did agree to take them to the movies; after I speak to her mother. I suggested "Gnomeo and Juliet." He said he would think about it and let me know.Given his current taste in the opposite sex, I thought it might be wise for me to keep my enemies close. UGH! How I long for the pre-school days when he "loved" sweet, naturally blonde, Mattie Lou. Now, that girl was a Keeper. She work pink tu-tus with a John Deere sweatshirt and toe socks; her family owned 225 acreas of prime farmland and her brother was a Marine. We saw her last year at the pool and she is still adorable. I could have sworn that her Mom told me she was playing soccer and t-ball....and that she was on the A Honor Roll at her school. I need to dig up her number and see if we can set up a "play" "date" sometime soon.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I Have a Dream
Every year on the Martin Luther King, Jr., holiday the boys and I talk about the Civil Rights Movement and why we have a school holiday on the 3rd Monday of January. We look at a book I bought at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, entitled, "Free At Last", which offers a brief history of the Movement from slavery until 1968 and chronicles the lives and deaths of forty civil rights pioneers. It begins with the Reverend George Lee and finishes with the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. We choose one or two of the bios to read and look at the captions on the photographs.
Each year their perspective changes and they ask different questions than the year before. What remains unchanged is their absolute horror and disbelief that children were bombed to death in churches and "brown skin" people were attacked by law enforcement officers and dogs. Without fail they marvel at the idea that Jackson would not be allowed to go to school or play rec basketball with his buddy, Dante, or that Braeden would never be allowed to spend the night with Jacob Scales, his best friend since pre-school. And every year their disbelief gives me hope that "the times, they are a-changin'".
I am not sure when I became such a liberal, leftward-leaning Democrat; it could have been a rebellion against my parents politics or the experiment they conducted by putting me in Christian Academy during my middle school years. But, honestly, by then it was already too late. My limited exposure to the conservative Baptist church my grandparents attended had already left an impression, just not the one they intended it to leave. I realized at a very young age that everything, literally, every thing that I was interested in, was going to send me straight to Hell. I loved short skirts and tall boots, movie stars and rock n' roll, boys and flavored lip glosses and louder rock n' roll.
Because I was the only granddaughter on my Dad's side, my evangelical Papaw tried to love me, but I was just too much. Perhaps as a foreshadowing of my future career in mediation, I once told him that when I grew up I could just be a Go-Go Dancer who sang Gospel Music. Unfortunately, his brand of Christianity didn't lend itself to negotiation or seeking middle ground. So I grew up viewing organized religion (as it was practiced around me) as a hypocritical exercise designed to confine female energies and stifle free thinking.
This view was only reinforced by the rules I encountered at Christian Academy. I continued to excel academically, but I was not allowed to belong to the National Honor Society because I answered their application questions honestly....damn, that rock n' roll. It seemed that the administration was more concerned about the length of my skirt than the measure of my character. Fear was their operative language, opposed to the wondrous love of their Saviour. Unfortunately, I allowed these experiences to bias my thinking to the point that I became prejudiced against those I deemed to be narrow-minded. And this prejudice continued for many years.
Fortunately, in my "adult" life (I know, it is an oxymoron) I have consistently encountered beautiful souls who also consider themselves to be devout Christians. They concern themselves with loving action, not damning rhetoric; they embrace diversity and live their witness. Along side their church members, they pack Angel Food boxes for the hungry, tutor in the elementary schools, sponsor Scout troops and send mission teams into the community to build ramps for neighbors who have become wheelchair bound....all in the name of Christ. The Dalai Lama has been quoted as once saying, "My religion is simple. My religion is Love." That is a dogma I can subscribe to and I assure you that putting that "simple" religion into practice is a full-time gig.
It hasn't escaped my attention that a child was killed in Arizona last week at a political gathering where a female politician had recently called for more civil political dialogue. It is time for those of us who have moved back toward the center to get involved...regardless of the labels on our "religions" or our "politics". We have a legacy to fulfill for our children's sake...And today, as a day committed to service, seems like an honorable place to start. Now if I can just find my fringed skirt and my white Go-Go boots....
Each year their perspective changes and they ask different questions than the year before. What remains unchanged is their absolute horror and disbelief that children were bombed to death in churches and "brown skin" people were attacked by law enforcement officers and dogs. Without fail they marvel at the idea that Jackson would not be allowed to go to school or play rec basketball with his buddy, Dante, or that Braeden would never be allowed to spend the night with Jacob Scales, his best friend since pre-school. And every year their disbelief gives me hope that "the times, they are a-changin'".
I am not sure when I became such a liberal, leftward-leaning Democrat; it could have been a rebellion against my parents politics or the experiment they conducted by putting me in Christian Academy during my middle school years. But, honestly, by then it was already too late. My limited exposure to the conservative Baptist church my grandparents attended had already left an impression, just not the one they intended it to leave. I realized at a very young age that everything, literally, every thing that I was interested in, was going to send me straight to Hell. I loved short skirts and tall boots, movie stars and rock n' roll, boys and flavored lip glosses and louder rock n' roll.
Because I was the only granddaughter on my Dad's side, my evangelical Papaw tried to love me, but I was just too much. Perhaps as a foreshadowing of my future career in mediation, I once told him that when I grew up I could just be a Go-Go Dancer who sang Gospel Music. Unfortunately, his brand of Christianity didn't lend itself to negotiation or seeking middle ground. So I grew up viewing organized religion (as it was practiced around me) as a hypocritical exercise designed to confine female energies and stifle free thinking.
This view was only reinforced by the rules I encountered at Christian Academy. I continued to excel academically, but I was not allowed to belong to the National Honor Society because I answered their application questions honestly....damn, that rock n' roll. It seemed that the administration was more concerned about the length of my skirt than the measure of my character. Fear was their operative language, opposed to the wondrous love of their Saviour. Unfortunately, I allowed these experiences to bias my thinking to the point that I became prejudiced against those I deemed to be narrow-minded. And this prejudice continued for many years.
Fortunately, in my "adult" life (I know, it is an oxymoron) I have consistently encountered beautiful souls who also consider themselves to be devout Christians. They concern themselves with loving action, not damning rhetoric; they embrace diversity and live their witness. Along side their church members, they pack Angel Food boxes for the hungry, tutor in the elementary schools, sponsor Scout troops and send mission teams into the community to build ramps for neighbors who have become wheelchair bound....all in the name of Christ. The Dalai Lama has been quoted as once saying, "My religion is simple. My religion is Love." That is a dogma I can subscribe to and I assure you that putting that "simple" religion into practice is a full-time gig.
It hasn't escaped my attention that a child was killed in Arizona last week at a political gathering where a female politician had recently called for more civil political dialogue. It is time for those of us who have moved back toward the center to get involved...regardless of the labels on our "religions" or our "politics". We have a legacy to fulfill for our children's sake...And today, as a day committed to service, seems like an honorable place to start. Now if I can just find my fringed skirt and my white Go-Go boots....
Friday, January 14, 2011
Lucky In Love
Don't tell my husband, but I slept with another man last night...and he was a "late night" after having been out with yet a different guy. My "date" was young, dashing, very funny and looked like a J.Crew model; my "late night" was smoldering and intellectual with a very sharp wit, and he may very well be the only surviving Renaissance Man. I have known both of these men for over half my life, and with each, our intense affairs involve significant amounts of time spent in Chapel Hill. I must admit that I am utterly head over Heels in love with each one of them. But before you begin the ponder the details of my having both a long-distance marriage and an "open" long-distance marriage, let me assure you that I was completely sober last night and that the first thing I did when I awakened this morning was call my husband and tell him that I woke up in bed with another man. He laughed and said, "then that was one lucky guy!"
Background:
Although we are separated by almost seven years, my brother and I have a twin-like synergy that runs between us. And although I am rumored to have demanded that my mother "send him back" when I was told of his gender, over time, say fifteen years or so, I came to see the value of accepting his existence. Genetically, we are more similar to one another than to any other being, and experientially, we were shaped in the most similar enviornment possible. Undoubtedly, we were forged by the fires of hell that we walked through together; in a bizarre way, that was one gift our parents gave us. But the foundation of our adult relationship truly began when he came to Carolina in the fall of 1990.
Having graduated in 1989, I had the benefit of an apartment in Chapel Hill, reliable transportation, and a job with some expendable income; all valuable commodities to a freshman in those days. We ate at Breadmen's, we drank at Henderson Street and I baked him Mrs. Paul's deep dish apple pie (with Breyer's vanilla) on cold winter nights. We went to Festifall and Apple Chill, ate lasagna at the Rat and cheered our beloved Baby Blue at athletic events, when he wasn't too busy studying or hanging out with his friends. In retrospect, I was able to be the Big Sister I had not been when I was consumed with escaping Cabarrus County. As we crunched across the leaves on the Quad and marveled at the blossoms on the trees of West Franklin, we were re-forming ourselves, individually and collectively, and creating a "family" of our own...complete with a new history of shared experiences.
It has been almost 21 years since that autumn, but walking across the ice-covered bricks last night on the way from Top of the Hill to the Dean Dome was both familiar and unique; who we were becoming then has spiraled into who we are becoming again. And as an intense, sloppy battle against Virginia Tech gave way to the opening notes of our alma mater, "Hark the Sound", the years and the experiences between us melted away. We swayed left to right, and sang the words we rever, in gratitude for all that our time at Carolina had given us, and all of the victories, personal and athletic, yet to be claimed.
After the game, he headed north, returning to Charlotte for an early morning meeting and I headed east towards Morrisville and RDU. My "late night" greeted me warmly at the door of his house and then carried my overnight bag up the stairs. With both of his children sleeping soundly elsewhere, one on the living room couch, we crawled up onto his bed; laughing and taunting and jousting intellectually, surrounded by his overflowing bookcases, with his very essence displayed in photographic form on the walls around us.
He is the only friend left in my life who has journeyed with me through every incarnation, which is comforting, humbling, and at times, humiliating. He remembers details about my experiences that I have purposefully chosen to forget...but he brandishes them cheerfully and with good intent. He has supported me tirelessly and honestly...he is the person I would turn to when I could not make sense of the pieces and needed clarity. And he is also the person who escorted me last July when I married Gerald on Smather Beach....he said that Gerald was the only man I had ever been with that he found worthy of "giving me away". And so, sometime around 2:00 AM, the laughter quieted and the breathing regulated and we crawled under the quilt and slept.
Eight and a half-hours later I retrieved the Love of My Life from the Southwest Terminal and we wisked ourselves back to the land of snow removal, getting the decorations to storage (finally!) and our kids basketball games at the Rec all day tomorrow.
So, let the record show that I have loved three amazing men in less than seventeen hours. Each one of them aware of and respectful of the roles the others play in making me who I am. And now I return home to two amazing men-in-the making. By any measure, that makes ME the lucky one.
Background:
Although we are separated by almost seven years, my brother and I have a twin-like synergy that runs between us. And although I am rumored to have demanded that my mother "send him back" when I was told of his gender, over time, say fifteen years or so, I came to see the value of accepting his existence. Genetically, we are more similar to one another than to any other being, and experientially, we were shaped in the most similar enviornment possible. Undoubtedly, we were forged by the fires of hell that we walked through together; in a bizarre way, that was one gift our parents gave us. But the foundation of our adult relationship truly began when he came to Carolina in the fall of 1990.
Having graduated in 1989, I had the benefit of an apartment in Chapel Hill, reliable transportation, and a job with some expendable income; all valuable commodities to a freshman in those days. We ate at Breadmen's, we drank at Henderson Street and I baked him Mrs. Paul's deep dish apple pie (with Breyer's vanilla) on cold winter nights. We went to Festifall and Apple Chill, ate lasagna at the Rat and cheered our beloved Baby Blue at athletic events, when he wasn't too busy studying or hanging out with his friends. In retrospect, I was able to be the Big Sister I had not been when I was consumed with escaping Cabarrus County. As we crunched across the leaves on the Quad and marveled at the blossoms on the trees of West Franklin, we were re-forming ourselves, individually and collectively, and creating a "family" of our own...complete with a new history of shared experiences.
It has been almost 21 years since that autumn, but walking across the ice-covered bricks last night on the way from Top of the Hill to the Dean Dome was both familiar and unique; who we were becoming then has spiraled into who we are becoming again. And as an intense, sloppy battle against Virginia Tech gave way to the opening notes of our alma mater, "Hark the Sound", the years and the experiences between us melted away. We swayed left to right, and sang the words we rever, in gratitude for all that our time at Carolina had given us, and all of the victories, personal and athletic, yet to be claimed.
After the game, he headed north, returning to Charlotte for an early morning meeting and I headed east towards Morrisville and RDU. My "late night" greeted me warmly at the door of his house and then carried my overnight bag up the stairs. With both of his children sleeping soundly elsewhere, one on the living room couch, we crawled up onto his bed; laughing and taunting and jousting intellectually, surrounded by his overflowing bookcases, with his very essence displayed in photographic form on the walls around us.
He is the only friend left in my life who has journeyed with me through every incarnation, which is comforting, humbling, and at times, humiliating. He remembers details about my experiences that I have purposefully chosen to forget...but he brandishes them cheerfully and with good intent. He has supported me tirelessly and honestly...he is the person I would turn to when I could not make sense of the pieces and needed clarity. And he is also the person who escorted me last July when I married Gerald on Smather Beach....he said that Gerald was the only man I had ever been with that he found worthy of "giving me away". And so, sometime around 2:00 AM, the laughter quieted and the breathing regulated and we crawled under the quilt and slept.
Eight and a half-hours later I retrieved the Love of My Life from the Southwest Terminal and we wisked ourselves back to the land of snow removal, getting the decorations to storage (finally!) and our kids basketball games at the Rec all day tomorrow.
So, let the record show that I have loved three amazing men in less than seventeen hours. Each one of them aware of and respectful of the roles the others play in making me who I am. And now I return home to two amazing men-in-the making. By any measure, that makes ME the lucky one.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Artic Ramblings
Another day of "quality time" with the boys...my fourth in a row. If you are counting that is ninety-six plus hours of putting any agenda that I might have for life to the side while I referee and serve meals and make people read...ON A SNOW DAY! In my day it was the starving children in Africa who were dying while I pushed food around my supper plate. Now, I use all the children in the war-torn countries who risk their lives to be able to go to school and learn how to read! Horrors! I am now employing the same tactics that my mentally questionable parents used. But I digress....
It isn't as if there are families waiting to have their custody cases heard by the court systems in any of the three counties where I am suppose to be working; I am sure the legal system grinds to a halt each night when the Powers That Be determine that my children will not be educated for another day. It isn't like there are Christmas decorations waiting to be taken to storage....or off the shriveled trunk which still stands in my living room.
How dare you judge! Historically, it has only been four days since the hypothetical "Wise Men" visited Little Baby Jesus in Bethlehem. I bet Mary didn't have her ornaments down by January 11th either. Oh, wait...she was in a barn trying to get an infant saviour to sleep in a manger...probably didn't have time to "deck the halls." But I digress....
This morning I did what any deliberate but unhinged breeder would do when faced with the prospect of more "quality time" with their offspring. I hopped on the cell phone and set up separate playdates to be held "offsite". Which means my children would: a. not be together, b. not be in my house and c. not be together in my house. Fortunately, the majority of my Rowdy Girls are also the mothers of rowdy boys. And they, too, were feeling the strain of all that quality. Or at least they were answering my calls, which I took as a sign of divine intervention. My reward for being shrewd, cunning and in possesion of an Explorer with 4-wheel drive, was that I spent the majority of my Tuesday sitting in the kitchen of the Strongest Woman I Know while our sons played wrestling games on the Wii. True, these games were rated "T" for teen. Which means that Ray Mysterio and Cane actually spurt blood while they are beating the shit out of each other, virtually. Granted, TV wrestling might not be the real thing but people get seriously injured on the Wii version.
How dare you judge! While I confess that my 8 year old was playing a "T" rated game, technically, it occurred "offsite" and I am not in a position to tell another mother what is acceptable in her living room. Except I am the person who is always telling everyone, even strangers, how to raise their children and conduct their lives. So, go ahead. Criticize. I did what I had to do to get me through the day and no one got hurt...except Wii Ray Mysterio, that is.
I also managed to freeze my toes off having a fifteen minute snow ball war with my youngest and his visitee, followed by a thirty-second ride on the snow tube.I bet you thought I was going to say that I was freezing my ass off. But when you add my snow-related weight gain to my holiday-related weight gain, I think it is safe to "ass"-ume that technically, it would take weeks for a southeastern blizzard to even glaze my ass. Although, if I thought it would help, I would stand outside in said blizzard while I gorge myself on refined sugar....and cheese products? What is it about being stranded with your loved ones that makes you want to consume massive quantities of cheese? One more day of quality time and I will be a one-woman stimulus package for the entire dairy industry. Butt, I digress.....
It isn't as if there are families waiting to have their custody cases heard by the court systems in any of the three counties where I am suppose to be working; I am sure the legal system grinds to a halt each night when the Powers That Be determine that my children will not be educated for another day. It isn't like there are Christmas decorations waiting to be taken to storage....or off the shriveled trunk which still stands in my living room.
How dare you judge! Historically, it has only been four days since the hypothetical "Wise Men" visited Little Baby Jesus in Bethlehem. I bet Mary didn't have her ornaments down by January 11th either. Oh, wait...she was in a barn trying to get an infant saviour to sleep in a manger...probably didn't have time to "deck the halls." But I digress....
This morning I did what any deliberate but unhinged breeder would do when faced with the prospect of more "quality time" with their offspring. I hopped on the cell phone and set up separate playdates to be held "offsite". Which means my children would: a. not be together, b. not be in my house and c. not be together in my house. Fortunately, the majority of my Rowdy Girls are also the mothers of rowdy boys. And they, too, were feeling the strain of all that quality. Or at least they were answering my calls, which I took as a sign of divine intervention. My reward for being shrewd, cunning and in possesion of an Explorer with 4-wheel drive, was that I spent the majority of my Tuesday sitting in the kitchen of the Strongest Woman I Know while our sons played wrestling games on the Wii. True, these games were rated "T" for teen. Which means that Ray Mysterio and Cane actually spurt blood while they are beating the shit out of each other, virtually. Granted, TV wrestling might not be the real thing but people get seriously injured on the Wii version.
How dare you judge! While I confess that my 8 year old was playing a "T" rated game, technically, it occurred "offsite" and I am not in a position to tell another mother what is acceptable in her living room. Except I am the person who is always telling everyone, even strangers, how to raise their children and conduct their lives. So, go ahead. Criticize. I did what I had to do to get me through the day and no one got hurt...except Wii Ray Mysterio, that is.
I also managed to freeze my toes off having a fifteen minute snow ball war with my youngest and his visitee, followed by a thirty-second ride on the snow tube.I bet you thought I was going to say that I was freezing my ass off. But when you add my snow-related weight gain to my holiday-related weight gain, I think it is safe to "ass"-ume that technically, it would take weeks for a southeastern blizzard to even glaze my ass. Although, if I thought it would help, I would stand outside in said blizzard while I gorge myself on refined sugar....and cheese products? What is it about being stranded with your loved ones that makes you want to consume massive quantities of cheese? One more day of quality time and I will be a one-woman stimulus package for the entire dairy industry. Butt, I digress.....
Monday, January 10, 2011
Enough is Enough
When is Enough...enough? Enough money. Enough happiness. Enough chaos. Enough love. At what point exactly does enough become too much...and who is responsible for determining these parameters?
It seems that the life inside my head is one of constant assessment and patrolling the perimeter of my responsibilities to calculate time, distance, finances, the tasks to be accomplished, the level of mutiny among the troops, etc. At least 1,067 times a day, I find myself saying "I have had enough!" Often, this phrase is followed by some command as to how my children need to fill in the blank...."settle down", "get your shoes on", "finish your homework", "stop brutalizing your brother"......and on and on and on.
When the boys were smaller it seemed as if every one of our days fell under the heading of either "monkeys" or "bears." If they weren't climbing and swinging from every surface while they peed and pooped and cried to be fed, then they were rummaging through cabinets and drawers like ravenous bears at a campsite. I remember thinking frequently during this period, "Oh my God...These children are endless pits of need" and counting the minutes until I put them down for their naps. A lot of nights I sobbed to myself, thinking about how selfish I was and how adorable they were sleeping in their feetie pajamas and how I would be so much more patient the next day. And then the next day would come, way too early, and by the 10th or 11th hour, there I was, pulling out my hair and counting the seconds until I could put them to bed.
Please understand that I love my children, truly, madly, deeply. I love their quirky personalities and how their faces scrunch up when they are angry and listening to them read for twenty minutes each night. But I also
I remember crying tears of joy and relief the first night that I was able to tell my oldest to go get in the shower and he did....alone. Then he washed himself...alone...with soap and a towel and everything! I caught a glimpse of the Promised Land that night and I never looked back. Now they dress themselves and pour their own juice/water* and wipe their own tails; but sometimes, I still check to see if they are clean.
(*There are hardly ever sodas on Mom's watch because on his days, Dad lets them drink Mountain Dew...and eat pizza or chicken nuggets every night...and skip their reading...which is why I have to be the Green Bean Bitch who makes them read on the WEEKENDS!)
I am probably more strict of than the majority of my friends who are parents. The boys and I have a family joke where I will tell them, "I know...say it with me..." and we will recite together, "My Mom is the meanest Mom ever!" (At least I think they are still joking when they say it.) Apparently I am mean because I love my children enough to make them do things for themselves; even if they don't want to, which is often. And I love them enough to make them wait until they have saved their money to make a big purchase. Or if I do have a weak moment, give in and buy the Wii game or model car they can not afford, then I love them enough to let their purchase sit on the top shelf of my closet until they have the money to complete our transaction. Because part of my job is to prepare them for a world where the independent people who can delay gratification get advanced degrees, increase their earning potential and live more comfortable lives. (These folks can also afford to put their aged parents in more posh "care facilities", but rest assured that my motivations are pure.)
But I am increasingly aware that sometimes, my particular brand of "loving them enough" is really too much. Like when I call them down for laughing so loudly or being too silly. Honestly, are these behaviors I really need to correct? Or last week when I was "explaining" to them why it was a bad idea to aggravate each other because eventually it would lead to them putting their hands on each other which would eventually lead to unpleasant consequences. My oldest told me, "Mom! We aren't mad at each other. That's just the way boys are together." Lucky for me, my oldest is brash and opinionated and outspoken (must get it from his Father's people). So he is the one who will point out the obvious to me or gently call "B-S" when I am acting hypocritically. Like the time I spanked him for hitting his brother. That day I learned that hitting anything on fire and filled with testosterone is highly unlikely to correct the situation.
Fortunately, his brother doesn't listen to anything I say....he never has. He moves in his own time, does things his own way and he is unusually quiet and sneaky when it serves his purpose. If I am brutally honest, I will admit that I admire his defiant "Braeden-ness" and I worry much less about how badly I might be screwing him up. Braeden is as resilient as Jackson is sensitive. But they have also taught me that I can not afford to paint either one of them with such broad strokes. Because daily they astound me with their intelligence and complexity.
Undoubtedly, at many points in their lives, one of them will lie to me and the other will swear it is the truth, and I will not know what to believe. I only hope that on those days I will love them Enough to want them to take some risks and enjoy their lives and build their bonds, whatever form that may take. Statistically speaking, they will probably be on this journey longer than I will and I am comforted by the fact that they will probably have each other to lean on. On my best days, I have total acceptance of the fact that they are the wise ones sent here from some more loving place, to teach me the lessons I need to learn. You know, the ones involving patience and self-control. The ones where a 45-year old manages herself to a higher level than she should expect from an 8-year old or a 10-year old. I can only pray to the Universe that it will be Enough.
It seems that the life inside my head is one of constant assessment and patrolling the perimeter of my responsibilities to calculate time, distance, finances, the tasks to be accomplished, the level of mutiny among the troops, etc. At least 1,067 times a day, I find myself saying "I have had enough!" Often, this phrase is followed by some command as to how my children need to fill in the blank...."settle down", "get your shoes on", "finish your homework", "stop brutalizing your brother"......and on and on and on.
When the boys were smaller it seemed as if every one of our days fell under the heading of either "monkeys" or "bears." If they weren't climbing and swinging from every surface while they peed and pooped and cried to be fed, then they were rummaging through cabinets and drawers like ravenous bears at a campsite. I remember thinking frequently during this period, "Oh my God...These children are endless pits of need" and counting the minutes until I put them down for their naps. A lot of nights I sobbed to myself, thinking about how selfish I was and how adorable they were sleeping in their feetie pajamas and how I would be so much more patient the next day. And then the next day would come, way too early, and by the 10th or 11th hour, there I was, pulling out my hair and counting the seconds until I could put them to bed.
Please understand that I love my children, truly, madly, deeply. I love their quirky personalities and how their faces scrunch up when they are angry and listening to them read for twenty minutes each night. But I also
I remember crying tears of joy and relief the first night that I was able to tell my oldest to go get in the shower and he did....alone. Then he washed himself...alone...with soap and a towel and everything! I caught a glimpse of the Promised Land that night and I never looked back. Now they dress themselves and pour their own juice/water* and wipe their own tails; but sometimes, I still check to see if they are clean.
(*There are hardly ever sodas on Mom's watch because on his days, Dad lets them drink Mountain Dew...and eat pizza or chicken nuggets every night...and skip their reading...which is why I have to be the Green Bean Bitch who makes them read on the WEEKENDS!)
I am probably more strict of than the majority of my friends who are parents. The boys and I have a family joke where I will tell them, "I know...say it with me..." and we will recite together, "My Mom is the meanest Mom ever!" (At least I think they are still joking when they say it.) Apparently I am mean because I love my children enough to make them do things for themselves; even if they don't want to, which is often. And I love them enough to make them wait until they have saved their money to make a big purchase. Or if I do have a weak moment, give in and buy the Wii game or model car they can not afford, then I love them enough to let their purchase sit on the top shelf of my closet until they have the money to complete our transaction. Because part of my job is to prepare them for a world where the independent people who can delay gratification get advanced degrees, increase their earning potential and live more comfortable lives. (These folks can also afford to put their aged parents in more posh "care facilities", but rest assured that my motivations are pure.)
But I am increasingly aware that sometimes, my particular brand of "loving them enough" is really too much. Like when I call them down for laughing so loudly or being too silly. Honestly, are these behaviors I really need to correct? Or last week when I was "explaining" to them why it was a bad idea to aggravate each other because eventually it would lead to them putting their hands on each other which would eventually lead to unpleasant consequences. My oldest told me, "Mom! We aren't mad at each other. That's just the way boys are together." Lucky for me, my oldest is brash and opinionated and outspoken (must get it from his Father's people). So he is the one who will point out the obvious to me or gently call "B-S" when I am acting hypocritically. Like the time I spanked him for hitting his brother. That day I learned that hitting anything on fire and filled with testosterone is highly unlikely to correct the situation.
Fortunately, his brother doesn't listen to anything I say....he never has. He moves in his own time, does things his own way and he is unusually quiet and sneaky when it serves his purpose. If I am brutally honest, I will admit that I admire his defiant "Braeden-ness" and I worry much less about how badly I might be screwing him up. Braeden is as resilient as Jackson is sensitive. But they have also taught me that I can not afford to paint either one of them with such broad strokes. Because daily they astound me with their intelligence and complexity.
Undoubtedly, at many points in their lives, one of them will lie to me and the other will swear it is the truth, and I will not know what to believe. I only hope that on those days I will love them Enough to want them to take some risks and enjoy their lives and build their bonds, whatever form that may take. Statistically speaking, they will probably be on this journey longer than I will and I am comforted by the fact that they will probably have each other to lean on. On my best days, I have total acceptance of the fact that they are the wise ones sent here from some more loving place, to teach me the lessons I need to learn. You know, the ones involving patience and self-control. The ones where a 45-year old manages herself to a higher level than she should expect from an 8-year old or a 10-year old. I can only pray to the Universe that it will be Enough.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Reality Revealed
Here I sit at 9:28PM on Sunday Night, looking at my "to-do" list and the 18 items left to be completed before sunrise. I am half-watching "Desperate Housewives" and flipping back and forth to FoxSouth in hopes that the Blue Devils are losing to the Terrapins. I know, some days I HATE DOOK more than I actually LOVE CAROLINA. This isn't one of those days, I am just hopeful.
I have been such a Bitch today. I took the boys to see the "Bodies Revealed" exhibit at the Greensboro Natural Science Center and it was truly astounding. A series of encased bones, brains, muscles and organs preserved from actual humans by a polymer process. Cross-sections of blood vessels and arteries so intricate that getting out of bed in the morning seems miraculous. (Duke 51, Maryland 49). Did you know that your heart beats 100,000 times a day and 36 million times a year? And that if you lived to be 70 your heart will have pumped 1,000,000 barrels of blood, enough to fill three supertankers? Well, you do now.
Of course, my boys were more interested in why the male pelvis bones were connected at "the privates" and the female pelvic bones were not. For the life of me I could not find a scientific way to tell them that, twice upon a time, that opening had allowed me to push out their ten-pound heads! The tour guide in the spiffy white lab coat told us that all of the human specimens on exhibit came from China, originally. Given that all of the bladders on display were at least twice the size of the stomachs under glass, it was obvious that these specimens had not come from the Deep South!
The boys handled the "Bodies" exhibit pretty well; it wasn't nearly as gross as we had feared. But during the other 9 hours they were awake today, I could have cut them into scientific specimens myself. When they were not bickering, they were belching and farting...out loud...in public...and laughing hilariously. And every time I asked them to do something, they either snorted or told me, "No!"....out loud....in public...and then smirked at each other. Which, if continued, will definitely make them gaseous, because I am going to staple their mouths shut and they will both be breathing out of their respective asses!
Actually, part of the problem could have been me. Some days I wake up like Ghandi, peaceful and full of gratitude, and some days I wake up like the UnaBomber, crazy, unpredictable and explosive. In the interest of full disclosure I can't take credit for this analogy; I swear to the Universal Being of Your Choice that I once paid a therapist $90 per hour to describe me in those exact terms. (Shit! Duke 71, Maryland 64....final score...it's been that kind of day.) If you read this blog, then you know that the term "elusive balance" follows my name in the address and that is not by happenstance. For me, balance is akin to planting your tail on a flagpole. There will not be many days that you are at one with the pole, sitting up pretty and straight, and there will not be many days that you are facedown in the grass. Which means you had best get accustomed to the adjusting...and today my ass muscles (a total of 26 in both cheeks) were hurting.
Oh well, tomorrow is Monday and I have just been informed via phone message from Dr. Rodney Shotwell, Superintendent of the Rockingham County Schools, that my hellions will be coming home tomorrow at 11:00 AM. And given that the almighty meteorologists are predicting an 80% chance of snow and ice for at least twenty-four hours, we are going to have a tremendous amount of quality time together this week. Stay tuned to see how we all adjust!
I have been such a Bitch today. I took the boys to see the "Bodies Revealed" exhibit at the Greensboro Natural Science Center and it was truly astounding. A series of encased bones, brains, muscles and organs preserved from actual humans by a polymer process. Cross-sections of blood vessels and arteries so intricate that getting out of bed in the morning seems miraculous. (Duke 51, Maryland 49). Did you know that your heart beats 100,000 times a day and 36 million times a year? And that if you lived to be 70 your heart will have pumped 1,000,000 barrels of blood, enough to fill three supertankers? Well, you do now.
Of course, my boys were more interested in why the male pelvis bones were connected at "the privates" and the female pelvic bones were not. For the life of me I could not find a scientific way to tell them that, twice upon a time, that opening had allowed me to push out their ten-pound heads! The tour guide in the spiffy white lab coat told us that all of the human specimens on exhibit came from China, originally. Given that all of the bladders on display were at least twice the size of the stomachs under glass, it was obvious that these specimens had not come from the Deep South!
The boys handled the "Bodies" exhibit pretty well; it wasn't nearly as gross as we had feared. But during the other 9 hours they were awake today, I could have cut them into scientific specimens myself. When they were not bickering, they were belching and farting...out loud...in public...and laughing hilariously. And every time I asked them to do something, they either snorted or told me, "No!"....out loud....in public...and then smirked at each other. Which, if continued, will definitely make them gaseous, because I am going to staple their mouths shut and they will both be breathing out of their respective asses!
Actually, part of the problem could have been me. Some days I wake up like Ghandi, peaceful and full of gratitude, and some days I wake up like the UnaBomber, crazy, unpredictable and explosive. In the interest of full disclosure I can't take credit for this analogy; I swear to the Universal Being of Your Choice that I once paid a therapist $90 per hour to describe me in those exact terms. (Shit! Duke 71, Maryland 64....final score...it's been that kind of day.) If you read this blog, then you know that the term "elusive balance" follows my name in the address and that is not by happenstance. For me, balance is akin to planting your tail on a flagpole. There will not be many days that you are at one with the pole, sitting up pretty and straight, and there will not be many days that you are facedown in the grass. Which means you had best get accustomed to the adjusting...and today my ass muscles (a total of 26 in both cheeks) were hurting.
Oh well, tomorrow is Monday and I have just been informed via phone message from Dr. Rodney Shotwell, Superintendent of the Rockingham County Schools, that my hellions will be coming home tomorrow at 11:00 AM. And given that the almighty meteorologists are predicting an 80% chance of snow and ice for at least twenty-four hours, we are going to have a tremendous amount of quality time together this week. Stay tuned to see how we all adjust!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Sports Talk
fa-nat-ic (fuh-nat-ik) noun A person motivated by irrational enthusiasm (as for a cause);
adjective Marked by intense devotion to a cause or idea
I am a sports fanatic. I have been since the second grade when I discovered that my crush, Todd Brandon, was a Dallas Cowboys Fan. On my next trip to the school library I checked out a book about the team and by the end of the week I was discussing Roger Staubach and Ed "Too Tall" Jones as if they were my neighbors across the street. Luckily for me, Todd Brandon was a true sports fan and not just a horny second grader who liked the Dallas Cheerleaders, because I spent the whole season chatting him up about football and then he started "going with" Lisa Ritch...a girly, petite brunette!
The Todd Brandon Experience taught me that one key to operating in a man's world was having a working knowledge of sports. My daddy was a self-employed mechanic and I grew up in Nascar Country, so I already had a taste for loud diesel trucks and fast cars. But "sports talk" allowed me private, uninterrupted access to my dad without getting my hands greasy. Growing up, the only weekly televised sports events beyond pro football were ACC basketball games on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Being the consummate 1980's woman, my mother was addicted to "Dynasty", which came on at 9:00 PM on Wednesday nights. So, every week it was me and my dad, sitting on the edge of my canopy bed, watching the TarHeels on an 18" black and white television because my mom had commandeered the living room. The weeks they did not play on TV, which were rare, we listened to Woody Durham call the games on 1110 WBT-AM. In 1978 when the TarHeels played in Charlotte in the North-South Doubleheader, my dad and I were there in person. And on January 17, 1979, when Dudley Bradley stole the in-bound pass and scored with less than two seconds to beat the Wolfpack 70-69, we collapsed my canopy bed celebrating "our" victory.
At some point in the midst of all this, I began to genuinely enjoy watching sports. By the sixth grade I was 5'9", overly well-endowed and extremely uncomfortable with my body shape so I was not interested in participating in sports directly. Technically, I was a member of the basketball team during my junior high years, but I did not play and I liked it that way. (My lack of enthusiasm drove my dad insane!) I was a cheerleader for several years in high school, but these were the years before cheerleading became a competitive sport and they only needed my strong back and broad shoulders so the petite brunettes would have a place to build their stunts.
And now I am the mother of two athletes...hard workers with some basic skills, that coaches choose in the first round of the "drafts" they have at the rec before each season. "We" play soccer (fall and spring), basketball (winter and summer) and my youngest also plays baseball. Amazingly, I have given birth to human beings who can score baskets, block goals and dribble with both hands while they push the ball down the court. When Braeden steps up to home plate, the opposing coaches tell their outfielders to back up and I swell with pride! Watching my children compete has taught me good sportsmanship and proper etiquette. If I can't say something nice I definitely don't scream it loud enough for others to hear (anymore) and I NEVER go onto the field or the court if they are hurt unless they give me "The Look." Even then I have been instructed to proceed very slowly and cautiously in case I have misinterpreted their intentions.
Granted, my love of sports began as a way to impress a boy and now I am trying to make an impression on the two boys I cart to practices and games each week. Sports gave me a way to communicate with a man I might not have known at all otherwise and to this day when family conversations get too tense, one of us will say, "Hey! How 'bout them TarHeels?" Sports gave me a place to belong in the larger collective and a way to instantly recognize those in my baby-blue tribe. And sports taught me the importance of always traveling through life with a Rowdy group of girls to help you plan and plot your adventures.
Footnote: While I was writing this blog I was watching an ESPN feature on my man crush, Tim Tebow. Undoubtedly, he is too conservative for me and I feel certain that he might find me a little too "experienced" for his taste. But believe me when I say, that boy is Fresh Cougar Meat.
adjective Marked by intense devotion to a cause or idea
I am a sports fanatic. I have been since the second grade when I discovered that my crush, Todd Brandon, was a Dallas Cowboys Fan. On my next trip to the school library I checked out a book about the team and by the end of the week I was discussing Roger Staubach and Ed "Too Tall" Jones as if they were my neighbors across the street. Luckily for me, Todd Brandon was a true sports fan and not just a horny second grader who liked the Dallas Cheerleaders, because I spent the whole season chatting him up about football and then he started "going with" Lisa Ritch...a girly, petite brunette!
The Todd Brandon Experience taught me that one key to operating in a man's world was having a working knowledge of sports. My daddy was a self-employed mechanic and I grew up in Nascar Country, so I already had a taste for loud diesel trucks and fast cars. But "sports talk" allowed me private, uninterrupted access to my dad without getting my hands greasy. Growing up, the only weekly televised sports events beyond pro football were ACC basketball games on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Being the consummate 1980's woman, my mother was addicted to "Dynasty", which came on at 9:00 PM on Wednesday nights. So, every week it was me and my dad, sitting on the edge of my canopy bed, watching the TarHeels on an 18" black and white television because my mom had commandeered the living room. The weeks they did not play on TV, which were rare, we listened to Woody Durham call the games on 1110 WBT-AM. In 1978 when the TarHeels played in Charlotte in the North-South Doubleheader, my dad and I were there in person. And on January 17, 1979, when Dudley Bradley stole the in-bound pass and scored with less than two seconds to beat the Wolfpack 70-69, we collapsed my canopy bed celebrating "our" victory.
At some point in the midst of all this, I began to genuinely enjoy watching sports. By the sixth grade I was 5'9", overly well-endowed and extremely uncomfortable with my body shape so I was not interested in participating in sports directly. Technically, I was a member of the basketball team during my junior high years, but I did not play and I liked it that way. (My lack of enthusiasm drove my dad insane!) I was a cheerleader for several years in high school, but these were the years before cheerleading became a competitive sport and they only needed my strong back and broad shoulders so the petite brunettes would have a place to build their stunts.
And now I am the mother of two athletes...hard workers with some basic skills, that coaches choose in the first round of the "drafts" they have at the rec before each season. "We" play soccer (fall and spring), basketball (winter and summer) and my youngest also plays baseball. Amazingly, I have given birth to human beings who can score baskets, block goals and dribble with both hands while they push the ball down the court. When Braeden steps up to home plate, the opposing coaches tell their outfielders to back up and I swell with pride! Watching my children compete has taught me good sportsmanship and proper etiquette. If I can't say something nice I definitely don't scream it loud enough for others to hear (anymore) and I NEVER go onto the field or the court if they are hurt unless they give me "The Look." Even then I have been instructed to proceed very slowly and cautiously in case I have misinterpreted their intentions.
Granted, my love of sports began as a way to impress a boy and now I am trying to make an impression on the two boys I cart to practices and games each week. Sports gave me a way to communicate with a man I might not have known at all otherwise and to this day when family conversations get too tense, one of us will say, "Hey! How 'bout them TarHeels?" Sports gave me a place to belong in the larger collective and a way to instantly recognize those in my baby-blue tribe. And sports taught me the importance of always traveling through life with a Rowdy group of girls to help you plan and plot your adventures.
Footnote: While I was writing this blog I was watching an ESPN feature on my man crush, Tim Tebow. Undoubtedly, he is too conservative for me and I feel certain that he might find me a little too "experienced" for his taste. But believe me when I say, that boy is Fresh Cougar Meat.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
17 Hours of Gratitude
"Well I was born in a small town....And I live in a small town..." - John Cougar Mellencamp
I have a very small life, cosmically speaking. I do live in a small town, in a truly tiny house. I spend the bulk of my days transporting people to and from school, doing homework, and then transporting those same people to and from their practices, games, performances and activities. In between all the chicken nuggets and dishes and laundry I try to squeeze in an appearance at my full-time job. It is a "simply complicated", very small life, cosmically speaking.
But I love my life. It is satisfying to my soul and it rings out with laughter frequently. Of course, being able to laugh at myself ensures that I am constantly entertained! I have "seen it all in a small town" and I have "had myself a ball in a small town"!
When my oldest son was born I was gripped with a fear like nothing I had ever experienced. From the moment I got pregnant with him I was consumed with the kind of life-altering love that brings as its' companion a gut-wrenching worry about losing your beloved. For many months I would stand in his doorway every night at the precise moment that he had been born and give praise to All That is Good that for being able to be his Mom for one more day. (I know it sounds selfless, but I was up all hours of every night anyway!) I knew then that the only defense I would have against this mortal fear was Gratitude. The only comfort I could conceive in the event of a horrific "what if", was to feel assured that I valued both of my children as much as I was capable while I was blessed with them. Granted, some days I am more capable than other days. And some days I fail so miserably that I sleep on the floor of their room until the morning when I can begin my quest to show them my love all over again. But I digress....
Because I have worked persistently for a long period of time to arrange my small life as it is now, and because gratitude is my only defense against fear, I decided that for at least one day, I would take note and make note of the details that make my life so grand. I call it "17 Hours of Gratitude." I humbly submit the following list of things that I gave thanks for today:
1. Breath.
2. Hot Water that dispenses merely because I turn the knob.
3. Diet Dr. Pepper.
4. Children who wake up with tousled hair, sleepy in their eyes and occasionally, with minimal fuss.
5. A pinkish orange sunrise at 7:19 AM.
6. My "fat" clothes - Black knee-length pencil skirt and a stylish, but forgiving, purple jacket.
7. Clear nail polish to repair the runs I ripped in my panty hose while putting them on for the first time.
8. A flexible work schedule that allows me to be late...again...see #6 and #7 above.
9. Cheese and crackers for breakfast....and lunch.
10. "Found" time...created when my 12:00 appointment did not show and did not call to reschedule.
11. Making plans with my Rowdy Girls for a Girls Night Out next weekend.
12. Flavored lip gloss from my Christmas stocking.
13. No new messages at any of my three office locations.
14. Being able to pick my boys up from school on my days.
16. Eminem's new song on 105.7 (loud!) while I am waiting in the car-rider.
17. Changing into my "real life" uniform....Levi's and one of my 500 (very forgiving) hooded sweatshirts.
18. One-stop shopping at Walmart...I know they destroy local businesses but they are sooo convenient!
19. The unexpected graciousness of my 10 year old sometimes.
20. Helping with 3rd grade homework and getting the right answers.
21. Curbside trash pick-up.
22. More Diet Dr. Pepper.
23. Crowder peas and cornbread for supper...all mashed up in the same bowl.
24. People who read my blog and say nice things.
25. Clean flannel sheets.
26. "Parenthood" on NBC on Tuesday...and knowing that "Modern Family" is new tomorrow night!
27. Peaceful sleep because today I really did experience an abundance of gratitude for my small life.
I have a very small life, cosmically speaking. I do live in a small town, in a truly tiny house. I spend the bulk of my days transporting people to and from school, doing homework, and then transporting those same people to and from their practices, games, performances and activities. In between all the chicken nuggets and dishes and laundry I try to squeeze in an appearance at my full-time job. It is a "simply complicated", very small life, cosmically speaking.
But I love my life. It is satisfying to my soul and it rings out with laughter frequently. Of course, being able to laugh at myself ensures that I am constantly entertained! I have "seen it all in a small town" and I have "had myself a ball in a small town"!
When my oldest son was born I was gripped with a fear like nothing I had ever experienced. From the moment I got pregnant with him I was consumed with the kind of life-altering love that brings as its' companion a gut-wrenching worry about losing your beloved. For many months I would stand in his doorway every night at the precise moment that he had been born and give praise to All That is Good that for being able to be his Mom for one more day. (I know it sounds selfless, but I was up all hours of every night anyway!) I knew then that the only defense I would have against this mortal fear was Gratitude. The only comfort I could conceive in the event of a horrific "what if", was to feel assured that I valued both of my children as much as I was capable while I was blessed with them. Granted, some days I am more capable than other days. And some days I fail so miserably that I sleep on the floor of their room until the morning when I can begin my quest to show them my love all over again. But I digress....
Because I have worked persistently for a long period of time to arrange my small life as it is now, and because gratitude is my only defense against fear, I decided that for at least one day, I would take note and make note of the details that make my life so grand. I call it "17 Hours of Gratitude." I humbly submit the following list of things that I gave thanks for today:
1. Breath.
2. Hot Water that dispenses merely because I turn the knob.
3. Diet Dr. Pepper.
4. Children who wake up with tousled hair, sleepy in their eyes and occasionally, with minimal fuss.
5. A pinkish orange sunrise at 7:19 AM.
6. My "fat" clothes - Black knee-length pencil skirt and a stylish, but forgiving, purple jacket.
7. Clear nail polish to repair the runs I ripped in my panty hose while putting them on for the first time.
8. A flexible work schedule that allows me to be late...again...see #6 and #7 above.
9. Cheese and crackers for breakfast....and lunch.
10. "Found" time...created when my 12:00 appointment did not show and did not call to reschedule.
11. Making plans with my Rowdy Girls for a Girls Night Out next weekend.
12. Flavored lip gloss from my Christmas stocking.
13. No new messages at any of my three office locations.
14. Being able to pick my boys up from school on my days.
16. Eminem's new song on 105.7 (loud!) while I am waiting in the car-rider.
17. Changing into my "real life" uniform....Levi's and one of my 500 (very forgiving) hooded sweatshirts.
18. One-stop shopping at Walmart...I know they destroy local businesses but they are sooo convenient!
19. The unexpected graciousness of my 10 year old sometimes.
20. Helping with 3rd grade homework and getting the right answers.
21. Curbside trash pick-up.
22. More Diet Dr. Pepper.
23. Crowder peas and cornbread for supper...all mashed up in the same bowl.
24. People who read my blog and say nice things.
25. Clean flannel sheets.
26. "Parenthood" on NBC on Tuesday...and knowing that "Modern Family" is new tomorrow night!
27. Peaceful sleep because today I really did experience an abundance of gratitude for my small life.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Cosmic Crossroads
I am embarrassed to admit the level of dread I experienced this morning while I was getting ready for work.
The older I get, or more aptly the older my children and I get, the longer it takes me to get out of the house in the morning. For the first 40 years of my life I was an obnoxious, annoying "go-getter"; the kind of person who sprang out of bed before the alarm and tackled the to-do list with abandon. I would never rest until all of my work for the day was done, which meant that most days, I did not rest. I was frazzled and impatient and I drank way too much when given the chance. And then I happened upon the outer reaches of the stratosphere known as "Balance".
Being divorced and sharing the boys time jointly with their Dad allowed me stretches of seventy-two hours or more of ME time...and a clean house..... for the first time since I became a parent. I still did not reach the end of my to-do list because, as I noted in my first post, I am a Project Person. But, occasionally, I was able to sleep late, read in bed, organize my closet, mop a floor and take a series of breaks...the exercise that normal people refer to as "moodling". I think the Webster's definition of "moodling" might be "doing something when or how the mood strikes you."
At this point it is necessary to caution you that moodling and living according to one's inner dictates is immediately addictive. Like the manic-depressive that I can sometimes be, I went from being a "go-getter" to being a comfort-seeking missile. Instead of waking up prior to the alarm, I began to lie in bed for 20 extra minutes...on a work day! Instead of pushing myself to exercise and read biographies, I began to eat carbohydrates LATE at night while watching heinous reality shows on Bravo. Thus, I was not as frazzled or impatient, but I became rounder and filled with a ton of useless knowledge about "Real Housewives" from every geographic region of our United States. And to be completely truthful I still drank too much if given the chance, but my motivations were ENTIRELY different!
Somehow when I reached the outer edges of the stratosphere of Balance, I completely overshot that universe and came to rest at a place of moderate dread when confronted with Responsibility. And so, after a two-week vacation from custody disputes and the court system, I found myself dreading the thought of going to work. Which is utterly ridiculous because I LIKE my job; and the flexibility and the paycheck that it provides me. What I realized once I finally arrived this morning was that the dread of returning far exceeded the pain of the actual return.
In fact, after two hours of returning phone calls and answering e-mails and catching up on paperwork, I was energized by the comfort of resuming my particular brand of "normal." I know that before the week is up I will probably be frazzled and impatient with something or someone. I feel certain that I will hit the "snooze" and stay in bed ten minutes later than I need to before next Monday rolls around. My peculiar recipe for balance is elusive and I can accept that. But I have decided to court Satisfaction over Comfort for a while...to exercise AND have a late-night snack....to read inspirational life stories and watch "Millionaire Matchmaker". Who knows? I may wind up at a cosmic crossroads, but I will damn sure enjoy more of the journey.
The older I get, or more aptly the older my children and I get, the longer it takes me to get out of the house in the morning. For the first 40 years of my life I was an obnoxious, annoying "go-getter"; the kind of person who sprang out of bed before the alarm and tackled the to-do list with abandon. I would never rest until all of my work for the day was done, which meant that most days, I did not rest. I was frazzled and impatient and I drank way too much when given the chance. And then I happened upon the outer reaches of the stratosphere known as "Balance".
Being divorced and sharing the boys time jointly with their Dad allowed me stretches of seventy-two hours or more of ME time...and a clean house..... for the first time since I became a parent. I still did not reach the end of my to-do list because, as I noted in my first post, I am a Project Person. But, occasionally, I was able to sleep late, read in bed, organize my closet, mop a floor and take a series of breaks...the exercise that normal people refer to as "moodling". I think the Webster's definition of "moodling" might be "doing something when or how the mood strikes you."
At this point it is necessary to caution you that moodling and living according to one's inner dictates is immediately addictive. Like the manic-depressive that I can sometimes be, I went from being a "go-getter" to being a comfort-seeking missile. Instead of waking up prior to the alarm, I began to lie in bed for 20 extra minutes...on a work day! Instead of pushing myself to exercise and read biographies, I began to eat carbohydrates LATE at night while watching heinous reality shows on Bravo. Thus, I was not as frazzled or impatient, but I became rounder and filled with a ton of useless knowledge about "Real Housewives" from every geographic region of our United States. And to be completely truthful I still drank too much if given the chance, but my motivations were ENTIRELY different!
Somehow when I reached the outer edges of the stratosphere of Balance, I completely overshot that universe and came to rest at a place of moderate dread when confronted with Responsibility. And so, after a two-week vacation from custody disputes and the court system, I found myself dreading the thought of going to work. Which is utterly ridiculous because I LIKE my job; and the flexibility and the paycheck that it provides me. What I realized once I finally arrived this morning was that the dread of returning far exceeded the pain of the actual return.
In fact, after two hours of returning phone calls and answering e-mails and catching up on paperwork, I was energized by the comfort of resuming my particular brand of "normal." I know that before the week is up I will probably be frazzled and impatient with something or someone. I feel certain that I will hit the "snooze" and stay in bed ten minutes later than I need to before next Monday rolls around. My peculiar recipe for balance is elusive and I can accept that. But I have decided to court Satisfaction over Comfort for a while...to exercise AND have a late-night snack....to read inspirational life stories and watch "Millionaire Matchmaker". Who knows? I may wind up at a cosmic crossroads, but I will damn sure enjoy more of the journey.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Paying Homage
I am who I am because of those closest to me, quite literally. During my formative years in Harrisburg, NC, I did not receive a tremendous amount of guidance, direct or implied, from those in my household, so at a very early age I learned to study people. I studied characters in books and on horrible 1970's sitcoms (think Brady Bunch, Charlie's Angels and Love Boat). I studied friends and frenemies at school and most of all, I sought the approval of my teachers. Reading was my escape from life and at school, being able to read well brought me power! Every subject had reading at its core and I was able to use the information I gleaned from books to excel, which afforded me greater access to more books and some opportunities for leadership. For as long as I can remember books, music and leadership have been the cornerstones of the life I wanted to build.
When I was accepted to UNC, I was 19, living on my own in Charlotte, NC, and completely dependent upon government-sponsored financial aid for the chance to obtain a college education. Undoubtedly, I did not have the Carolina Experience that they advertise on the brochures, but I did find others like me....book-based leaders and orators working tirelessly to build lives that were vastly different from the ones they had "back home". We walked together, talked together, drank (alot!) together, won a few National Championships together and eventually grew into adults trying to make peace with all aspects of the ongoing construction of our lives.
Fast forward 24 years to January 1, 2010, when my beloved Tarheel Soulmate, David C. Smith, began his photoblog. When I read his first entry, I remember longing for the ability to experience the nuances of life as artfully and thoughtfully as he did. As he had so many other times during the course of our relationship, the way he framed his journey profoundly impacted the way I wanted to live my life. And through his influence and my perseverance, I do experience life more artfully and thoughtfully than I did a year ago.
So, to you, My David, I pay humble homage...for all that you are, all that you share and all that you are becoming. Rest peacefully knowing that you are a much better mentor than Marcia Brady or Julie, The Cruise Director!
When I was accepted to UNC, I was 19, living on my own in Charlotte, NC, and completely dependent upon government-sponsored financial aid for the chance to obtain a college education. Undoubtedly, I did not have the Carolina Experience that they advertise on the brochures, but I did find others like me....book-based leaders and orators working tirelessly to build lives that were vastly different from the ones they had "back home". We walked together, talked together, drank (alot!) together, won a few National Championships together and eventually grew into adults trying to make peace with all aspects of the ongoing construction of our lives.
Fast forward 24 years to January 1, 2010, when my beloved Tarheel Soulmate, David C. Smith, began his photoblog. When I read his first entry, I remember longing for the ability to experience the nuances of life as artfully and thoughtfully as he did. As he had so many other times during the course of our relationship, the way he framed his journey profoundly impacted the way I wanted to live my life. And through his influence and my perseverance, I do experience life more artfully and thoughtfully than I did a year ago.
So, to you, My David, I pay humble homage...for all that you are, all that you share and all that you are becoming. Rest peacefully knowing that you are a much better mentor than Marcia Brady or Julie, The Cruise Director!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Promise of the New Year
I am grateful to the universe that the first day of 2011 was overcast and foggy, because it felt like cosmic permission for me to feel the same way. The boys went back to their Dad's house this morning and as I type my wonderful husband is in the air somewhere south of Georgia and north of Orlando. I have stumbled around in a fog most of today feeling overcast that all the trappings of the beautiful, magical celebration are waiting to be packed away until next year.
For me, the days before Christmas Eve are always filled with long nights, lists of details and a manic feeling of anticipation. And the days between Christmas and New Years are like pockets of time suspended in an exercise of indulgence. Day upon day spent eating, drinking and playing with family and friends. I exist in my cocoon of entitlement, having worked so hard in the days and weeks of the year mostly past. But on the first day of the New Year the credits begin to roll and I awaken to bills waiting to be paid, pounds waiting to be shed and clothes waiting to be laundered. The Christmas tree which just last night was a beacon of holiday light and family history, has in the morning dawn become a serious fire hazard waiting to be carted to the curb.
And so today, I am feeling overcast and foggy. Certainly grateful for a beautiful, abundant holiday and a truly amazing life...but overcast and foggy, nonetheless. I have lived long enough to know that when you are surrounded by fog, the best thing to do is Row Your Boat and Watch Out for The Icebergs. Undoubtedly, tomorrow will dawn, the sun will shine and the familiarity of responsibility and routine will bring me comfort. With every ounce of me I know that what I need to do most is get up off the couch and start...cleaning, packing, rearranging...the task itself is not nearly as important as just getting started. And that is the promise of my new year.
For me, the days before Christmas Eve are always filled with long nights, lists of details and a manic feeling of anticipation. And the days between Christmas and New Years are like pockets of time suspended in an exercise of indulgence. Day upon day spent eating, drinking and playing with family and friends. I exist in my cocoon of entitlement, having worked so hard in the days and weeks of the year mostly past. But on the first day of the New Year the credits begin to roll and I awaken to bills waiting to be paid, pounds waiting to be shed and clothes waiting to be laundered. The Christmas tree which just last night was a beacon of holiday light and family history, has in the morning dawn become a serious fire hazard waiting to be carted to the curb.
And so today, I am feeling overcast and foggy. Certainly grateful for a beautiful, abundant holiday and a truly amazing life...but overcast and foggy, nonetheless. I have lived long enough to know that when you are surrounded by fog, the best thing to do is Row Your Boat and Watch Out for The Icebergs. Undoubtedly, tomorrow will dawn, the sun will shine and the familiarity of responsibility and routine will bring me comfort. With every ounce of me I know that what I need to do most is get up off the couch and start...cleaning, packing, rearranging...the task itself is not nearly as important as just getting started. And that is the promise of my new year.
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