Politics - and me

My problem getting excited, and even involved in the Presidential election is clear.

Election after election, there's no one who represents me.

There's no one running for public office who shares even most of my views, values or politics.

I need a demopublican.

Maybe a republocrat.

I need someone who cares, no matter what they personally believe about religion, that this country was founded on freedom of religion. That we created a place in the world people could come and worship whatever they believe, in peace, without prosecution. In the 1950's the term "In God we Trust" was put on money (1957) and we pledge allegiance "under God" was added to the Pledge of Allegiance (1954).

It wasn't there originally.

Why?

Because our country was made up of folks who believed in God, Buddha, Allah . . . and some who don't believe in any deity at all and that was okay. They were safe here. Free.

We forget when we're so proud of our soldiers for fighting for our freedom of speech, that they are also men and women who believe in a whole host of spiritual things that may differ, and they are fighting for that right too.

So why do we insist our President believe in the same God as . . . who? The majority of voters?

There are so many good people who do not think, believe, practice the same things we do. I doubt there are many people at all who believe exactly what I do, but that's okay. I don't think anyone has to. It's my job to figure out what I believe and live with the results of my decisions.

Hence, why do we think one religion should determine the laws in this country?

You do not need to be spiritual to be moral.

You do not need to believe in one God to know right from wrong, good from evil, and to choose to live following one path or another.

The first amendment prohibits the making of any law respecting an establishment of religion.

And if this country respects that we are a nation founded to allow people to practice any religion they choose as long as it doesn't impact the rights of others, how are we fighting about freedoms like gay marriage, based on the religious beliefs of some?

Is it morally wrong for two people who love one another to be able to get married if they are consenting adults and their marriage doesn't impede any rights of their neighbors?

Should I be forced to carry a baby I don't want to term, because of someone else's religious beliefs? There are some religions that believe any medical assistance, even an antibiotic is against Gods wishes, should we let them keep us from having antibiotics available to those of us who don't share this point of view?

Interestingly, this isn't even a discussion among those in office or those who wish to be, regarding why we should or shouldn't establish laws.

I personally, agree with many republican views regarding financial issues, but the democrats represent more of my personal beliefs on social issues.

Do I follow my heart or my pocket book is really the question I have, not who most represents me. I want this country to do better financially, but I don't want any ONE religious practice to dominate the laws and decisions made in this country.

I don't think I'm alone here.

But I don't know why there are no other options.

How does one vote when there's no one who represents them and why isn't anyone talking about this?

My Adult Teen Years

My middle daughter shared with me last night, how she thinks I am in my teen adult years.
These are the years when, as a parent, you no longer believe in Santa Clause. You can't. Reality has set in and you know, he just doesn't exist.
What this means is that I no longer believe, if I do my best with my children, everything will work out great.
That was my Santa Clause. The naive belief that all I had to do was love my children, try and offer the guidance I could, and be the best parent I knew how to be, and they would make the right decisions and fly away unharmed.
Instead I am dealing with the reality of life, that everyone will hurt, will suffer, will make bad choices, no matter how much you taught them, how much you gave them, or how much you love them.
My daughter says this is how the teen years are for most kids.
It starts with the loss of Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the belief that your parents know everything and they will always make everything work out.
I was a child adult when my babies were young.
When I could control their world with clean clothes, a well rounded meal and a kiss on a boo boo. I really, really loved those years. I was good at it.
I could juggle everyone's schedules, and meet their needs.
Then they became teenagers, and apparently I did too. A teen adult.
I was/am as disillusioned as they are.
There's no magic anymore.
Just the harsh reality that I can't make things better, and all that I did for them won't always be enough when they're faced with peer pressure, break ups, hurt feelings, bad skin and sensitive ego's.
Let me tell you, it stinks being a teenager, then and now.
But my daughter assures me. She has some adult years ahead of her -- and I do too.
No one stays a teen forever and she see's adults, with grown children, who are happy again, content, find peace.
Her and I both just have to get through the teens to come out on the other side.
Come to think of, when I was a teenager and through my college years, I just wanted to get to the other side then too. I wanted my life to begin. My adult life.
And here I am again.
Looking forward to my last adulthood.
I can't blame my kids for wishing these years away. For wanting to grow up and become who they are to become on the other side of all of this turbulence.
But them and I will have to find a way to enjoy the trip. Or at least survive.
Hang in there my fellow adult teens.
And those who are in their last adulthood, grab an adult teens hand, and remind them they can do it!
We all need a reminder.
It gets better!

Will They Ever Know?

I'm going through some dark days with my youngest child.
I have four kids. They've all put me through some tough times when they are breaking away from me.
I think it's what happens when you are close with your kids.
They have to B R E A K away - and a break - never feels good.
They can't just slip off to college, confident, and secure in themselves, if they still think your opinion is best.
They have to trust their own.
They have to test their wings - and we know how that goes. Eventually they'll soar, but the test flights can be pretty painful. For them and for us, watching, and wanting to show them the right way.
But we can't fly for them.
In my house, breaking away means being pretty hard on mom.
Like when they first open their eyes and really look at you. They stop trusting you blindly and start seeing you with High Definition scrutiny, and we know how that goes. The examination is cruel.
They realize that, as confident as you sounded, you have self doubts.
How could they trust someone so flawed?
Let's just say, it's brutal.
It's fact.
And I've been through it 3 times already.
Each time it's been different.
Who knew pain could come in so many different ways.?
I didn't.
My youngest swings between loathing and loving me like a chimp on a vine.
I never know which I'll receive today, and how the day starts might not be how it ends. I can't count on anything, except whichever emotion I'm getting, it won't last.
But right now she has a friend over.
They're in her room and I can hear her laughing and I wonder . . .
Will she ever know, no matter what we go through, I will always love hearing her laughter?
It's better than the first warm day after a very cold winter.
Better than a cold drink after a terrible thirst.
Better than a steaming hot bath at the end of a long day.
When I pick her up from school and see her smiling at her friends I wonder . . .
Will she ever know the joy I feel seeing that smile? Even if it's not directed at me. Just to see her happy for a moment amidst all the troubled emotions and experiences she has to go through in these horrible teen years. Even if that smile is followed by a scowl when she see's me. I saw it - and it gave me joy.
I really hate the teen years.
They've been hard on my children, and hard on my relationships with my children.
I know it's a necessary part of life.
I think the alternative is to have them dependent on me always and that doesn't appeal to me in the least, but still . . . the heart ripping years living with them while they're growing up is almost more than I can stand.
Will they ever know?
Do I want them to?

How to Deal with Midlife Changes

Life just has a way of knocking us off our feet sometimes.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're either the luckiest person in the world, or in utter and complete denial.
I've tried denial.
I've tried closing my eyes and plugging my ears and pretending the things around me aren't happening, but I just can't seem to do it for very long.
It seems, eventually, we have to face our worse fears in life. For some darn reason I can't understand, but it seems to me that we have to face ALL of our worse fears in life - at one time.
The garbage disposal doesn't back up until the sink is full of dirty dishes.
If you have a close family member that's ill, there will probably be another one to follow, or your own health might fail. Whoever said, "When it rains, it pours," was living my life.
Probably yours too.
That must be why, in mid life, when our children are teenagers (hard enough), our parents are aging and needy (twice as hard) and our own bodies start doing some insane roller coaster changes that leave us panting, sweating, and up at 4 AM with heart palpations that would impress an out of shape marathon runner and all we were doing, was trying to sleep.
I haven't talk to anyone near my age who doesn't know about the four am wake up calls.
It's when our minds have had enough REM that it's decided to spin through all of the unsolvable problems going on in our lives until we wake up with feelings of doom and dread so strong we're certain the world as we know it will come to an end.
The problem is, it will.
And that scares us to death.
My mom and my mother-in-law are still alive. My husband and I have lost both of our Dads.
I have a daughter in her last year of middle school, a daughter about to start her senior year of high school and two children in college. My future holds a plethora of changes that I simply can't do anything about, nor should I.
Today is NOTHING like tomorrow and goodness knows I can't predict what an hour, a day, a week or a month will bring in the way of life altering changes.
And it seems to be happening at a speed that leaves my head spinning and my heart pounding.
I want to enjoy the ride, but the four am wake up calls don't make it easy.
The hardest thing in the world to do is function without enough rest.
So I did what I do when things seem to be the bleakest.
I prayed.
I prayed for peace of heart and mind.
I prayed that God would help me get a better perspective.
I prayed that God would give me the strength to manage through it all.
So what happens?
I get an answer to my prayer in the form of a horrible sinus infection.
That's is SO like God in my opinion - and one reason I'm sometimes afraid to ask for help.
Goodness knows God has a sense of humor.
WHO else would give you a sinus infection when what you ASKED for was peace of mind and heart and strength to get through.
So I did all I could manage with a horrible sinus infection.
I went to bed and slept.
I took the drugs I needed to get better, and I slept.
I read books, and I slept.
I watched bad TV and I slept.
And the world kept spinning.
Not everything I thought should get done, got done, but it was okay.
And with all that darn sleep . . . I felt better psychologically too.
The world didn't seem so bleak anymore.
Everything's changed, life is evolving, but it's all okay.
All the worries and problems I had before the sinus infection, are still there. In fact I have some even bigger worries that have developed, but I can handle it all a little better, because I am rested.
I took care of myself.
I had no choice.
If you're feeling overwhelmed, I suggest you take a day off, and don't wait for a horrible sinus infection to force you to.
Be good to you.
Sleep.
Meditate.
Mentally visualize a peaceful place and visit it often.
It might not change anything, except you.
But changing you, can change everything.

Waiting for Spring

It's been a long winter.
Not just the snow, although God knows the snow was amazing. I never minded snow until this winter, there was just so darn much of it.
No, it's not even the actual winter that's been hard.
It's being in the winter of my parenting years.
That's what I've decided it is to raise teens.
It's getting through a long, cold, dark season in parenting.
Just like a real winter, there are breaks.
When my fourteen year old comes out of her room and actually laughs with the rest of the family instead of shouting at us for talking to her.
That's like a bright, unseasonably, warm day in January.
But in this house, the teenage years are long and dark.
It's not just their attitude toward me that's bothersome, although that is very challenging.
It's their attitude toward themselves and life that really gets to me.
To hear these lovely people berate themselves for having acne, or not being the right body shape or size. It's watching them come to terms with their sexuality, their desires, their dreams, and the rejections. It's watching them try, and fail. There are successes too, but they never remember them in the light of the next failed attempt.
Some kids struggle with depression, self acceptance, friendships, trust.
And in the process of all this going on, I have to remind them to empty the dishwasher, take out the trash, and clean their rooms.
It's crazy, but parenting doesn't stop for the struggles of life.
It can for a day, maybe a few days, but good parenting is holding them accountable for their responsibilities in the middle of their personal struggles.
They'll never know how hard that is to do, until they have children of their own.
They'll think we're just lazy, and don't want to do these things ourselves.
Little do they know - it is SO much easier to do these things ourselves.
It is so much harder to remind them, and get the eye roll, the sigh of bare tolerance, and watch the act resistive obedience.
But we're parents.
We know these are skills they will need as adults.
Who hasn't had to find that thing inside that gets us up to a job we hate, confront someone we want to avoid, parent even when all we want to do is protect and nurture.
Yeah, these are the long dark days of winter in my house.
With two teenagers at home and one in college, there isn't much relief in sight -- except when my 21 year old daughter comes home.
You see, she's made it through. Not completely, and not unscathed, but she's on the precipice of starting her own life. The spring of her life really.
I can see the person she's become. The buds of self acceptance, the sprouting of her dreams and the initial growth of her plans for life.
She's not perfect, like I thought she'd be when I held her infant self in my arms in the hospital or watched her toddle off to pre-K, but perfectly her.
They'll all have a spring, soon enough, and goodness knows, after this winter -- it will be a sight to behold.

Menopausal Memory

It's bad enough to be a 46, oh shoot, I just had a birthday so lets make that 47 year old woman with a very bad memory.
There are so many things I'd do in the course of the day, if I could only remember what those things are.
I've tried writing notes, but then I have to remember to look at them, or worse, where I put them.
So I've decided to put my teenagers much more active brains to my use.
After all, they're largely responsible for my memory failing. After so many years of picking at my brain like chickens in tall grass, it's only fair that they help me now.
Besides, most of the things I can't remember are things they want me to do.
Like wash the gym clothes that were sent home on demand by the other members of the gym class.
Or make the dermatologist appointment for the barely present but much worried about acne outbreak.
Not to mention the things I actually want to get too, like replace lost social security cards, or get the online information to begin the process for passport renewal before they expire in February.
I know, February is a long way off, but with my memory being so bad, I had to start worrying about it the moment I realized they were going to expire.
That was this summer.
I actually gathered all the information I needed, then forgot where I put it.
Now I'm still worrying and having to start from the beginning.
See what I mean.
As long as the kids are worried too, or motivated enough to see things happen, I can solicit their help in the way of emails and or text.
This is why I love technology.
It complete's me.
Google alone has finished me.
I couldn't remember the name of someone I admire greatly.
I could remember she was the first female surgeon general, but I could not recall her name for the life of me. So I googled the information I did know - and poof -- up pops her name, Jocelyn Elders.
Gotta love google for the pre-post or currently menopausal brain.
I never forget google and I can't misplace it, it's just floating around in cyber space waiting for me to return.
Sounds simple enough right?
Get the kids to text/email me, write a few notes and remember where you put them . . . I even have email reminders I send to myself and refuse to delete until the task is done, for those routine, but easy to forget task like giving the dogs their heartworm medication or renewing my birth control.
There simply is NOT enough of me left for another child.
Today was the day to get all of these task done -- and I was psyched.
I put aside all the things I would have done instead, like go to the gym, paint, catch up on laundry, finish the yard work I started three weeks ago, or color my roots.
It would be the day I look back on and know I've accomplished something --------------- or not.
The dermatologist is closed on Wednesday. I couldn't make that appointment.
The Social Security web site has a problem and I can't download the forms I need to renew lost cards. The link takes me to some strange page that does NOT have social security forms on it, but if I want to log into facebook I'd be all set.
I'd email someone to tell them about their problem, but trying to find that person could take another hour, and I've given this enough time out of my day.
I did download the forms for passport renewals, but we need photo's.
I was even going to book a one hour lesson on how to use a computer program on my new birthday laptop, but the phone number I was given to set up the appointment is incorrect.
I dial, it rings, and I get a strange signal and no technician.
I called the company where I purchased the laptop - only to speak to someone more confused then I was.
What program did this tech support come with?
Who told me it came with it?
What number was I given? . . .
Four hours later, I've accomplished one of the five task I started with.
ONE of the five task, I actually remembered.
I have to start tomorrow with almost all of the things I was supposed to do today, still on my to do list.
Only I probably won't remember where I put the list.
Or that I made one.
Or that I need one.
That's the curse, and the beauty of a pre-menopausal memory.
I won't have time to do all of these things again tomorrow anyway, so why should I have to worry about them, or remember them at all.

Birthday Season

Today's a John Denver kind of day.
John is my musical equivalence of a glass of wine.
He calms me down, he's good for my heart, and he helps me feel a little bit better about everything.
Besides, wine makes me sleepy, I don't have time for sleepy.
October is birthday season in my house. My husband and two of my children have birthdays in October.
It's a lot to add to an already insanely busy schedule.
I thought I'd gotten off a little easier this year, you see, my son's in college.
He's turning 19.
He seemed to have some appropriately toned down expectations this year.
The last time all six of us were together -- we checked schedules and decided the Saturday after his sisters birthday (my youngest is 14 today) we'd all get together with Grandma and have a nice combined birthday dinner.
As his big day approached, however, I started to feel bad. I have NEVER not done SOMETHING on the birth DAY of my children. I know it sounds odd, but as his college is only an hours drive away, I don't actually have an address to send him things. Hence, no card was sent.
So far, he's come home every weekend so anything he needs we just give to him at that time.
On the actual birthday - I had a class closer to the part of the world where he attends school. I called him when I was leaving class (after leaving a note on facebook and texting him that day) to say, if he'd like, I could come scoop him up and take him out to dinner.
He had other plans, like studying for a mid term exam he had the following morning.
That was okay with me, but I was glad I'd asked.
The next night, he was coming home with friends.
"No problem," I told him, "we'll all go out to dinner then, just let me know when you're coming and what your plans are."
Seems simple, right?
The next day he called me to tell me his friends couldn't make it, and he might be doing something with some others, but he really didn't know what he was doing.
We had our Saturday (in a week) plans made, so I was fine with this. Besides, what mother with a college freshman doesn't want them to have friends they want to do things with.
"No problem," I said, "just let me know what your plans are when you decide."
Later that day he called to say he was going out with some friends and did I want to meet him at a restaurant he'd found that he thought I would like on U St, downtown.
Going downtown on a Friday night was more than I was up for, especially since we were all going downtown the next day for a hockey game. So I said no, but he should have a good time and let me know what he was up to and when he'd be coming home.
Since we'd planned to eat out anyway, the girls and I decided to meet my husband at a favorite local restaurant for dinner.
Just as we were finishing, my cell phone rings.
It was my son.
"Where are you guys?" He asked.
"Just finished dinner," I told him, "where are you?"
I was about to head home and meet you guys for dinner," he responded.
He wouldn't accept my offer to bring something in for him.
He got his own dinner on the way home.
He now refers to this as the birthday dinner he ate alone.
One birthday down, two to go.
Woo Hoo!
What's a mom to do.
It seems no matter how hard we try, our aim to please is going to fall short.
Even as they become adults, our children's expectations are impossible to live up to all of the time, no matter how hard we try.
The pressure to please is something all moms live with and few of us can live up to.
That's why we have fermented grapes, and when that's not appropriate, I have John Denver.
Heaven is a glass of wine AND Johnny boy.
Today, I'll settle for JD, and the attempt to make one more child happy on her birthday.
Wish me luck --

Life With a Bloodhound

I've owned a lot of dogs in my lifetime.
I hope to own more.
I love the life and energy, affection, activity and joy they bring to my house.
Life with a Bloodhound is no exception, except maybe I have to add adventure as well.
I have four dogs, so it's not like I don't understand that all dogs are different, it's just that I had no idea how different, Ruby, our one year old Bloodhound would be.
She's sitting on my couch now chewing what appears to be a femur.
It probably IS a femur.
If deers have femurs.
I've learned not to get too alarmed by the size of the bones coming into the house, after the hip bone she brought us, that my children were convinced might belong to a missing person.
I was an Occupational Therapist.
I studied bones, muscles, nerves and soft tissue well enough to be confident it was NOT a human hip bone, but even scientist with a doctorate degree in hip bones would not be trusted for their expertise when they have teenagers.
My son asked me to please call the police, in case the discovery of the bone could offer some poor family a little closure.
Too much television you ask?
Yeah, if you count the evening news.
Living in the DC metropolitan area and getting the DC news, where bodies of missing interns can turn up years after that intern went missing, can make the evening news an educational outlet regarding the closure a family might receive by such a find.
Hence, I called the police.
You'd think my husband would be surprised to come home from work to find a police cruiser in the driveway with his family and a police officer surrounding a large chunk of bone on the front porch. But we have teenagers, he barely raises an eyebrow, just waits for the explanation.
This is what it means to own a Bloodhound.
You would think my back yard is where dead deer come to die.
Before the bones come into the house, we can smell it on her breath. It's always a good sign there's one coming.
AS long as she keeps it outside, we're cool, besides if I take it away, which I will (which I will once it enters the house via the doggie door in her mouth), it only means she'll find another part of said deer.
It's her instinct.
It's what she's made to do.
Like teenagers are meant to rebel, Bloodhounds track dead things. So far, only dead things.
Like Buttercup.
Buttercup was my daughters dead hamster.
As it's against the law in this state to dispose of an animal corpse on your property, I will tell you that Buttercup must have escaped her cage to go die in a small box in my yard.
No one expected Buttercup to return, under the desk in my art room.
Three times.
I finally had to dispose of Buttercup in the circular bin on trash day.
No one told my daughter of Buttercups repeated returns.
Or her eventual resting place.
That would be another adventure entirely.
Bloodhounds leave a trail of their own after every trip to the water bowl.
Water not only runs out of Ruby's rolling jowls but off her ear tips that are forever getting into the bowl. My floor is a chronic disaster.
Bloodhounds are not for the fastidious.
She's tall enough to reach the kitchen counter and has the nose to know there's something up there she would really love to check out closer, or better yet, devour before anyone can run into the kitchen to stop her. She's eaten entire sandwiches in the time it takes you to put the mayonnaise back in the fridge.
We tried an e collar to correct her from a distance but she has enough extra skin around her neck to insulate a shock to the point of mild annoyance.
She can find her way out of a fenced yard with an additional electric fence.
In all fairness, ill deer can find their way in, to die so I shouldn't be too surprised.
My youngest daughter nicknamed her Turtle Terrorist.
She brings boxed turtles inthe doggie door and throws them around the kitchen until someone realizes what she's doing. Turtles aren't very bright and they are faster then they appear. We've put them in the front yard to find her with the same turtle from around back again in a day.
We've started a turtle relocation program where my middle daughter takes the turtle for a little drive and drops it in another neighborhood, for it's own sake.

Yeah, I've owned a number of dogs in my day, but life with a Bloodhound is a real adventure, and joy.
When she doesn't have dead deer, a river of water, turtle, or a devoured sandwich on her breath, she gives the best kisses.
She can hug me without either one of us having to lean down.
She has amazing body heat on a cold night,enough love to fill a small country, and enough adventure to fill a little space on my blog, and a lasting memory in my heart!
Life with a Bloodhound will never be dull, but then, with four kids, I'm obviously a woman who likes a little bit of adventure.

Making God Laugh

I love my life.
I really do.
It's full of the excitement of living.
I used to pray for quiet days, peaceful times, and I still do, but somehow those times are interrupted with . . . life.
I heard somewhere if you want to make God laugh, make plans.
I must be a regular guffaw.
Yesterday I thought I'd get up and go for a kayak ride.
The water was still.
The winds were light.
I saw it from my bedroom window before I even came down the stairs -- perfect, perfect weather for a kayak ride.
Then I came down the stairs.
I could smell it before I saw anything.
We have an 11 month old Bloodhound who has to sleep in the laundry room because of her tendency to eat anything and everything. She slept with my daughter for a few months and suffice it to say, the footboard of her bed will never be the same.
I didn't want to open the laundry room door, but mom's certainly know how to face adversity and . . . poop.
Massive quantities.
No doubt the result of something she ate.
It was even on the walls.
By the time I'd hosed down the dog bed cover, the dog bed filler, the towels I cleaned up with, the once cleaned pillow cases I'd left within reach of the pup (who perhaps tried to clean up after herself) and scrubbed the walls, and the floor three times (still smells like poop to me) the kayak ride was history.
The cleaning sparked a frenzy, I vaccuumed, cleaned off counters and table tops, scrubbed counters and table tops, even moved furniture to clean floors and found old tennis balls and dog chew toys and a pair of sandals I was missing.
I did fit it in a little kayak ride later in the day, but those perfect conditions were long gone. It did make for a better work out, and was my house ever clean!
This morning it was biking.
The winds are light, the sun's bright, perfect morning for a bike ride.
We had an elevator installed in this house when we remodeled. I have a bad knee which we knew over time, was just going to get worse.
The elevator stopped working after heavy rain last week, I finally decided to call the elevator repair company, and the receptionist talked me through restarting the elevator.
That didn't help.
She promised to send help, tomorrow.
Yay! I can still bike ride today.
"The only thing we can't help with, is water in your pit," she told me. "If you have water in the pit we don't sump pump."
At that point, all I knew with any certainty, is there was water in my pit.
I turned off the power, found the key to unlock the door and checked. Seven inches.
By the time I ran out to get a sump pump I decided
to meet my girls for lunch after their surf lesson,
return a pair of shoes,
pick up some guinea pig hay,
take a picture of a sand castle (long story)
track down the morning DJ's who were hosting their show from a local jewelry store (it's been a summer goal of my 13-year-old to SEE Moose and Jody's faces since they're the voices bringing us morning entertainment),
and get my nails done,
the day was nearly done.
But it was a good day.
Not the day I had planned,
but a day of spontaneity that led us on a crooked path of fun.
I had enough energy at the end of it to pump the water out of my pit and Voila! the elevator works again!
Don't get me wrong, I'm still making plans. Goodness knows God needs a laugh on occasion, but flexibility is awesome.
You never know where a little poop and flooding can lead you, sometimes, if you ride the tide and go with the flow, what starts out as a disaster, can turn into a great day.

Chattin Up

I think kids today have a really hard time communicating.
My kids fight over who has to pick up the phone to order pizza. NO ONE wants to talk on the phone.
The text, they email, they play online games and they have lost the art of conversation.
Unless, of course they're talking to their friends.
But listen in on one of those conversations.
Half of it is talking about the games they're playing, they've played, or the text they received . . .
Then there's the quotes.
Don't get excited. They aren't quoting Hemingway or political figures in history, although I'm sure they could. They're quoting lines from Sponge Bob and Star wars, The Office, and CSI.
I swear to you they should offer a course in common communication in high school, with a refresher course in college. It's THAT important to their future.
In the south, we call it chatin up.
If a contractor comes to your house, you will get SUCH better service if you chat him up a bit.
"Where are you from?"
Few contractors actually working in the south are originally from the south if the weather is good. The locals are out fishing, surfing, hunting. The transplants are still trying to make a living -- they haven't caught on yet.
"How are the kids?"
The conversation just flows from there.
Before any contractor leaves my house, I can tell you how many times he's been married, how many kids he has, biological and step. How long he's been doing this kind of work and what he started out doing.
I know more about some of these guys then their own Mama's.
Plus, they know I know them, and they come when they say they will (most of the time) and do what they say they'll do, for the amount they first quoted, and maybe, just maybe, throw in an extra little thing for free.
It's the art of the chat.
My husband and I had a dump trip the other day, and when he and my son arrived in the pick up ahead of me, they were told the bin was full. They couldn't dump the truck full of rotten old furniture that was in the back of the truck -- let alone the second load we had back at the house.
My husband knew better than to argue.
He waited for me.
He's not southern.
He knows this is not a skill he possesses.
When I arrived he whispered, "you need to talk to your friend. He says the bin is full."
Let's just say, by the time we dropped off the second load, I knew the ages of both of his boys.
It's a gift, but it's a necessary one in the south, and I swear just something that will help each and every individual be successful in life.
I may be the extreme, but I can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime.
Face it, it's a remarkable stress reliever, and may have something to do with kids today being so darn uptight.
I can have conversations of a personal nature with a check out lady in the Walmart when the need arrives. Usually, it's when I'm upset about my kids/spouse/dogs/life and need to get it off my chest, or she is.
Before you know it, we're like long lost friends, who will very likely never see each other again.
But we both feel better, and isn't that what's important?
I guess I know who should write the curriculum for the high school course, and I guess I know what to call it.
Anyone interested in learning how to chat em up just shoot me an email.
Or better yet, pick up the phone and give me a call. That very act could be what starts you on the road to conversing like a pro.

Old Fogie Spam

There's an interesting thing going on, on the internet.
It's the freedom of expression.
Even now that the election is over, and we have a new president, the debate continues.
Is he the best man for the job?
Interestingly, the emails about Barack Obama or Michelle, has very little to do with the job he's doing.
Since the emails I receive on the topic, are forwards to me from my 81 year old mother, I call them old fogie spam.
They may very well be written by disgruntled young people, but trust me, if you want to spread a rumor, send it to an old lady on email.
Mom didn't vote for Barack, hence, he's the wrong man for the job. That's the way she see's things at 81. It's her way or wrong.
My mom doesn't write me letters.
She doesn't ask about the her grandkids or my health.
But I get at least five emails a day from her.
All forwards.
Almost all of a political nature.
Almost all saying something mean about Barack or Michelle.
She's better than the paparazzi however. She hasn't started in on the children. Yet.
Well, I don't think so.
You see, I stopped reading her email a long time ago.
You can tell by the FWD: in the subject line that it's nothing personal.
I tried once to check her email on SNOPES and then correct her in front of all her email list to stand up for what's right and stop the nonsense of lies and hate.
She didn't care.
It didn't slow her down a bit.
Her skills are limited to just before fact check. All she does is forward, if she agree's with it.
I have two lovely cousins who are trying hard to stop her now.
They check the facts in her emails, and send their reports back, asking her to stop sending inaccurate information.
It doesn't stop.
She never responds to their emails either, which makes me wonder if she reads HER email.
I think she does, since she doesn't forward THEIR replies.
Interestingly, If Barack and Michelle would like to know what the republican old fogies of the world have against them, they should get on my mother's email list.
Then they could, like me, decide whether they want to read it or not.
But even a personal response from the President of the United States wouldn't help.
If she even read it, she wouldn't forward it, unless she agreed with it.
I felt the same disgust toward inaccurate information sent around about Mc Cain and Palin. Everyone makes mistakes, or says things we don't agree with, its simply not necessary to make stuff up to make us look bad at any point and time in history. Spreading fibs makes the spreader look bad.
But that's me.
I'm not 81.
And I know how to fact check.
All I can say, is stay off my mom's list, and if you happen to get on it, maybe you should try my technique and ignore it.
Something's just can't be stopped, like an 81 year old woman with email and opinions.

Letting Go

I spent the last two days at GMU orientation with my college bound son.
He's my second child to make this journey.
He's the second little chickee to leave the nest.
I thought it would get easier.
I watched my first little chickee leave, flounder, find her footing, and soar.
Okay, soar might be big for what a chickee can do, but she's certainly moving forward, better then she did in the beginning.
Mostly, I watched her change.
I watched her grow.
I watched her become more of the adult she's going to be.
At twenty she still slips between the adult/child person she is, but she's spending a bit more time on the adult side, in her own apartment with her summer job in her college town.
Not at home where I can see her and more closely measure her progress.
Now there will be another one to let go of.
I actually try letting go in little ways while their still home.
I don't think I'm a helicopter mom, hovering over their every move.
I know he's done things he won't tell me about.
I know about a lot of them because of the people he did choose to tell.
Mom's have sources.
It's often unsolicited.
Sometimes these sources come from odd places, like the parent you never speak to who taps your shoulder at a PTA function to tell you they saw your son driving way too fast in their neighborhood.
Thank you, for putting that problem in my lap.
I cannot control everything they do when they're away from me.
I know this.
I know there will be more temptations and more opportunities for them to do things I disapprove of at college.
I had them too.
I had my own experiences.
They HAVE to have theirs.
These are the years that really start to define them.
Without Mom and Dad to face when they get home, who are they?
Will they be the people they want to be?
Will they be the people we want them to be?
What I want doesn't matter much anymore.
It's his life.
He has to make those decisions.
I have to let go.
And he looked every bit the little chickee.
Teetering at the edge of the nest, looking at the distance to the ground.
It looked far.
I could see it reflected in his eyes.
Will they like me?
Will there be anyone here who gets me?
Accepts me?
Loves me?
Can I do this?
Can I work this hard?
Get those grades?
Pass those classes?
Not since Kindergarten have I left him in a place all alone where he doesn't know a soul, to fend for himself.
And that's who I saw when I left him at the school Thursday night.
My curly haired, red headed little man with a bright green sesame street shirt and his matching blue shorts. His shoes lit up when he walked away from me, holding someone else's hand and placing his trust in the new teacher.
He still has curly read hair, but this time he wore biker gloves, a gold chain and has a tattoo on his back that marks his masculinity. But he's still my guy, and I see his bravado as a shield he hides behind.
I didn't cry until I called my sister-in-law on the way to my car and she told me, "You're a good mom. He's a good kid. You're both going to be okay."
I have been a good mom.
He IS a good kid.
He might flounder at first, but ultimately, he's going to be okay.
We're both going to be okay.
Besides, I got to come back the next day and bring him home.
This was just a trial.
A test run.
A little practice.
I have all summer to prepare,
for letting go.

Empty Nesting ?

He's 18.
But when I close my eyes, he's four.
Bright red hair on his head, pale, pale freckled face. He walks with his hands behind his back and his full lips are pursed like he's about to kiss something.
No one understands him except his older sister, his father, and I.
We interpret for him to the world.
We don't mind.
His sentences sound more like lyrics then separate words.
"Iwanat."
Means he wants that.
"oberdare."
Means, over there.
"Iwubu."
Means he loves me.
I wub him too.
I wub his crazy speech and his bright red hair.
I wub his pursed lips and his little pot belly.
I wub his careful gait over city grates and the monkey like way he had of wrapping his legs around me so tight when I carried him that I could let go of his torso and he'd stay in place.
I called him monkey boy.
I wub his smell.
He smelled like him.
Like sweetness and sorrow.
Like monkey and boy.
Like love and frustration.
It was hard for him to be four and unable to say all he wanted to say.
Frustration would make his face turn redder then his hair and he would cry out in anger.
I felt it too.
I wanted to understand everything, but I couldn't.
Sometimes I understood fine, but I couldn't make his wishes come true.
He needed a nap if he wanted it or not.
He took longer then anyone to eat.
He was slow.
He was careful.
He was my baby boy.
But he's 18 now, and not so slow and careful.
He's less then a month away from high school graduation and I still don't understand everything he says.
I still can't make all his wishes come true, either.
I can't believe that little guy is gone.He's taller then I am.
He has a six pack.
And a tattoo.
If you ask him, he knows more then I do.
He would do what he could to protect me if the situation arose where I needed protection.
He's there for me.
It used to just be the other way around.
I thought empty nesters missed the children that left home - but for me, it's the baby he was that I miss.
Not the sullen teenager, who wants to defy me.
Not the guy who doesn't want me to ask too many question less he reveal something about his personal life.
I certainly won't miss the person who doesn't want to have to call when he's going to be out late because I'm silly enough to worry.
I miss the sweet guy who caressed my cheek when he nursed and held onto me with the leg grip of a primate.
Where did HE go?

Iwanimack.

Techno Loving Mama

I am a mom who truly embraces technology and I have for a long time.
I've spent a number of years instant messaging my children.
My son's room is in the basement.
When I wanted him to come to dinner I would IM him. If that didn't work, I would text him. If that didn't work I'd call his cell.
I know it sounds like more effort then calling down the stairs, but that's only if you don't have a teenage boy. His music is so loud he'd NEVER hear anything. Especially not mom.
But I always know he's plugged into his friends and there's no way he has the computer AND cell phone off.
When he was no longer on the same Internet provider that I use, the instant messaging fell by the way side. He was using explorer and getting on Facebook.
Not to be undone, or slowed down from a timely dinner anyway, I got Facebook too.
Now I send him a Facebook message and a cell phone text followed by the call.
He can't get away from me, and I know my boy is well fed and ready to face the world.
I truly do embrace technology.
I have an iphone.
I have an ebook.
I have an electronic reader.
I think these things are tremendous fun and I can tell you the positive and negatives of each.
I get a tremendous amount of pleasure waiting to see just what the techno world comes out with next.
Recently, it was twitter.
Celebrities all over the world are talking about twitter.
All the ladies on The View, are twittering or talking about twitter.
Even Oprah Winfrey Twitters - and face it, if OPRAH does it, everybody wants to do it, right?
Not me.
Not this technology loving Mama.
I just don't get it.
WHY do I CARE what celebrities are doing on a minute by minute or hourly basis.
I can barely keep up with my OWN routine.
If they could twitter me MY schedule - that would be great!
I'd let Oprah twitter me a reminder that I have to pick up my 13 year old daughter from soccer at 4:30 on Tuesday and Thursday.
It would be perfectly okay with me if Ashton Kutcher could twitter me a reminder to pick up dog food while I'm on my way to or from art class. I would prefer however, a picture of HIM shirtless instead of one of his wife in a bikini, but twitter receivers can't be choosy I guess.
Okay, maybe I am choosy.
I just don't get the fascination with receiving constant messages about anyone else's life.
I couldn't think of anyone, anytime I would register to be twittered by, until yesterday.
I was sitting at the bus stop with my thirteen year old daughter at 7:15 AM.
The bus normally arrives at 7:11. The other bus stop Mom's and Dad's were in their various locations up and down the bus stop route so I felt confident we hadn't missed the bus, but time was slowly ticking past and I was getting concerned.
Did we miss it?
Did it break down?
Should I drive her and completely screw up my morning routine? Driving her would make me run late to everything I had scheduled (without any reminders from Oprah or Ashton) for the day.
Then it dawned on me.
THIS is who I would like to get twitters from.
The middle school bus driver.
Imagine!
Bus Driver Twitter: Running late by 12 minutes.
Me to daughter: "Take your time baby, I'm getting a second cup of coffee!
Without the tweet, we didn't know what to do.
My daughter didn't want me to drive her because I'd offer all the kids I could see on the route a ride and she'd recently broken up with the guy one stop ahead of us. That would be "awkward."
At 7:25 I gave her until 7:30. If the bus didn't arrive by then, she could sulk in the front seat, but I wouldn't leave anyone behind.
Never one to choose a socially awkward moment, she solves the problem.
At 7:28, she text the girl five stops ahead of ours whom we can't see.
She's on the bus.
It's on the way.
Apparently, we have all the technology we need.
Social disaster has been averted.
I don't need twitter after all.
I'll just have to wait for the NEXT great invention.
I can only hope it includes pictures of a shirtless Ashton Kutcher !

Tumbleweeds

I vacuumed yesterday.
No big deal right?
Apparently, it is if you do it from a rolling computer chair because you had knee replacement surgery 6 days before you decide to vacuum.
NO, I am NOT crazy. The physical therapist was coming. I have dogs and hard wood floors. There was dog fur blowing around like tumble weeds.
I know what you're thinking. "Get one of those four kids of yours to do it, nut."
I did.
The day before.
My middle daughter has been Cinderella to my Ugly Step Mom demands. I've even started to call her Cinderella. I don't know why, she doesn't do chimneys. But she's done almost everything else. But EVERY woman knows, NO kid vacuums the way you do. They miss things.
Like tumbleweeds of dog fur.
How could they miss a tumbleweed?
I guess it didn't blow past her.
She tried.
She meant well, but I couldn't have the physical therapist come into my house and leave here looking like Sasquatch because of golden retriever sized tumbleweeds sticking to her. I've done home care, and let me tell you, therapist talk.
Before you know it, all the home care therapist in a five mile radius will know I have messy dogs. How could I live with the shame?
"Relax," my husband tells me. But he doesn't vacuum any better then the kids.
A woman can't relax surrounded by tumbleweeds.
Not this woman.
I'd have to be dead.
So I vacuumed.
In a rolling chair.
With 25 staples in my left leg, and no pain killers in my gut, and I caught all the tumbleweeds. Or at least the ones big enough to cover a six foot physical therapist who has to come into my home to do her job.
I do not believe my mistake was vacuuming.
My mistake was telling the therapist when she got here, why I might not be feeling well.
"I think I'm having an allergic reaction to the narcotics I'd been prescribed. They made me feel really ill after I vacuumed.
"You vacuumed? On crutches?"

"No silly. That would be tough. I sat in a chair.
It has wheels.
It rolls well.
Who are you calling."
The little snitch called the doctor. That wasn't so bad, I needed a new prescription, but she didn't have to mention that I vacuumed.
Only she did.
The doctor wanted to talk to me.
He said I'm not supposed to vacuum.
I told him I wouldn't, if someone else could see the tumbleweeds. Until he has a prescription that will help a teenager or a husband see and vacuum tumbleweeds blowing around my house before a stranger coming to assess my knee and possibly look under the couch cushions, then he might need to understand that vacuuming has to get done.
Besides, I did it in a chair.
The chair has wheels.
It rolls really well.
Stop laughing.
So I have new narcotics. Yay!
But he told me no more vacuuming.
I promised I wouldn't vacuum, on Tuesday.
My cleaning crew comes on Tuesday.
But the physical therapist returns on Wednesday.
I can't promise anything for Wednesday.
I could hear him shaking his head.
The kids have been great.
They wait on me hand and foot.
They'll bring me anything I need.
They'll order take out from anywhere I like (they learned how to cook from me). They'll run to the grocery store, feed the animals, help wash and dry my hair, put socks on my feet and watch things with me on television.
They just can't vacuum.
And no ones done a stitch of laundry.
The therapist didn't say I couldn't do laundry.
Come to think of it, neither did the doctor.
I'm sure I can get down the stairs. The question is, how do I get the rolling chair down the stairs. The one with the good wheels.
There has to be a way!