My Journey to Peace (Or, How to Suck at Meditating)

As I approach 50, I’ve decided to make small changes in my life.  Less sugar, more exercise, reprioritizing, etc…  I’ve decided the second half of my life will be joyful, peaceful, and memorable.

Today I tried meditating.  It’s supposed to be good for the mind and the body.  So I put on my headphones, chose some soothing music, sat in a comfortable spot, and closed my eyes.  Here’s how it went:

(This is my inner voice speaking.)

Ahhh…ok…here we go.  Meditating.  Quiet.  Peaceful.   Empty your mind.  Relax… Ahhh…

(Listening to music; gently swaying with the rhythm)

(Loudly) “I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL…I NEVER HIT SO HARD IN LOVE…”

Oops…I’m supposed to be quiet! Maybe I need to change to another song.  Let’s see…here’s “Home” sung by the Glee cast.

(Listening; eyes closed; gently swaying)

(Loudly) “SETTLE DOWN…IT’LL ALL BE CLEAR!”

Crap!  That’s no good.  Maybe I should try some yoga.  I can meditate and stretch.

(Starts yoga; immediately develops a leg cramp)

Ooof!  That’s not a good sign.  Maybe yoga’s not good for me.  I should start running again.  That’s a good way to meditate.  I wonder if my running gear still fits.  Probably not.  I’ve gained so much weight.  Wonder how much I weigh?  I wonder where the scales are?  Did I put new batteries in it? 

Crap!  There I go again!  Concentrate, Nancy!

(Sit back down with eyes closed; listen quietly to music, trying not to sing along)

Here we go…meditating…meditating…meditating…  I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here?  10 minutes?  15?  How long should I sit here?  My butt’s falling asleep.  Is it okay to move?  I’ll sit here another couple of minutes.

Do de do do…la de la la…wonder what’s on TV?

(Opens one eye and peeks at TV)

Still GMA.  Who’s that? Oh, Melissa Rycroft.  Oh look, she’s pregnant!  How sweet!  Boy she lost that baby fat quickly.  I wish I could lose my baby fat.  Ha!  I’m funny.  My baby is nine years old!  Sigh…she’s getting so big.  I hope she’s having a good day at school.  I could sure use one drama-free day.  I’ve been so stressed out lately.  I wish I had a way to relax.  I enjoy bubble baths, but I need something else.  What could I do? 

Crap!  Here I go AGAIN!  You could relax if you would quit talking to yourself! Concentrate!

(Close eyes yet again and breathes deep)

Relax….relax…ahhhh…here we go.  Relaxing, relaxing, meditating…

(Breathing deeply, relaxing, turning off mind)

Crap!  I have to pee!  Maybe I should just go eat a piece of cake.

 

Maybe tomorrow I’ll try lighting a candle, too…

 

Am I doing this right??

 

The Year of Living Expensively

This has been a costly year for us here on the old homestead.  In addition to the normal expenditures associated with feeding these bottomless pits we call pets, the exorbitant vet bills that come along with horses and dogs the size of horses, and the usual wear and tear expected from a 165-year-old house, we’ve had these lovely, exciting, expensive events:

1)      Rats in the car:  yes, that’s what I said.  Not in the interior of the car, thank goodness, but in the engine.  Rats ate my car.  Or, more specifically, a wire.  Not just any wire, mind you, but the one that controls the diagnostic system.  No system workee, no car startee…  Cost? An arm.

2)      Flat tire: After 33 years of driving, I had my first flat tire while driving.  On the Interstate.  Luckily, I was close to an exit and managed to get off safely.  However, since the tires were nearing their life expectancy anyway, we had all four replaced.   Cost?  A leg.

3)      Broken air-conditioning units 1 AND 2:  Our house is equipped with two HVAC systems – one for each floor.  Being the overachievers we are, we managed to have both of them quit at the same time!  Yay, us!!  In our defense, we had the upper one replaced last year, but because we went through our home warranty company, the proper sized unit was not installed.  So we had to replace it again.  So…brand new unit for downstairs and replacement unit for upstairs.  Cost?  .All four limbs.

4)      Rats in the dishwasher:  Ahhh…the lovely rodents.  This time, they made it into the house.  Yay…  When we pulled out the dishwasher, we found a lovely, pleasant-smelling mouse nest.  (I might be sarcastic here.)  Once again, they had chewed through a wire.  My wonderful hubby, with all his electrical and welding experience, was able to make a quick repair.  Until they chewed through it again two days ago.  Cost?  We don’t know yet.  I’m just going to hand-wash dishes for a while.  Madge?  Where’s the Palmolive?

5)      The laptop: After a few years of plugging and unplugging the charger, the thing-a-ma-jig that it plugs into broke, leaving us unable to charge the laptop.  Fortunately, I found a stand-alone charger that will charge the battery outside of the laptop.  Cost: Just a finger…for now.  Eventually we’ll have to spend another arm to replace the machine all together.

On top of all this, we still need to replace the roof, the guttering, and the dryer.  It. Never. Ends.

OK, I know these are first-world problems.  We have more than a whole lot of people.  And this place is always beautiful and calming.  Which is a good thing, because our next 15 vacations will be spent here in order to pay for all these fixes.

The million dollar view...

(or at least an arm and a leg)

 

 

A Letter to My Daughter

If there is only one lesson that we are able to teach our daughter, I hope it is this: life is HARD, man!

Our nine-year-old has led a fairly charmed life so far. She has, thank God, never had to worry about having enough to eat, or clothes to wear, or having a roof over her head.  We’ve been able to give her all the things she needs, and a lot of what she simply wants.  She’s been on great vacations and attends a private school.  She is a lucky little girl.

I give the most credit for this to God, of course.  He has blessed us greatly.  But beyond that, I want my daughter to know that these things she enjoys don’t come free.  And they certainly don’t come easily.

Life is hard.  There’s no other way to say it.  It is beautiful and it is ugly.  It is full of love and full of hate.  Life is simple, but is it also extremely complex.  It is every cliché that you have ever heard.  One step forward, two steps back.

What I want my daughter to know is that her dad and I have worked hard to get to where we are.  We’ve made extreme sacrifices and tough decisions.  We’ve had wonderful, heavenly times together and horrible, soul-crushing times.  But we keep going.  We keep walking and working and fighting and pushing our way through.  We laugh and we cry.  We are bruised and scarred.  But we are still here.

It seems that our daughter is just beginning to learn that lesson.  Where, before, school was easy, it is now a challenge.  Where life was simple and carefree and full of play, it’s now confusing with the rush of puberty.  She has less time to enjoy life; more work to do. 

I wish this weren’t true.  I wish I could tell her that her life will be wonderful.  That she will never have to endure hardships or heartbreak.  That she will get everything that her heart desires.  But that would be a disservice to her.

Life is hard, my dear baby girl.  It takes courage and commitment to get through it.  You have to fight for what you want, over and over again.  You will awaken some days wondering how you will ever get through it.  You will cry and ask God, “Why me?” 

So as you make this journey of life, remember these things:

Live every moment as best as you can.  Fight hard and love hard.  Fight for what you want.  Fight for those you love.  Don’t run away from life.  Challenge it.  Stand up to it.  Beat it.  No matter how hard life gets, you are stronger.  You will win.  Because the most important lesson isn’t really that life is hard.  It’s this:

Life is beautiful, man.

Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!!!

Attention, please!  Attention!  From now on, I would like to be known by my self-proclaimed title: I. AM. CHICKEN. LADY!!

Lord, I love these chickens!  Who knew they could be so much fun?  I mean, I know most sane people don’t just go around wondering about chickens, unless it’s about what kind to eat, but they are fascinating! And, believe it or not, they share many of the same qualities as people.

Take, for example, the rooster.  Now, ideally, you would just have one rooster.  He is like a polygamous husband – lots of wives and children following him around.  Of course, being the overachievers that we are, we have at least eight roosters (we have some chicks that are still undeterminable).  No need to pay to watch a cock fight, folks… we have one here about every half hour.

The rooster does, however, perform an important job – he guards the hens.  Like a husband or father, he watches for danger as his brood eats or rests.  He also searches for food and lets the others know where he finds it.  And in return, he is allowed…ummm…privileges.  (*wink, wink*) Bob is our patriarch.  He makes sure that everyone knows his or her place in the chicken family.

The term “mother hen” is spot on.  Chickens are extremely maternal and will absolutely die trying to protect their young.  Just try to pick up a new chick and see what happens!  It is wonderful to watch her teach her babies how to pick and scratch for food or take a dirt bath.  Some hens are better mothers than others, just like humans.  Blondie is our matriarch of the farm.  Now on her fourth brood, she is the epitome of a mother hen.  She is the only hen who trusts us humans enough to allow her chicks to eat out of our hands.  I’m excited that we will have her blood line running around the farm for many generations to come.

The chicks…oh, the chicks!  Is there anything cuter?  Tiny and fuzzy…you can’t help but smile when you see them.  They are never more than a few feet away from their mother and instinctively know to hide underneath her when she gives them the signal.  And like human children, they grow too fast.  Blink once and they’re grown and out on their own.

Chickens have their own language, as well.  I wish I knew what each sound meant!  They have different sounds for danger, calling their chicks, finding food, etc.  And like babies in a nursery, once one of them starts raising a ruckus, they ALL start!  A symphony of clucks and crows…as beautiful as any opera!

Okay, I know I sound crazy going on about chickens.  But that’s okay.  I fully plan on being the crazy old lady down the street with 100 chickens in her yard.  For now, just call me CHICKEN LADY!!

Bawk, bawk.

Calgon, take me away!

I almost stayed in bed today.  Not because I’m sick or injured.  It’s because of this:

Eights loads of laundry

 

And this:

Non-working dishwasher

 

And this:

My closer

 

You see my point.

 

The piles of laundry are because I’ve been so busy “fixing” everything else.  A flat tire required a 1-1/2 hour visit to the tire shop.  A broken dishwasher prompted an hour of trying to find the problem, not to mention the landfill that we used to call the kitchen.  Homework is in a class of its own.  I don’t remember 4^th grade being this hard the first time around.

The closet is a result of looking for purchase receipts and warranty cards for the aforementioned dishwasher.  I found neither, but did find the owners’ manual.  It offered one possible solution to our problem; it didn’t work, of course.

So I’m stuck with these three huge messes.  The laundry is now started; the kitchen is next; the closet can wait. 

All of which begs the question:  Why am I surfing the Web??

 P.S.  The cat just added an enormous, stinky poop to be scooped.

P.S.S.  The fish tank smells like someone threw up in it.  Time to change the water.

P.S.S.S.  Pay no attention to the Scarlet O'Hara dresses in my closet.  It's a surprise. Shhh...

 

 

 

My Hero - A 9/11 Tribute

I had a hard time today deciding what to write about.  It is September 11, after all, and most bloggers are certainly commemorating that fact.  I just wasn’t sure that I wanted to join the crowd.  After all, I wasn’t there and I have nothing new to add to the multitude of stories out there.  But I DO sleep with someone who does!  So, with his blessings, I bring you my hubby’s story of 9/11.

As many of you know, Don is a 20-year veteran of the United States Air Force.  The last eleven years of that time period, he was stationed in Washington, D.C., working for the White House Communications Agency (WHCA).  He did many things in that position, including being responsible for the “Red Phone” in the White House (which actually isn’t red!), working on advance teams for Presidential and Vice-Presidential trips, and was even responsible for communication systems in the Presidential limousine. 

I tell you these things not to brag (although I am EXTREMELY proud of him), but to give you some idea of his depth of knowledge and involvement in government at that time.  There are things that he has done and things he knows that I will never know.  Even a wife comes after duty to those truly committed to serving our country.

On September 11, 2001, Don was at his daily-use office in a location away from the White House.  He had meetings scheduled at the White House and was preparing to leave when the first information came in about the World Trade Center strike.  The men and women he worked with immediately began watching the news reports and listening to the Intel coming across various systems. 

As time passed, and the confirmation of a true terrorist attack was given, the members of his team realized that they, too – stationed in the Nation’s capital – were also possible targets.  Information was coming in fast and furious about a rumored White House attack.  Fighter jets were deployed to intercept any plane heading in that direction.  Don and his co-workers stepped outside to watch the world as we knew it change forever.

As we all now know, the White House was spared that day, most likely due to the heroic acts of those men and women on flight 93.  We also know that the Pentagon was not so lucky, and many of the same people that we count on to protect our lives did indeed lose theirs.  Don had many friends who worked at the Pentagon.  Thankfully, none were lost on that day. 

Many came close: the wife of one friend was close enough to find shrapnel from the airplane embedded in her backpack, which was the only thing between her and certain death.  Others had equally horrifying stories.  Some were simple nuisances, such as the hours it took to get home to loved ones in the chaos of a city under attack.  But all were important in their own way.  Everyone had a story.  Everyone shared a small part in that terrible, horrible day.

Don received many blessings that day.  If he had already gotten to the White House, he would have been on lockdown for many days, along with the others there.  If he had been at the Pentagon, he might possibly have been in the section destroyed that day.  If he had been traveling with the President, he would have crisscrossed the country as our military and Secret Service did their jobs and protected our President.  But none of those things happened.  He was blessed.

And because he was blessed, so was I.  We met nine months after 9/11.  I didn’t hear all of his memories of that day right away.  These things are hard to talk about.  Even for those of us who were nowhere near the tragedies, it is hard to speak of that day without our hearts hurting.  But I can say one thing with the utmost certainty and with every fiber of my being: I am proud of my husband.  Not just for surviving that day, or for what he accomplished for our country, or for serving proudly in Desert Storm.  I’m proud of the man he is: loyal to his country; dedicated to his family; and faithful to his God.  I am the luckiest woman in the world.

Master Sgt. Don E. Williams (Ret.)

 

 

Roly-Poly-Oly

In the interest of full-disclosure, I should admit that I just finished a very large waffle cone full of chocolate fudge frozen yogurt.  At 8:45 in the morning.  I’m pretty sure this is not the way to lose weight.

I’m having one of those mornings: I feel old and I feel fat.  Just two weeks shy of my 49^th birthday, I’m heavier that I’ve EVER been, including pregnancy.  I have no desire or energy to exercise, I would love to lie in bed all day, and none of my clothes fit.  I think it’s time to admit that I need a change.

We all know THOSE women who say, “I weighed 102 pounds when I got married,” and you look at them and think, “Yeah, sure you did.”  Well, I actually did.  I’ve been skinny my entire life.  At one point, my parents took me to the doctor because they thought I was anorexic (I absolutely wasn’t).  I was just a very thin person.  And I hated that, too. 

People who would never think to call someone fat would often think it’s okay to tell someone how skinny they are.  Believe it or not, those comments hurt just the same.  I was always trying to gain weight.  You heard me…GAIN weight.

Fast forward to age 44 and I got my wish.  At first, it was just enough.  I looked great!  I’ve never been one to exercise, but I had filled out nicely and was really happy with my body.  But then I kept on going.

I had a few things working against me: my mother became terminally ill and I started perimenopause.  I joked with Mom that, as she lost weight, I was gaining it.  When she died 14 months later, I had gained about 20 pounds.  Still ok, but I wanted to keep it at that point.

Two years ago, we moved to the farm.  You would think that all the work required around here would keep the weight off.  You would think… 

So here I am, 40 pounds from where I started.  It’s time to get moving and do something about it.  I don’t yet have a plan.  Honestly, I’m pretty sure that I just traded an alcohol addiction for a food addiction.  Remembering how hard it was to beat the first one, I don’t look forward to doing it again.  But I have to.  I’m already a “mature mom,” and if I want to see my daughter have her own kids, I need to get healthy.

So get ready, cause you’re gonna hear a LOT about this!  Complaints, failures, whining, and hopefully a few good days.  Are you ready??

 

 

Dear Super Moms...Bite Me.

If you are connected to any sort of social media whatsoever, you’ve seen the recent posts.  Mothers telling girls not to post “sexy” pictures; mothers telling girls to love their body; mothers talking about the train wreck that is Miley Cyrus…you get the point.  Mothers everywhere are trying to rule the world!

Here’s my thing…butt out.  I don’t know about the other moms out there, but I really don’t need you to parent my child for me.  I get the whole “it takes a village” idea, but the cold hard fact is it really just takes a parent.  Because nobody knows your child better than you.

Those moms who try to mother the world are the ones I call “mean moms.”  One of my all-time favorite sitcoms was “The New Adventures of Old Christine,” starring Julia-Louis Dreyfuss.  (Hilarious, by the way…if you haven’t watched it, do it now.)  In the show, she was regularly belittled and taunted by two other moms in the school whom she called the mean moms.  They were hilarious, but also very on-point.

Every school has them – those overly-involved super moms who volunteer for every job, buy the teachers extravagant gifts, bake made-from-scratch cupcakes for the class, and snub their noses at any mom who doesn’t live up to their expectations or fawn all over them.  They assume that they know more than the others and that their child is smarter, sweeter and prettier than everyone else.   And then they try to tell all of us how we’re doing it wrong.

Here’s the rub:  those girls with parents like that…they in turn become the mean moms!  I’ve said it before…mean girls become mean moms (or in the case of Lindsey Lohan, bat-shit crazy).  When you are pampered and petted and told over and over and over how wonderful you are, it doesn’t make you a better person.  It makes you a conceited, self-absorbed person.  You assume you are better than everyone else and that it is your job to tell all of us how great you are.  Guess what?  I. DON’T. CARE.

Don’t get me wrong…everyone needs advice every now and then.  Heaven knows I do on a regular basis.  But I don’t get on the Internet for it.  I call my sister, or my best friends, or my husband, or I pray. (Hey, there’s a novel idea…pray! Duh.) I ask the people who I know personally and have watched raise normal kids in normal circumstances.  Real people.  And then I use what I can, toss out what I can’t, and do the best job I can.  Yes, I fail on a regular basis, but you know what?  My kid is still living and breathing and is reasonably sane.  WINNING!!  If I can get her to 18 with a high school diploma, no jail time and no rehab, I’ll be happy.  The rest is just the icing, my friends.

So here’s my deal with all you friends out there: if you ask my for advice, I’ll give you the best I’ve got.  And if I need advice from you, I’ll ask you for it.  To everyone else, you take care of your kids and I’ll take care of mine.  I’ve got this.

 

My "normal" kid.

Ain't she great?

Whatever...

Every day, I say to myself, “You need to write a new post for your blog.”  And every day, myself says, “Screw you.  I don’t feel like it.”  And since myself is much wiser and knows more than I, I usually listen to her.  It’s not that I don’t want to write; it’s just that I’ve been so busy lazy lately.

Yesterday was the big boy’s vet trip.  In the interest of full disclosure, he does not weigh 200 pounds, as I assumed.  He weighs 145.  Which is still big enough.  And waaaaaay to close to my own weight.  I weigh the same as an English Mastiff.  Just sayin’.

I usually take him in our truck, but he doesn’t like to get in, and it’s now impossible for me to put him up in it by myself, so I decided to take him in the car.  A giant, dirty dog in the back seat of a Lexus.  There’s just one word to describe it: sardine.  He was great at the vet, though.  Sweet Mac will let you do anything to him.  Needles? Fine.  Thermometer? No problem.  Checking the…ummm…boy parts?  Go for it.  He is quite possibly the perfect dog.  And for the record, at the top of Macy’s chart (the female Mastiff) are the words “Aggressive Dog.”  Yeah…

The day before that, I worked in the yard.  And when I say worked, I mean picked up all the crap and trash strewn around.  We make Fred Sanford look like Martha Stewart. There was the deflated pool full of scummy water; the gazebo COVERED with chicken poop; bicycles thrown down wherever the ride ended; tools left where used…I could go on and on and on.  I worked until I got tired of looking at it.  After that, I ate my weight in cinnamon sugar pita chips.

That night, we went on a bug hunt.  At the end of the school day, Tessa’s teacher had said they could bring in any kind of insect, dead or alive, the next morning.  I don’t know about you, but I need about a week’s notice for this kind of thing.  First of all, our chickens eat most of the bugs around our house.  Good thing, I know, but bad for bug hunting.  We have hundreds of spider webs, but that idea got a huge “NO!”  We finally saw a teeny, tiny, grasshopper jump in front of us.  With Tessa’s keen eyesight and my remarkable speed (bwahahahahaha), we caught it.  It is now sitting in a jar on my kitchen counter, apparently to be the newest member of the Williams farm.  Whatever.

The biggest chore lately, though, is my work as official child dresser.  You know how celebrities have people who dress them?  So does my daughter.  Here’s the trouble: NOTHING FITS.  I waited until two weeks before the start of school to buy uniforms.  She has been growing so fast lately, I didn’t want to take the chance she would outgrow them before school started.  Guess what?  That’s right…SHE DID ANYWAY!!!  TWO WEEKS!!  Not only can she not wear any of the pants/skirts/shorts we bought, her foot grew a size and a half overnight.  You heard me.  We went from a 3 to a 4-1/2 overnight.  So even the clothes that I bought for later in the school year when she grew into them are now too small.  Forget the house – this child is our money pit.

So I’ve been busy.  And lazy.  And busy being lazy.  But I’m working my way back to normal.  We actually had a drama-free morning today, so maybe things will continue to improve.  But I’ll live through whatever happens.  Ain’t no big thang.

P.S.  I’ve missed you guys, too. ;-)

The Sound of Silence - with my apologies to Simon and Garfunkel

(Sung to the tune of "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.)

 

Hello Quiet, my old friend.

It’s nice to be with you again.

I’m getting so much more accomplished…

…without my constant accomplice.

No more millions of words bouncing off all the kitchen walls…

…and stairway hall.

I hear the sounds…of silence.

 

Should I work or take a nap?

Or a steamy bubble bath?

And the bathrooms, they are clean..ish.

The floor’s not strewn with dirty dish..es.

No more re-corded episodes of 19 Kids and Counting! What a joy!

There’s no more noise.

I hear the sounds…of silence.

 

The Worst Housekeeper in the World

“What a dump!”

Bette Davis must have been visiting my house when she uttered those famous words.  Ugh.  I’ve always been a neat freak; not a clean freak, but neat.  I like things in their place.  It doesn’t have to be spotless; I just don’t want it to look like an episode of “Extreme Hoarders.”

But I have a kid…and a husband.  For a while, I could still keep up.  I mean, when the kid can’t crawl, there are only so many messes she can make!  Even up until she was about four or five, I was in good shape.  And Don was great about picking up after himself until Tessa started leaving things lying around.  You know, follow the leader, monkey see monkey do, and all that jazz.  But now…

I know kids make messes and I know that husbands do, too.  Yes, that’s part of the problem.  But here’s the real problem: I’ve lost my mojo.  That innate ability to keep the dirt swept up and the countertops clean and the cat litter changed… I’ve gotten lazy(er).  I don’t want to do anything.

 It takes me FOREVER to clean a room!  Today, I’ve managed to clean one bathroom and started the dishwasher.  And the fact that I’m on here now writing this instead of cleaning something else should be ignored!

I need to get my groove back.  Maybe I’ll go to Jamaica like Stella did to find it!  Or maybe I’ll just sit around like Bette, smoke a long cigarette in a holder, and complain about the condition of my surroundings.  What. A. Dump.

Homework Bill of Rights - First Draft

All right, friends...here it is.  The Homework Bill of Rights.  Take a gander, see how it reads, and give me some feedback.  Once we have it down pat, I'll publish it so you can use or share as you please.  My teacher friends, your input would be especially helpful!  If there are thing you wish your students and/or their parents knew, include them. 

HOMEWORK BILL OF RIGHTS

Homework is not a punishment; it is a chance to grow.

 

1.       If you are not sure how to answer a question; you may ask for help; however, I will not answer it for you.

2.       You are responsible for making sure all homework is complete and assignment book is signed.

3.       If you have tried your best to answer a question and still cannot, I will help you find how to answer the question; again, I will not answer it for you.

4.       You are responsible for bringing home any books needed to complete homework. Failure to do so results in late homework and the consequences that brings at school.  After three times, you will also receive a consequence at home.

5.       A study time of 15 minutes is needed for daily quizzes; for tests, you must study until the material is learned.  If you need help reviewing the material, we will be happy to quiz you on the facts.

6.       Recite Bible verse daily.  Your time learning God’s word is the most important thing you will do all day.

7.       Read for AR every day.  Every day you do not bring your book home, you lose 15 minutes of TV time.

8.       There will be no TV or other electronic devices allowed until homework is complete, except if the computer is needed for research.

9.       Calculators are not allowed for basic math problems.  Use scrap paper if needed to figure it out.

10.   Be happy!  Be thankful God has provided for you to attend a Christian school.

11.   Remember that you are loved.   We are here to help you be the best you can be, but we can’t do it for you.  Make good choices!

If at First You Don't Succeed, Ask Mom

Everyone out there knows what it’s like to watch someone you love struggle.  If you’re a parent, it’s even harder.  You want your child to do their very best and excel at everything, but you also want them to be independent and responsible for their own achievements.  It’s a very fine line between not doing enough for them and doing too much.

I bring this up for a reason.  We’re barely into the second week of school and we’re already struggling.  Last week, Tessa forgot to bring home her math book and therefore, couldn’t finish her homework.  She had to go in early to get it done.  Tonight, she had Science homework that included fill-in-the-blank questions.  I asked if she had notes from class or her Science book with her and the answer once again was “no.” 

Her excuse was this: “I thought you would know the answers.”  Well, yes…I guess I could get the answers.  I mean, it’s been 40 years since I’ve been in Fourth grade and I don’t really remember facts about ecosystems, but I’m sure I could wing it or Google it.  But should I? 

Am I teaching her anything if I let her get by with forgetting textbooks or using a calculator or asking me how to spell words?  Exactly what is my limit of required parental assistance?  Do I micromanage her homework and check all the answers for accuracy, or do I simply make sure she completes it all?

These are tough questions, folks.  I know many, many, many parents before me have struggled with the same issues.  I don’t know if there’s any right answer for it.  Maybe it’s just what’s right for your particular child. 

I’ve decided that I’m going to write a list.  Call it a Bill of Homework Rights.  I’ll list the things that she, as the child, is entitled to in the way of homework assistance.  I’ll also include the limits that I, as the parent, have in regards to giving answers.  I have in a few in mind, but I need more.

Those of you out there who have already made this journey can help.  What would you put in this Bill of Rights?  What would you leave out?  How did you handle this problem? Feel free to comment here or on Facebook.  I’d love to hear your answers.

On the bright side, we only have eight more years until she graduates!  Now, let’s talk about college…

The Crazies Have Taken Over the Funny Farm

OK…I know I moan and groan a lot on here about my family.  But the truth of the matter is I love them.  Period.  There’s no conditions, no hesitations, no requirements…just pure, never-ending love.  That being said, GOOD LORD, THESE PEOPLE MADE ME CRAZY THIS WEEKEND!!!

Well, that was cathartic.

Here’s the deal: I have menopause-itis and I have it bad.  There was nothing said or done this weekend that didn’t irritate me.  I wanted to climb in bed and not climb out until the hubby and kid left for work/school tomorrow morning.  The noise, the rough-housing, the teasing, the noise...I already said that one, didn’t I?

Sigh.  The thing is, I know it wasn’t their fault.  My mom used to tell me, “If you think everyone else is crazy, it might be you.”  Huh, now that I type that, there’s a whole lot of stuff about her that makes sense.  Anyhoo…she was right on this one.  Everyone else in the world can’t be wrong all at the same time.  And I can’t be the only person in the world who’s right.  (Actually, I’m pretty sure I can, but I’ll exercise pretend humility for this post.) ;-)

I hate being this way as much as I hate seeing Tessa be this way.  I complain about her hormones and then mine seize my brain and I act the same.  I’ve been pretty close to one of her massive melt-downs myself.  And I truly do feel bad when I snap at both of them.  I don’t stop, of course, but I do feel bad.

I like to think that God gave women these problems because we’re the stronger sex.  Think about it…it takes a lot of strength and determination to go through 40+/- years of monthly periods, childbirth, a life-time of child-rearing (cause that never stops, you know) and menopause.  It takes a toll on our body, our mind, and our spirit.  It’s HARD, y’all.

Now that everyone’s settling down for the night, I can unwind and prepare myself for the week ahead.  It should be a good week:  Lunch with one bestie tomorrow and another bestie’s birthday on Wednesday.  I just need to get past my own self and I’ll be fine.

At least that’s what the crazy people keep telling me.

 

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to School...

FREEDOM! Ahhh…that glorious word!  I’ve been waiting three months for this day.  The day I finally get to clean my house and enjoy my coffee and watch something on TV other than Disney.  And finally, it is here.

What’s that?  You say I didn’t get my freedom today?  You say I actually spent it in the company of a nine-year-old who refused to go to school today?  Oh…that’s right; TESSA DIDN’T GO TO SCHOOL TODAY.

Sigh…the second day of school and it’s already begun.  And before you say it, nine times out of ten, I would make her go no matter what.  But today, I could tell where this mood was heading.  And I was right; we ended up in a full-fledged, hormone-induced, one-hour crying jag.

Ugh.  We’d already gone through this a few nights ago.  Tessa had twisted her foot and it was hurting her.  So naturally, she cried.  And cried.  And cried.  Pretty soon, she wasn’t even crying about her foot.  Even SHE didn’t know why she was crying!  It lasted for TWO HOURS.  By the time she finally fell to sleep, I was exhausted.  I ended up sleeping with her in her room.  The next day, she was fine.

To be fair, she was indeed a little sick last night.  I don’t know if it was the pizza she ate Sunday night or if she had a bit of a bug, but she spent a good part of the evening enjoying the view from the bathroom.  So she didn’t feel up to par when she went to bed.  But she fell asleep well and slept through the night.

This morning, when I went to wake her, I knew it was going to be a tough one.  I had to practically drag her downstairs Dagwood-style.  When I told her it was time to get ready, her eyes watered and got red and she had THAT look.  When her Dad told her to get ready, the sobs began.  She stood in the bathroom with a toothbrush in her mouth, bawling.  After five minutes of this, it became apparent this day wasn’t going to go as I had planned.

I sent Don to work, sent her teacher an e-mail and took her to her room.  The rules of the day were simple: no TV, no computer, no DS, and no playing outside the bed.  She could sleep, read, draw, or clean her pigsty  room.  She did go back to sleep for a couple of hours and awoke in a much improved mood.  I suggested going to school late, but that idea was quickly nixed.

She did follow the rules today and she even helped me around the house, cleaning her bathroom, setting the table, doing laundry.  We ate lunch at the dining room table instead of in front of the TV; we cleaned off her homework desk so it would be ready for the school year; we did play a couple of board  games, but only after the school day was officially over…so it ended up being an OK day after all.

That being said, TOMORROW I WANT MY FREEDOM!!  Oh wait…the HVAC guy will be here ALL day.

Sigh…

The Great Outdoors

Come to find out, I’m the outdoorsy type!  I know – it surprised me, too!!

If you follow me on Facebook (and you should!), you might have seen the pictures I posted from our weekend getaway to Big South Fork Recreation Area.  I cannot recommend it enough.  That place is bee-u-ti-ful!  Having grown up in the East Tennessee area, I had always heard about Big South Fork, but had never visited.  Now, I don’t know if I’ll ever take a trip anywhere else.  And considering that I’ve been there twice in a 3-week period, I think that backs up my statement!

We had so much fun!  We hiked and hiked and hiked.  We saw beautiful rock formations, caves, lush forest and deer.  We climbed on rocks, raced down trails, and climbed steps that went straight up the hillside.  We drove miles of gravel road and crossed old, wooden bridges.  We rode bikes around our cabin and soaked in the hot tub.  We played and spent time together and relaxed.  It was HEAVENLY.

The best part was how much Tessa loved it.  She wore her new hiking boots and carried a backpack and climbed and slid and walked and ran and got dirty…you get the picture.  She was a carefree kid playing in the Earth.  A nature child. 

I loved it, too.  Every time I go on a hike, I remember how much I love it.  I don’t know why I don’t do it more often.  Probably because I’m always trying to stay ahead of the mess.  I think maybe I need to re-prioritize my life.  Put fun, healthy activities ahead of clean floors.  Time with my family ahead of laundry.  De-stressing ahead of emptying the dishwasher.

So instead of the shallow, clothes-addicted, luxury-needing, lazy girl that I’ve always been known as, I’m a farm girl who loves blue jeans and cowboy boots, hiking around mountains, working on the farm, and enjoying the outdoors.  Who knew??

 

Sugar and spice and everything..Nice??

Every now and then, or every other day, whichever you want to believe, we have what I call “100% Tessa” days.  These are the days when my child is full-on HER.  It’s hard to explain if you haven’t witnessed it, but I imagine it’s like having quintuplets.   There seems to be children hanging on to every limb of my body and in my face no matter where I turn.  It goes something like this:

1)      She’s everywhere – in the kitchen, now in my bedroom, now in the sunroom changing the TV channel I’d been watching, then the dining room, her room, back in the kitchen – I get dizzy just watching her go from room to room at breakneck speed.

2)      She’s needy – days like this, she wants to be entertained.  And no quiet entertaining, either; she wants to PLAY.  Lord, I’m such a bad “player.”  Bike riding, board games (which I actually enjoy), Barbie dolls, beauty shop…and the Academy Award of all things I hate to play…PRETEND!  AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!  I am NOT a good pretend player.  Especially when my pretend partner is feeding me lines the whole time.

3)      She’s mouthy – I give you this example:

Me: Why are you being such a pooty-head today?

Her: Because my name is Tessa.

And that’s the only reason she needs.  I can’t tell you how many times she got into trouble yesterday.   And didn’t care.  She made messes, she talked back, and she was LOUD.  I was so tired when bedtime came along, I want to bury my head in the covers and stay for a week.

Today, we had just the opposite.  Today…she was Don.  Now, in my sweet ADULT husband, it’s cute – the Eeyore voice and the “everything sucks” attitude.  I know that his is only 50% real and it doesn’t last.  But in a 9-year-old who already thinks she’s the center of the universe?? These are the days I miss vodka.

Her throat hurt, she was hungry, she had a stomach ache, she had a pain in her side…make her laugh, fix her lunch, play outside…the orders requests never stopped.  This was 0% Tessa; the polar opposite of the day before.  And twice as tiring.

This weekend, we are heading to the mountains for a couple of nights.  I plan on letting her run wild.  Bike riding, hiking, swimming…whatever I can find for her to do that will run the vinegar out of her bloodstream.   

Somewhere, my mom and Don’s grandmother are laughing.  Thanks a lot, ladies.  Thanks. A. Lot.

Quiet...Genius at Work

I don’t like to brag, but I’m sort of a genius.  Oh, not one of those IQ-test kind of geniuses, or the Einstein-type of genius; I’m more of the Forrest Gump brand of genius.  I have years-long periods of dumbness interrupted quite infrequently by a brilliant flash of intelligence.  Today, I had one of those flashes.  And so, I give to you:

THE THEORY OF RELATIVE MENOPAUSATURE

Doesn’t that sound GENIUS???  It has a long, made-up word in it and everything!  Besides that, any title that has “theory” and “relative” in it HAS to be important, right?  Right? Hello?

Here’s how the theory works:

Any woman over the age of 45 will tell you that her body is changing in all kinds of freaky ways.  Things sag and shift and grow and stretch; it’s just not pretty.   One of the biggest changes, and my personal favorite, is the change in body temperature.  98.6 degrees?  Pffft.  Not even close.  We haven’t had a body temperature of 98.6 degrees since we weighed 98.6 pounds.  Nope; we “mature” women have a temperature zone of our own.  The equation to measure this is as follows:

Age x Outdoor Temperature = Body Temperature

For example: a woman much, much older than I…let’s say 48…ahem…and an outdoor temperature of 93, the high in our area today…her body temperature would be 48x93, or 4,464 degrees.

See? Was I right, or what?!   Can I get an AMEN from my sister friends??  And if the humidity is really high, you use the heat index temperature.  Today’s highest index was 103.  Accordingly, my that woman’s body temperature was 4,944 degrees.

I don’t know why someone didn’t figure this out before.  But now that I have changed modern thinking and the future of Mankind, I shall sit here in my own pool of sweat and await the call from the Nobel Prize committee.  Let’s see, the average temperature in Stockholm in December is 34 degrees, which would make my temperature…mumble, mumble, mumble…I’d better pack short sleeves.  Just in case of a heat wave.