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. ;-)