Getting Old Suck--It's a Stampede

Okay...who let the elephant in my house?  It certainly looks like an elephant ankle, the three folds hanging loosely over the knee, threatening to entirely blanket the knee cap.  I don't think I'm an elephant, so someone must have let an elephant in the house.  That must be what I am seeing, because it certainly cannot be on me.

I should be thankful that they are just folds of flesh, and not flesh burgeoning with dimply fat and stretch marks.  Nope.  I just have three folds of loose saggy skin.....but only when I bend over.  Standing up straight, with a little leg flex, I can still make them disappear.  Woo Hoo!  But bending over...uh...nope...toe touches are not in my future.

Gravity may be inevitable, but that doesn't mean I like it.  I do like that gravity keeps my feet grounded, but couldn't it loosen it's tug on the rest of my body?  More and more things, some that once stood upright and perky, now sag, and droop....closer....and closer to the ground.  As my Mother once told me--She used to have boobs, but now they are her belly.  Greaaaat!  This is what I have to look forward to? 

Mom fills me in on all the gory details of menopause, too.  Forewarned is forearmed, right??   Uh....Whatever!  It all sounds pretty dismal to me! I'd like to skip right to the menopause part, you know, the part when it ends!  I'm in beginning stages of peri-pause right now.  Mom's regaling me with menopause horror stories.  Please!  Just cut my uterus out right now and let's get it over with. 

But that still won't stop the rest--the gravity, the aging.  This getting old business sucks. 

I know I'm not alone in this boat.  My friends...people my age....are all complaining about it.  Our bodies are going to hell in a hand basket, bumping hard the whole way.  Yeah, yeah 40's the new twenty....my ass!  Only if you can afford it!  Botox, nips, tucks.  Expensive creams.  You know what I'm talking about.

I'm relatively fit.  I take care of myself.  Olay is my friend!!  (My niece calls it my 'old lady cream'.)  I fight the fight, but in the end....Gravity wins.  Age sets in.  (sigh)

I'm here to tell you right now, though.....I will not grow old gracefully.  I'll grow old kicking and screaming, loudly complaining, the WHOLE time!

Where Are My Fat Clothes?

It's that time of the year again.....time for Fat Clothes!  It happens every year around this time, without fail.  I'll have worked all summer getting in shape.  That tummy pouch will finally have faded, replaced almost visibly with muscle.  I'll be back down to my "Skinny Clothes"--feeling ever so proud of my bad self!  Then....

It starts out slow.  The workouts fall by the way side because school throws off my routine.  Then I hit the Halloween candy--Sweetarts are my weakness, followed a close second by Snickers.  I'm embarrassed to say that I, uh...gorge on Sweetarts.  And those bite sized Snickers...omg...you could eat a hundred before you even realize it.

But things aren't too bad in the clothing department. The skinny jeans are still fitting, at least stretching out comfortably by the end of the day.  Just a little mini-muffin top.  I can catch this.  I think to myself, girl, you need to crunch!  But I don't.  By now I've lost the mojo.

The Thanksgiving celebrations cantor by--pumpkin pie. My oh my!  Sure I'll have another piece!!  That cute little outfit I've picked to wear isn't quite so comfortable anymore.  Looking in the mirror.....Yep--full blown muffins tops!   Skinny jeans are all day tight.

And still to come??  Christmas!!  Baking!  Cookies!  Lots and lots of good food!! 

Definitely time to drag out the 'fat clothes', boxing the skinny jeans away until my mojo returns in April, when I will, once again, work to shed my winter insulation.

Oh wait....I can't do that.  I have no 'fat clothes'.  On the advice of a friend, I gave them all away. 
"If you don't have them, you won't gain the weight back."

She was WRONG!!  I have no clothes that fit!!

So now I'm faced with an interesting dilemma.  Since I refuse to give up my holiday treats--Spritz, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Hay Stacks, among other things--I am left with only two choices. 

I can either exercise.....or......go shopping.

Hummmm.............

Birds of Hell

Thunk!   Thunk!  Thunk!!

This has become a common sound in our house!  It is the sound of birds flying into our windows.  Now perhaps I could understand this if our windows were the Windex kind of clean.  You know the commercial.  But that is certainly not the case here.  I assure you.

At first it was a little scary.  It began around the time we had our bonfire.  We'd be sitting watching TV and hear a crunching thunk against the window!  We'd all look around at each other with these 'WTH' looks on our faces.  What was going on?  The thunking wasn't limited to just one room.  I'd be dressing in the bedroom and hear it--thunk.  I'd nearly jump out of my skin.   We soon discovered the source.  The dumb birds had gone craazzzzy.  They were crashing into the windows at top speed!

 

I think we may have called up some bad stuff when we had that bonfire.  My husband is a bit of a pyro, always wanting bigger better fires.  This time he burned a mattress, among other discarded furnishings.  He thought it would be cool to watch it burn.  It was very cool.  That mattress went up fast and burned hot!  It was very intriguing to me.



Remains of mattress and chest

 
So intriguing that I ran for my camera and began snapping away.  As I reviewed the pictures, some interesting images jumped out at me.  I saw....faces in the flames.  Frankly, the images scared me, and not long after, I made my husband put out the fire.  My eyes could have been playing tricks on me, but you can decide if you see what I see. 

The Face Within the Flame





This looks like a 'tragedy' mask.





This really captured me--the 'eyes.


 

 And so now.....we have birds crashing into the windows.  I fear that we may have unleashed some evil that has caused the birds to go mad, crashing blindly into the windows.  Are they trying to get in and poke my eyes out?  Or will I walk outside to find sad little bird carcasses littered around the house, bringing plagues and disease?  My little dog ZuZu had already brought me a 'gift' of dead bird.  I hope it wasn't a sacrifice.



Now of course there is some logical reason for the crazy birds.  There has to be!!  My 15 year old son, himself tired of the constant thunks, decided to investigate.!  He discovered that our windows perfectly reflect our neighbors trees.  The birds, obviously misjudging the distance, were mistaking the reflected trees for the real thing.  They don't use the term 'bird brain' for nothing.  So that explains the birds, but not the images that I captured in the fire--that................

I'm going to chalk that up to an overactive imagination.

Where HAS That Food Been?

As my newly 9 year old daughter was getting ready for bed the other night, being the good and conscientious parent that I am, I inquired about her oral hygiene--did she brush her teeth?  I was assured the teeth were brushed.

"What about your tongue?  Did you brush your tongue?"  (I abhor bad breath)

By the blank look on her face, I ascertained that she had not, in fact, brushed her tongue.

"Why do we have to brush our tongue, Mommy?"

"Well...to get any food left on your tongue, germs.  That kind of thing."  I felt that was sufficient.  It was bed time.   I hadn't planned a mini-lesson on oral hygiene.

She thought about it for a second or two.......It seemed she was having an "Ah Ha" moment.........."
"Oh yeah," she exclaimed, "Because you never know where that food has been."

Okay...is she really my daughter???? 

The Twidiots

So....I'm playing around with my blog the other day--checking my stats to see if anyone other than my family is reading.  Not so much, but that's okay.....

I found a 'referring source' that lead to a Twitter Account.....hummm....I don't tweet and know virtually nothing about it.  Lord, if I started 'tweeting', too....my family would only ever see the back of my head.  But, I follow the link and end up at 'someone's' twitter account.  That someone had tweeted a link to my blog.  (cool)

But who is the culprit? 
Again...hummmm.   Being the smart girl that I am, I start putting together the puzzle.  The 'tweeter's' ID included some initials that were familiar to me, the same as my father's.  And a link to my blog?   It's got to be my father.  My Dad is Tweeting?  For real?

Being a 'twidiot' (a twitter idiot, and I want credit when that catches on!), I begin exploring the site.  Off to one side I see the word "Following" and think to myself, "Who is following my father?"  OMG....Barrack Obama??   Britney Spears???  What?  Barrack following Dad I could reason out.  My father has been writing his own blog--He's none to happy with the social security system.  Maybe Barrack is interested in my father's opinions?  Ok--that's possible.  But why would Britney Spears follow my father?

I give the brain a little spin.  Uh....duh....my father is following them!  (Okay, I am blonde...the new smart).  I totally get Dad following Barrack Obama.  Makes sense.  But my father following Britney Spears?  Really?  OMG!  That just kinda weirds me out.  I mean he's my father!  She's a Pop Tart Princess!


(I wonder, does Barrack Obama really tweet?  The President of the United States has has time to tweet?~~I understand Twitter is a form of short, quick communication, but really--no way!  I guess he fulfilled one promise--he created a job--Tweeter for the President.  I bet he has a staff of "Tweeters".  Definitely a job I'm not qualified for--remember--Twidiot.)


Well....I decide to give my Dad a hard time; cuz that's just how I am. 
Out goes the e-mail:
So you're a tweeter now, huh?  And following Britney Spears....interesting.....  ;-)

He replies:

Well sota...

I got on this Twitter thing, but have no clue how it works. Guess I am getting too old for all this new networking technology. I did a couple "Tweets" but have no idea where they went or how I review them, etc, etc,

BTY.. how did you find out that I "Tweet"? Probably I punched in something by accident?

To which I reply:

I'm a very resourceful girl..I can find out all kinds of things...bwahahaha  >;-)

Dad has yet to answer why he is following Britney Spears.  I think it's one of those things I'm going to have to put out of my mind; like the thought of your parents having sex....GROSS!

Why I Like Dogs Better than People--Reason 225

So I'm driving along to pick up my daughter from school.  As I pull into the school complex, I am behind a woman, talking on her cell phone, weaving between the lanes.  At least she was going slow, slow enough that I had to reduce my speed to about 2 miles an hour.  But I didn't give it a thought.  I was just driving along, enjoying the day, looking forward to hearing all about my daughters day.

We pull up beside each other in the parent pickup line, waiting for our children.  She gets out of her car, comes to my window and tells ME, "You really shouldn't tailgate so close in this parking lot."

Well, if she thinks I was tailgating, she obviously doesn't know the meaning of the word.  I tried to keep a car's length between us, which was difficult given she was going 1.5 miles per hour in a 10 mile zone.  But whatever....

Now normally, I am a non-confrontational girl.  Normally I would say nothing, then come home to bitch to my husband.  But her telling me how to drive...well...that just flew all over me. 

I smiled very sweetly and told her that maybe she shouldn't talk on her cell phone while she was driving.  I could see that I had hit a nerve.  Hypocrite was written all over her face.  "Uh...well...at least I was using hands free," she muttered, getting back into her car.

"No you weren't, " I retorted, "I could see the phone in your hand and you weaving all over the road."

This shut her up.  She had nothing more to say to me, but I obviously pissed her off.  As the school Guidance Counselor loaded my daugher into the car, that......uh...I'll be nice....woman flipped me the bird before she drove away.  OMG!  In the school parking lot? With the guidance counselor standing right there??   Are you kidding me?  WTH?  Great example there.....What a Mom!!!
Just one more reason--the more I know people, the more I like dogs!

Zero to Psycho

I just wasn't feeling dinner tonight.  I would have loved to have ordered out, but the 4 shoulder steaks sat staring at me.  Cook us, cook us, they cried.  I tried talking the husband into cooking, but ended up sending him out for dog food instead.  Not for us--the dogs!!!  I should have just gone ahead with what I knew...Swiss Steak....Mom's way, of course.  But there was a recipe on the meat package, so I thought, what the heck--Sweet and Spicy Steak with Onions.

It smelled great cooking, but somewhere in the back of my mind, something felt off.  I'm plating it up and discover that a few of the potatoes I had baked were not fully cooked.  But I went ahead and threw them out there along with the questionable steak dish.  I am not happy with this dish.  The love wasn't in it, and I knew it.

"Sit down to the table and have a look, the first complainer is the next meals cook."  That sign, passed on from my mother, hangs near our table, as it did at my childhood dining table.  And yes,  my children have had to cook the next meal, which is why they now never complain about the food put before them. 

Sitting at the table, passing food around, my oldest made the horrible mistake of telling me he needed money for his lunch account.   My family watched in horror as Mommy Dearest went from 0 to psycho in 2.5 seconds.  It was a frightening sight indeed, my hair standing on end, lightening bolts shooting from my eyes.  At one point I swear my daughter ducked under the table.

Then begins my tirade---"You want, want, want, but you never give, give, give."

Okay, now before put me up for Worst Mother of the Year, let me explain the background as to why asking for lunch money would turn me into the psycho princess.

--At the beginning of October, I sent in enough money to cover his lunch account for the entire month ($2/day).  He is out of money (and owes), yet there is still an entire week left in October.  Oh...he's been buying all the extras, ala carte, Gatorade. 

--Last week I spent $180 for yearbooks, half of which the boys promised to pay, but when the time came to pony up the dough, they had already spent their money on video games....as if they need more.

--Friday afternoon, my son reads me the list of supplies he needs for an upcoming event, to include cases of water and Gatorade, power bars, and 'healthy' snacks for the team, in addition to his own food,.  He also 'needs' $50 for spending money.   He want $10 for a hoodie. (he has 5 hoodies at home) .  He also 'needs' $35 for a monogrammed duffel bag he 'wants'.  My mother does that kind of thing, but no...that's not good enough.

But I want to be a good mom.  I tell my son, of course, we will get the necessary items, but that he's going to have to step up his game at home, do some extra chores if he wants all the extras. 

So...Sunday, I am working in the yard blowing and mowing leaves.  I spend 4 hours at this task.  (lots of leaves and lots of land)  Did my son offer to come help me?  Nope.  .

So, as you can see, I had been inundated with requests for money for days.  I was tired from working all day--alone, with no offer of help.  I didn't really want to cook dinner; which showed.  There was no love in that food.  I hate cooking a bad meal.  My mood was hanging in the balance.

Asking for lunch money tipped the scales.  Poor kid.

Bullies on Parade

I don't like mean people, especially mean little girls who say mean things to my daughter.  Makes me want to claw some eyes out.  But I can't do that.  I am an adult.  I must behave like an adult.  Hummm...maybe I need to make friends with the school bully? 

That's a joke, people. I do not tolerate bullying.  Being on the receiving end of bullying myself, I know exactly how it feels and what it can create.  It's a lonely feeling.  It creates confusion and self  doubt.  You wonder what it is about you that is so flawed.  Speaking for myself, I only wanted people to like me.  I'm sure I was mean from time to time, but I was taught the Golden Rule early on.  Knowing how I felt when I was being bullied, I never wanted to cause that pain in another.  Maybe I'm just weird that way.

My first experience with bullying came in the 2nd grade.  Tom Woods.  When he wasn't hitting me, he would steal my book bag and drop it down the sewer grate.  The school janitor would fish out my murky bag as I stood crying.  I think Tom liked to make me cry.  I had to deal with him for only 2 years, until we moved when I was in 4th grade. 

New Catholic school, new girl trying to fit in with the already established  girl cliques.  I was at an awkward stage in my development.  Coming from fine German stock, add in some prepubescent hormones, one could feasibly say I was 'pleasingly plump'. 

Yeah, my Mom told me that when I was 11.  Thanks Mom!  ;-)

I was kinda quiet and unsure of myself, being the new girl and all.  The girls were mean to me--wouldn't include me their games, called me names.  I felt very left out and alone.  The boys paid me no attention either, being that I was 'awkward'.  I felt very misplaced.  At the end of the school year, I begged to be allowed to go to public school.  I just knew things would be different.

Different....no.....worse.

It started on the school bus and carried on into school.  There was one particular girl, Tina What's Her Name, that just had it out for me.  No particular reason.  I'd never said 'boo' to her.  She lived in my subdivision, so we rode the same bus.   I constantly heard how fat and ugly I was, how nobody liked me.  Now if I could be described as pleasingly plump......Tina could most certainly be described as the plumpest of the plump.  She was twice my size!   Even then I had a 'figure', she was just round!

Tina would often take things from me as we rode the bus.  Candy, pencils, books--whatever.  The candy she would later pass around the to our classmates, a gift from her.  Anger welled in me, but I knew better than to unleash.  Mom and Dad said I could never start a fight, but I could finish one--meaning I couldn't hit first, but I was allowed to hit back.   Since Tina never 'hit me', I felt there was nothing to be done.  My anger and frustration often turned to tears.  This gave her power.


In addition to Tina What's Her Name, Michelle So and So was an additional thorn in my side.  One particular instance that is forever burned in my brain, is of Michelle, along with the entire 5th grade class (or so it seemed at the time) backing me around the playground, threatening to 'beat me up'.  It was a very traumatic event for me.   I probably still need some therapy.  ;-)

One of Michelle's 'friends' took her comb out of her back pocket.  That was 'the thing' back then in the 70's--carrying a big comb in your back pocket.  It made you very cool!  Her friends then began playing "Keep Away" from Michelle, tossing the comb across the Merry-Go-Round, back and forth.  Then.... the comb came my way......I caught it..........hesitated.

Ummm...I was there to make friends, certainly not enemies.  (Remember that whole "I just want everyone to like me" bit?)  I am not mean by nature, unless provoked, and then I can unleash like a Spider Monkey.  But... I wanted friends.   So....I tossed the comb in Michelle's direction.

Now I ask...is it my fault that she didn't catch the comb before it fell into the muddy little puddle?   Uh, I think not!  Unfortunately, Michelle and I did not see eye to eye on this issue.  I still say it was a pretty good toss!!

She came at me, fists balled up, urging her friends to join her.  I felt certain that I could 'take' Michelle.  I wasn't a 'little' girl, actually quite strong; I wasn't about to let anyone beat me up.  But taking on the whole 5th grade class?  I just knew I couldn't handle that.  They would kill me!!  And then my Mom would kill me--for fighting!  I was more afraid of my mother, I think.  I just kept backing up, keeping a safe enough distance between myself and the gaggle of kids.  It seemed as if hours had passed (though I'm sure it was only minutes), when finally the bell rang.  Recess was over!  Saved by the bell.

Afterward, in addition to taunts of being fat and ugly, now I was a scaredy cat, too.  Okay..yeah, it scared me, all those kids coming at me with those menacing looks on their faces.  It was a cornerstone on which I've built my self doubt. 

There are more instances of me being bullied, until I finally stood up for myself.  That's another story for another time. 

I've taught my children tolerance, respect, and acceptance of others.  They have been on the receiving end of a bullies.  I've given them the tools to handle the nasty little beasts.  I follow my parents tenant--You can't start a fight, but you can finish one."  If words don't work....well......  The only way to stop a bully is to stand up for yourself.    If you let them know you're not going to put of with their crap, usually the bully will leave you alone.  Sadly, he will search out another victim until he finds someone who will take his crap.  Bullish behavior must be dealt with in the home.  The bully's parents must take some responsibility for their child's behavior.  Likely there are deeper issues..

I don't understand how cutting another person down or beating on them can make anyone feel better about themselves, but that's the case with bullies.  They have low self-esteem ?  Guess they want someone to feel worse than they do?  Or maybe they're trying to be 'cool' in the eyes of their peers?  I don't know, but I just don't get it.  I never have.

Maybe I'm a little naive--quaint--but I would so much rather raise some one up than to cut them down.  It takes just as much energy to say a kind word as an unkind one.  And really, in the end, you feel pretty good about yourself, too.  Now there's a win/win!

Common Courtesy--A Fading Fancy

I recently read an article about Olde Salty's restaurant, in North Carolina, that posted a sign reading—“Screaming Children Will Not Be Tolerated”.

Hummmmm…..

Does a restaurant owner have the right? One mom, Kelly Chambliss, doesn’t think so. She believes Olde Salty’s is discriminating against her son because he is autistic.

Ms. Chambliss--are you serious??? Isn’t that a little extreme?


Do you think it’s alright for you to remain in a restaurant with a screaming child, autistic or not, and spoiling the dinner of everyone around you? Talk about indigestion!!  What about the parents who have paid for a sitter to enjoy some time away from their kids, and the whole time they have to listen to a screaming child? They could have gotten that at home for free. Don’t they have a right to an enjoyable dinner?


Here, let's get a little more extreme.... Maybe the restaurant should sue the parents of screaming children. Screaming children drive away customers, which results in loss of income. 
Ka-ching!


People!! Let’s try on some of that seemingly uncommon, common courtesy, some more of that good old-fashioned respect. If your child is throwing a fit in a restaurant, or your baby won’t stop crying, remove them. Trip to the bathroom? Outside? To-go box??


Maybe our rights as parents have been stripped down. I think there are people who want to discipline, but are afraid, so they resort to lazy parenting. It’s just easier to give in. You don’t like the whining, the crying, and you want it to stop. Totally get that. But giving in to the whining--giving a child what they want because they are whining???  Whew.….that's bad news. That’s when they get what they need—a swat on the butt, maybe? Can’t do that, though—you might get arrested.

(Now child abuse is a total extreme to what I’m talking. Let’s keep that in mind. I am also not suggesting spanking an autistic child.  We're talking generalities here.  Don’t want those extremist breathing down my neck.)

No means NO! It doesn’t mean having a fit, or whining and carrying on to get your way. It means 'No--and if you don’t stop, you’re going to be sorry'. If that lesson is learned early on, you’re golden. You’ve won half the war right there. Pick your battles--the important ones. Your child acting a fool in public—that’s kind of an important one.


I applaud Ms. Chambliss for being an advocate for her child. Kudos! But I think she is being very extreme with her allegations of discrimination. Olde Salty’s just wants to create a pleasant environment for all their customers. They aren’t saying that kids aren’t welcome, but merely screaming and crying won’t be tolerated. If an adult were to behave in such a manner, as to disrupt other patrons, I'm sure any restaurant could ask them to leave.  Why not an out of control child and their parents?

Maybe Olde Salty’s should change their sign to read—


Screaming People Will Not Be Tolerated

"Girled" Cheese

Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup has always been a family favorite.  It's a feast around here.  When I announce the savory dish, I am met with a chorus of "Yums"!  Being the kind mother I am, I allow them the feast often--weekly, in fact.  It's affordable.  I use milk, not water, so naturally I feel like I am providing a nutritious dinner...lol...plus....how easy is it to make?    Thank God for Campbell's!!

Since she could talk, instead of saying 'grilled' cheese, my daughter has called it 'girled' cheese--not boy cheese, but girled.  She had ear issues as a tot (tonsils, tubes, adenoids) and wasn't hearing properly there for a while.  Girled Cheese was just something we didn't correct.  It was cute, that girled cheese!  It stuck.

Before long, we were all saying it.  Girled Cheese. 

Just a few days ago I walked in on a heated argument between my daughter and her friend.

"Nuh uh....it's GRILLED cheese.  G-R-I-L-L-E-D."

"Well, you're wrong," said my daughter, hand on hip, in her most condescending voice,
"It's GIRLED!!!  G-I-R-L-E-D!"

With a smug look she turn to me and said, "Right, Mommy?"

Oops..................

The Scamp

My daughter only asked for two things for her birthday--a Zhu Zhu pet or a kitten.  At the time Zhu Zhu pets were in short supply, and kittens, well....I have issues with cats.  A cat tried to kill me once.  I found poor kitty high in a tree, mewing in such a pitiful way.  I climbed that tree, rescued poor kitty, and gave him food and shelter for the night.  In the middle of the night he repaid me by curling up on my face, over my mouth.  I awoke gasping for air.  He was trying to suffocate me, I just know it.  No cats for me.

As her birthday had passed, my daughter, a master of compromise, then asked for a puppy for Christmas.  Now I had been toying with the idea of another dog for some time.  We had our beautiful black lab, Sassy, the most well-behaved dog you'd ever want to meet, but Sassy was getting on in years, becoming quite lazy, truth be told.   A puppy might bring back some of her youth and vitality.

My parents own two Bichon's, the cutest, fluffiest, cuddliest little creatures I had ever laid eyes on.  The puppies would cuddle and love on me, much to the chagrin of my father.  I think he was jealous of the attention they lavished on me.  At the end of a visit, my parents would check my luggage to make sure I hadn't kidnapped their 'babies'.    My daughter was equally smitten with 'the puppies' as my dad calls them.  He doesn't like dogs, but puppies are okay.

Bichon's are beautiful animals, and they come with a hefty price.  Really out of my budget.  But my mother had an idea.  She offered a puppy as a Christmas gift for me and my daughter.  Not one of their puppies, of course, but an equally cute, cuddly, 'foo-foo' puppy.  We searched high and low, unable to find a Bichon, but were able to find a comparable mixed breed, a Bichon Frise/Shitzu.  Now please don't call my baby a mutt, I take offense to that, she is a 'designer breed'.  She is a Shitzon!

Before we even picked out the puppy, my daughter and I had already decided on a name.  Again, we compromised.  Since the pup was a Christmas gift, and she had wanted a Zhu Zhu pet, we settled on Zu Zu's Petals, after my favorite holiday movie--It's a Wonderful Life.  She had her Zu Zu pet and I had my own little Foo Foo puppy.  I had visions of my pristine white puppy with bows in her hair, daintily scampering about.  Yep, visions equal dreams, and dreams are not always reality.

I should have taken the clue when we first walked into the place.  There were several little puppies scampering about.  I had my eye on the shy, quiet one in the corner, but my daughter fell in love with the puppy that practically knocked her to the floor--the wildest puppy of the bunch, the puppy that became our ZuZu.  Sold!  Merry Christmas!

Naturally I was concerned how our Sassy would feel about this new addition to our family.  She is an 8 year old lab, and has been the only dog her whole life.  But being the sweet dog that she is, Sassy looked upon this tiny addition as one might a fly--just a pest.  Sassy tried to ignore the pup, but ZuZu would have none of that.  ZuZu was that annoying sibling.  She would run circles around Sassy, nipping and biting at her feet.  "Stop Touching Me." Sassy took it all in stride, up to a point.  Sass is the Alpha dog and she lets ZuZu know it.

Mornings find ZuZu dashing about the yard, soaking up dew to her belly.  When she's good and wet, she'll make her way over to her favorite digging spot, coming up for air with a muddy face and paws.  Then a quick trip to the sandbox for a little more digging.  She's becoming permanently stained a dingy off-white color, despite frequent 'whitening' shampoos. 

Her newest mischief includes tipping garbage cans to find the used tissue, then shredding them into thousands of pieces of snotty confetti.  Her favorite game is sneaking into my daughters room to steal one toy, then run out of the room like a thief in the night.

ZuZu is a scamp. She's like that ragamuffin child, dirt smudged and hair all askew, big sloppy grin plastered across her face.  You know she's up to no good, but you can't help but love her.

                                   Like owner, like dog.

Sugar Mama

Confession time.  I have a potty mouth.  It's not a badge I wear with pride, but a badge I wear none the less.  I guess in my youth I thought I was really cool throwing those curse words around.  It seemed like everyone was doing it, so why not me?  Naughty, naughty.

Then one day, I woke up and I had this baby--the epitome of innocence.  I made a decision to clean up my act.  While not yet a seasoned parent, I'd learned enough to know that children live what they learn.  I wanted to be a shining example.  I tried to eliminate cursing from my vocabulary.

I found, however, that I still needed a word to really drive the point when I was mad. It really didn't  matter what word, just something that I could say with force.   I needed a word that, maybe, if I was midstream in a real curse, I could quickly correct.  I settled on 'sugar'.

Oh Sugar!! Spilled milk--Oh Sugar!  Stub a toe--Oh Sugar!  Sugar, sugar, sugar.  When I was irritated, upset, angry.....I was spinning some potent sugar.

This is where I learned that children can be the best teachers.  I discovered a very important lesson about language.  It's not always what you say, but how you say it.

One day my then 3 year old  was very upset with me.  I'm sure I told him 'no' or some other equally heinous act, like to pick up his toys or, perhaps, share with his brother.  (THE HORROR!!)   He worked himself up into a lather, crossed those little arms over his chest, stomped that fat Fred Flintstone foot and said to me,  in a voice void of any sweetness, "You're a Sugar Mama!"

My 3 year old was essentially cussing me out and I was the one who taught him to do it!!

No Cool Mom points for me.  Guess I really am a Sugar Mama.

Grandma Always Said

Grandma always said, “When they’re little, children step on your toes. When they’re grown, they step on your heart.”

I always thought the 'grown' part meant grown--as in ‘grown-up’. I really didn’t think teenage boys could put such a hurting on me, but they certainly did.

It started simply enough—a conversation with my oldest son regarding upcoming extracurricular events.  “When’s the first competition?” I asked.

“I dunno,” was the reply. “Why do you want to know?
“Well...I guess because I want to be there? You know, to support you.”
“Mom, you don’t have to go to the competitions.”
What?? My mom was at every little event that I participated in. I wanted her there. I needed her there. Maybe that’s a difference between boys and girls? I just couldn’t comprehend why I wasn’t wanted—needed!!
“Geez, son! It almost sounds like you don’t want me there.”

Silence filled the air.

Now up to this point it’s been a light-hearted conversation. But suddenly my heart doesn’t feel so light. “You do want me there, right?”
I am met with nothing but more uncomfortable silence. I ask the dreaded question—why don’t you want me there?
“Oh Mom, you don’t have to be there. You’ll just embarrass me.”

Now I have to admit, I’ve got some hormones flying all over the place these days. I’m prone to bouts of tears and mood swings. This whole peri-menopause thing leaves a lot to be desired. I really thought it would be my daughter in puberty and me in menopause, a frightening thought, indeed. But as it is, estrogen is battling it out with a double dose of testosterone! I put my emotions in check for the moment and decided to table the discussion. I rationalized that I was being ridiculous and overly emotional. Let it go!

The very next day, I take son number 2 to his high school Freshman Orientation, which included a parent meeting. As I was busy chattering away with other moms, son 2 takes his seat in the auditorium. I finish my conversation and make way toward sonny boy so that I could sit with him during the presentation.

Maybe it was me asking him, in front of some friends, if the seat next to him was taken. Maybe I looked funny. Smelled bad? I don’t know. But I do know that my son told me he didn’t want me there because he would be embarrassed.

Ooooo! Ouch!! Yet another crushing heart blow! What is this? A conspiracy?? Do I really embarrass my children?

Later that day, I closed myself up in the bedroom and cried my eyes out. I was hurt--devastated that I wasn’t the cool mom I had painted in my mind. Then I became so angry, not at my children, but at myself for being unable to control this cry baby that I had become. I am a grown woman!! Boo Hoo. Woe is me. Let’s have a pity party…one…two…three….

Build a bridge, damn it!!

My poor husband comes home from work that night and is greeted by our darling daughter, who is quick to tell daddy that mommy is NOT having a good day. Husband finds me, and proceeds to fight tooth and nail to get it out of me—what is the matter?
“Nothing,” I sob through the tears.

He is smart enough to know that when a woman says nothing is wrong when she’s curled up under the covers crying her eyes out, surrounded by shreds of used tissues, that something is most definitely wrong. Finally..finally...I spill my guts.  Upon hearing my tale of woe, my champion storms out of the room to find his ungrateful sons. He’s gone for some time. When he returns to me, his arms are laden with computers, cell phones and video games.

“I cut the power to their room, too! The law says we only have to provide food, shelter, and clothing! Ungrateful little brats!” Yes, he is an extremist!

But because we are rational people (at least we like to think so), a family meeting was called. Conflict can only be resolved through communication.  I really didn’t want my boys to see me a big sloppy mess. I knew if we sat down to talk about this that the dam was gonna start leaking again. But my husband thought it was important that the boys  see how deeply they hurt me. That whole saying about sticks and stones is crap. Words do hurt!

Tears flowed and tissues were tossed around, but ultimately we hashed it out. Turns out I’m not a total embarrassment to my boys. Son 2 just didn’t know how to say that he wanted to do Freshman Orientation on his own—that he could handle it on his own. Now had he said that to me originally, I’m sure I still would have cried, but they would have been ‘My Baby Boy is Growing Up” tears.  Big difference.

Son 1—well…he said I could come to his events if I wanted to, but asked that I not scream and yell from the stands because that was embarrassing. Okay, I can do that. At least I think I can do that. Sometimes you get so caught up in the game, the match, the whatever, and you’re so darn proud of your child that you just can’t help but yell, “That’s my boy!!” Isn’t that what parents do??

I am assured by my mother this will not be the last time I embarrass my children, nor will it be the last time they hurt my feelings because…..as Grandma always said…..

When they’re little they step on your toes, when they’re grown they step on your heart.

Guess my boys are grown.

Building a Bridge

So I finally decide to join the bandwagon and start my own blog.  I'm excited.  I choose a blog name, fill out all the required info.  There are a thousand ideas floating around in my head.   I've always enjoyed writing and never seem to be at a loss for words.  It's gonna be good, I think to myself.

My fingers find the keys and words start flowing out of me.  I type and type and type some more.  Then, I stop.  I read what I wrote.  Yeah, I think it's funny--clever even, but I allow my thoughts to go past that, into my world of self doubt.  Well, maybe it's not so great.  Is it stupid?  What are these people who don't know me going to think of this drivel?  Who even cares?  Before I know it, I've backspaced away an hour of my life.  Cut.  Delete. Gone.  I'm left with an empty blog; a blinding white screen before me.  I've beaten myself...again.

I've always been my own worst enemy.  I don't need anyone to shatter my confidence, I'm perfectly capable of doing that on my own.  It's one thing I am good at.    I'm sure it all has to do with those unresolved childhood issues--not feeling as though I fit in, never feeling quite good enough.  blah, blah, blah, blah, blah

Good grief.  I am 40-something years old.  I really need to build a bridge.....and get over it.

So how does one, deep in the throes of mid-life, change the course that has been heavily paved with doubt all these years?   Why is it so difficult to for me to believe in me?    The contributors to my childhood self-doubt are no longer a part of my life.  I surround myself with people who raise me up, people who believe in me, in the hopes of drawing off their positive energies...... mix it up with my own, to create a new, self-confident being.  I employ the same tactic with young people, hoping to suck the youth and vitality right out of them.

So this blog is a start for me-a start to build my own confidence.  I'm just going to write the 'stuff' I like to write--for me.  Then I'm going to tell my people about it--the people who know me, the people who will boost me up.  Then I'm going to send it out into the anonymous cyber world and see what happens.  If all else fails, there's always 'delete'.

Building my bridge, one word at a time.