Category: Parenting

I Am Take A Side

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I find it deeply disturbing that everyone wants to start screaming hatred at each other when discussing this horrific act of violence against innocent human beings. It becomes political from the moment it happens, and it just keeps getting more and more vicious as everyone takes a side.
Well, I am taking a side.
I am taking the side of the parents who will bury a child, be it one of the students, or their son or daughter who was a teacher.
I am taking the side of the community that will now bury 17 of their neighbors.
I am taking the side of the first responders, police officers, and adults who had to face the horror inside the school in the aftermath of the shootings, who will face the nightmares that will come from those hours.
I am taking the side of the students who lost friends, and who will have to go back to school and remember the fear.
I am taking the side of the mothers who will mourn for the rest of their lives.
I am taking the side of the fathers who will forever feel as if they didn’t protect their lost child.
I am taking the side of the victims, each one whose life was cut off without warning, though no fault of their own.
I am taking a side that condemns the media, pundits, and hate filled rhetoric of the people who think their opinion about guns is more important that taking time to pray for, with, and about the deep sorrow of the families of those who died.
I am taking a side. It isn’t about us, it is about them. I hope you will join me.

A Blank Page

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There is something about a blank page that bugs me. It doesn’t matter if it is on my computer screen or a real piece of paper, it screams out for something, anything, to be written or drawn on it to make it unique.

When my kids were little, paper was a way to keep them entertained for all of two minutes while I made a bathroom stop. A notebook and pencil in my purse or diaper bag was a must to hold off boredom in places like restaurants and church. As they got older, we used paper and pencils to write words, and draw pictures to go with them. Sometimes, if we were in an appropriate, and sometimes not appropriate, place we would make paper airplanes, or fans, or anything we could by folding paper. It was a useful tool.

Then, when my kids were teenagers, before we all had text messaging, they left me notes on the fridge, the front door, in my car, and sometimes, on me, to remind me of things they needed or places they needed to be. I did the same for them and for my husband. Notes became an every day way of communicating in a busy teenage household.

But always, through the years, writing down my life was a part of my daily routine. I filled pages of paper in journals telling my story. Then I started writing down imaginary stories, always trying to write something that would teach, lead, or entertain others. I wrote letters, by hand, and notes saying Thank You, or You Are Invited To An Event, to others. I wrote love letters to my husband, and letters of appreciation and admonition to my children and grandchildren. I wrote the histories of my ancestors, and reams of papers for college courses.

Today, I still write every day. Sometimes it is just a blog, sometimes I work on a book or a short story, sometimes I just write an email, a response on social media, or to my elected officials. Like reading every day, writing is as much a part of my life as breathing. I can’t imagine being unable to do either.

So, today, when I was faced with a blank page, I thought about how important it is to write things down. Because once you are gone, and your children are gone, who will remember what you said, how you though, or the feelings that filled your life? This is your chance to put down the words that mean something to you. This is your time to tell your own story, opine on your ideas and dreams, and your time to say what you really think about any and every subject that comes to mind.

Every personal story is important. Without personal accounts of events, real history will be lost to the ages. All that will be left is what the professional politicians had to say, or the media of the day had to say, not what every day people had to say about a moment in time. Daily grind events are just as important as life changing events. And in the future, some many times great grandchild will sit in wonder reading what you really thought, did, or felt in your life. It will amaze, thrill, and surprise them with the turn of every page. Write it down. Inquiring minds will want to know.

A blank page is an opportunity. Don’t waste it.

Every Day Heroes

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A friend told me about an accident she and her husband came upon the other day. A car was on fire, and someone was trying to get out. Her husband jumped out of their vehicle and ran to help him get out, stayed with him until medical people arrived to fly the injured driver out to a hospital. Her husband was banged up a bit, but fine. Everyone was commenting on how much of a hero he was for helping and putting himself at risk. She demurred. I wrote in her comment section the following.

“Heroes are every day people who do extraordinary things without worrying about the consequences.”

I thought on that later, and I have come to the decision that all of us are everyday heroes during our lives. Often we don’t think of our actions as heroic or special. We simply react to what is happening in the best way we can. Sometimes it is helping someone survive a horrific accident. Sometimes it is taking soup to a sick friend. Sometimes it is a listening ear, and sometimes a swift kick in the attitude of someone having a pity party.

Saving a life is a big deal. It is a lot of responsibility and takes someone with inner strength of steel and granite to do what has to be done. Pulling someone out of burning building, out of the twin towers; running into the line of fire to rescue someone, standing up to the local bully to protect someone; leaving the abusive spouse, male or female, and taking the children with you; moving back home to take care of aging parents and giving up your plans to raise a child you didn’t expect to raise. All of those are heroic things. It takes guts, selflessness, and a willingness to deal with unforeseen consequences due to your actions to fulfill the title of hero.

Some people have jobs that are more like callings which are intrinsically heroic. Fire fighters, Law enforcement, Military men and women, Emergency Medical Personnel, are all in highly dangerous occupations. People are willing to accept those dangers. They train and work hard to gain the skills to do their jobs to the highest degree of proficiency. They are heroic in going out into the harsh world and fulfilling their duty.

Some people are heroes for taking on responsibility that they didn’t sign up for in their lives. They don’t run into burning buildings or chase down criminals, nor do they go out and put an end to evil regimes that threaten their countries and ours. These are the average moms and dads who sacrifice career advancements, educational opportunities, and being upwardly mobile so that one of them can stay home and raise their children. These are the single moms and dads, who, for whatever reason, are raising their children without benefit of a spouse. These are the single parents who are working, going to school full time, and being a mom or dad too. They could easily drop the kids into the system, hand them off to grandparents or other family members, but choose to be the mom and dad, provider, and give up personal time to be the best parent they can be.

There are heroes who teach, guide, lead, discover, and reach out to students who are on the verge of becoming another statistic to the poverty, gangs, and violence of their cultural world. Older men and women who set out to be an example to younger men and women, becoming a mentor and someone who believes in a young man or woman who has never had an advocate for their potential. And some heroes who coach and shape young people into strong, independent, thinking adults become the silent hero in the lives of the lonely, lost, and ignored. Most of them never know they made a difference just by their example.

And there are the every day people who reach out to everyone around them with friendship. Sometimes all it takes is just one person to change the life of another in a positive way after the slings and arrows of life has beaten them down. To the one they helped, they are doing something extraordinary. They cared enough to encourage someone on the abyss to keep going, not to give up, and ask for nothing in return. Sometimes all it takes is one person, just one, to change the trajectory of the world for another lost or grieving soul. Who is your hero?

Every day people, doing extraordinary things . . . think about it.

Boys

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Boys.

If they can climb it,

jump on it,

stomp in it,

roll on it,

swing on it,

and even better, jump off it,

they love whatever it is.

If it gets them dirty,

smelly,

sweaty,

wet,

or even better, muddy,

they want it.

If they can eat it,

drink it,

throw it,

smear it,

and it still tastes good,

they will take it.

If they can yell,

scream,

whistle,

shout,

growl,

and be loud,

they say it.

Boys.

Not your cream puff video game players,

Boys.

Learning to be men by doing, playing, coping, challenging.

Boys.

Hard to raise, harder to let go of.

Boys.

Pride, honor, dignity,

mine.

Favorites

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I was cutting onions for a soup this afternoon. I was using my favorite paring knife, one I’ve had for over twenty-five years. I like my knife, and it annoys me when someone else uses it. “Huh,” I thought, “I wonder if that is weird or if other cooks feel that way about their knives.” I have probably close to two dozen, mostly very sharp, knives in my kitchen. Most of them have a certain purpose for chopping, cutting, or what ever needs done to make a meal. If I had to chose five to keep, I already know which five are my favorite. Is that weird, or is it any different from anyone who uses any sort of tools on a regular basis?

I know my Dad had his favorite tools that he liked to use for different projects. He also had his favorite guitar, mandolin, fiddle, bass, amplifier, microphone, and hat. My mom had her favorite sewing machine, and heaven help us if we messed up her favorite cast iron frying pan. My Grannie had her favorite needle, and she like a certain kind of thread to quilt with, and my Granddad absolutely had his favorite hammer, I remember because he yelled at me for playing with it when I was a little kid. He also had his favorite razor that he sharpened on his razor strap. I got spanked with the strap once too. But only once. I learned to never lie to him that day.

My husband has his favorite guns, pistol, long gun, and shot gun. His favorite type of ammo for each. He has his favorite tools for his computers and tech gizmos, and his favorite kind of electronics to test for problems. And he is picky about all sorts of tools in the garage and house.

I have my favorite writing tools, things like dictionaries, thesaurus, reference materials, and research materials. I do not like using the Internet for that information. Half the stuff on line is incorrect anyway. I have my favorite kitchen gadgets, and do not allow anyone to use my baking pans for the wrong thing, that really, really annoys me. Does that make me a creature of habit? Probably. I know I find it comfortable to use the tools that I have had for a long time. And, I hate new technology. Just as soon as I get used to the way my computer works, something has to be changed, I hate the constant learning curve.

After getting the soup on, and cleaning my knife, I put it back on the wall magnet I hang my knives on. I wondered, as I checked them for sharpness, how I could use them as a weapon in a story I have in mind to write. “Huh.” I thought, “How weird is it that someone would look at their kitchen knives and wonder how to use them in a story, or is it weird?” Apparently, not for me.

Rant…Driving Makes People Idiots

Posted on Posted in Children, Choices, Driving, Habits, loss, Parenting, Rude hatful peopleTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

So, I was driving to see my local vampire, AKA, my Endocrinologist for a blood test today. I was in the right hand lane, stopped at the light on Getwell and Church Road behind a pick up truck. On the left two vehicles pull up. One is an SUV, the other a dinky sedan. When the light turns green, the sedan doesn’t move fast enough for the SUV, and the driver honks at her. She moves, very slowly, across the intersection. The truck in front of me bales like his house is on fire, and I speed up a bit. The SUV, cuts in front of me, pulls back in front of the sedan, then brake checks her, I slowed down because I had a bad feeling. Sure enough, the sedan cuts me off. I ended up going off road to avoid her back quarter panel, well, lets just say it was close enough that there wouldn’t have been a back door if I had hit her, and my husband’s car would have been totaled. I went from scared to pissed off faster than Mario Andriette could get off the starting line.

I caught up with the bimbo at the light and told her to either pull over and talk to me, or I was calling the cops on her for dangerous driving and anything else they could throw at her. I had photos of her tag, the SUV tag, and the tag of the truck in front of me, and the other car that passed me while I was getting back on the road. She pulled over into the grocery store lot. I blocked her in. Then I got out of my car and went up to her window to speak to her. “What do you think you were doing? You ran me off the road, and nearly killed me. If had hit you, your friend in the back sea”t would be injured or dead, and your friend in the front seat would be seriously injured because she would have hit the window. And you would be injured or dead because you would have taken out the SUV. Her answer. She giggled. I wanted to grab her by her hair and pull her out of her car via the two inch gap in her window.

You think this is amusing? You are driving a six thousand pound or more weapon. It is a deadly weapon capable of killing you or anyone in it, and anyone you hit with it. Do you not understand that? It isn’t a toy, and if you are going to use it for fun, get the hell off the road and go play a video game instead of driving a real car. This isn’t for fun, it is a responsibility that is very serious.” She started saying sorry over and over. I wasn’t through. “ Sorry won’t get it when you cause an accident that kills or injures a family or a mom with a baby in the car, or someone’s daddy. Sorry won’t mean a damned thing to the person you put in the hospital with serious injuries. Sorry won’t mean a damned thing to your parents if they have to bury you before your next birthday, or heaven help them, have their daughter be an invalid for the rest your her life.” She started tearing up. I almost left. But….

Her guy friend in the back seat rolls down his window and says,)I Apologize for the language) “Why don’t you just shut the F..k up you stupid bitch?” [Note: he is gay, and pissy from the get go.] I looked him over. “Well, this stupid old bitch was smart enough to save your pathetic life today. You should be thanking whatever you worship – be it God or the Kardashians – that I have good reflexes for being bitchy and old instead of being a rude little rubbish heap.” His response, “F….ing old bitch, you just need to shut the F…l up and let us leave.” Now I am pissed off again. “Look sonny, calling me an old bitch doesn’t upset me, I am old and I can be a real bitch. Not that I have….yet.” He says, “F… You.” I have to admit, I snickered when I said, “I thought, by the way you talk and act, that you liked men. Either I got it wrong, or you really need glasses, child.” So he screams, yes, screams, “You f….ing homophobic bitch!” Well, he is verbally challenged when it comes to his vocabulary, but he did use another word. I laughed out loud.

“Sonny, I don’t give a flying damn who you sleep with, or in your case, since you are both ugly and dumb as a stump, who you wish you could sleep with, not my business. Or since you are sharing, that is too much information.” So he calls me the C word with the boring F word in front of it. Being the smart ass that I tend to be when really pissed off, I asked in all sincere sarcasm, “Do you know that you just called me the slang word for female genitalia? Honey, I know you are envious that you don’t have that, and that instead, you are just an arrogant prick. And not a big prick either, just a little prick that nobody give a flying damn about.”

The girls in the front seat are sitting like frozen ducks. I tell the driver, that she needs to know that if she injures or kills someone with her car, she will go to jail. One for reckless driving, the other for manslaughter. She is fortunate that I kept her from facing that today. And, that I expect she be aware of the danger driving a car poses. Just because she was behind the wheel, didn’t mean she was safe.

The screamer in the back seat said, “What the F..k do you know about it, are you some kind of cop or lawyer?” I just smiled. “It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t do for a living, prick. Today, right now, I am the judge and jury, and I am giving her a way out of jail. I suggest she take what I say to heart, and straighten up. Next time she won’t be so lucky.” He flings his hair out of his eyes for the millionth time, “She doesn’t have to do sh*t that you say. She is an adult since she is over eighteen.” I smiled again. He turned a bit pale. I do that to people sometimes. “So, she is an adult. Game over. No excuses or juvenile out for her. She would be charged as an adult. Sucks to be a grownup, doesn’t it, prick?”

The driver turned to him and told him to shut up, using the F word of first of course. The entire time, the other girl in the front seat just sat there, looking down. As I started to my car, her window came down, I braced for another tantrum. She was bright red with embarrassment. “Ma’am? I want to apologize for everything. I told her to slow down and not to be stupid, I saw your face when you drove off the road. I know it scared you. I’m so, so sorry.” I thanked her then told her that it wasn’t her fault her friend drove that way, and maybe she would think before getting in the car with anyone who drove like that again.

Screamer said not to listen to me. I looked her in the eyes and asked her, “Who do you think has more experience with life, me or the ignorant ass sitting behind you? Ask yourself this, how did I get to be so old if I were as stupid as he/she/it – whatever he calls himself – thinks I am? Been there done that, raised kids, grand kids, and their friends. Choose your friends wisely, they could kill you with their idiocy and arrogance.”

I got in my car, and still made it to my appointment on time, without speeding or driving like an idiot. Some days, I really think I should have just stayed in bed. I am still pissed off. The driver got a scare and she had to face how her idiocy effected me. The other poor girl needs better friends. And I still want to kick that little prick’s ass from here to Memphis and back.

Living in Her World

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She lives in a world of princess dolls, tea sets, and toy horses, each enhanced with her imagination into a fantasy world of unending play and drama. She has deep conversations and interaction between her dolls and horses, and a tea party will include every toy she can find and her grandfather. She dances, prances, twirls, all in her tutu of the day – without an ounce of self conscious behavior.

In her world, everyone is expected to understand the rules that she sets forth and changes from moment to moment. It is her world after all. Her princesses posture, argue, share, and talk for hours, just like people in the grown up world. However, it is all driven by the imagination, intelligence, and curiosity of a four year old girl. When I over hear her say something that sound remarkably like something I have said to her, or her Mommy has said, it makes me smile. There are time she sounds amazingly mature, and other times it is clear she is fully engrossed in some magical moment of discovery.

In her world, her teddy bear, toy cat, and prized princess horse can have an intense conversation over pretend tea and cookies, while her imaginary sisters squabble in the background. I don’t know how she keeps the story lines straight. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because it is her world and subject to change without notice. And, like it or not, those of us on the peripheral are involved when we are needed to further the narrative.

Living in her world includes frequent costume changes, and requires a fashion show for each change. Sometimes it requires a new way of doing up her hair, different shoes, and a full change from the skin out. She dances her way through the day, fully aware of her beauty, and proud of her ability to be a princess one moment and a baby the next.

In her world, where she displays supreme self confidence and control, she has no fear, except a fear of the dark. She faces monsters, outrageous characters, stubborn dolls, and the occasional grumpy horse that needs a talking to. She laughs and dances through the story, the moment, the magic. And, at the end of her day, she crawls into her Papa’s lap, asking for a story to go to sleep by. Then, the next day, that story finds its way into her world, continuing on in her imagination.

Living in her world is a delight, a blessing, and an unending adventure. Her favorite living companion is her Papa, who willingly joins her world, and deeply misses her when she is away. We are old, she is young, but with her in our lives, in our hearts, we have learned to play again. Time to go see what is next, a tea party or a pretend trip to the barn. Either way, we will be in her world, and it will be an adventure worth remembering.

Soap Box Rant

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WARNING: SOAP BOX RANT

I saw a commercial today for Little Cesar’s Pizza Company. I found it absolutely disgusting.

A little prince of a brat was sitting in a chair while his Dad brought him a pizza. He told his dad about a sale at Little Cesar’s Pizza and when his dad shamefully admitted he didn’t get that deal, bratty prince told is father to bend down and the bratty prince removed the #1 logo from the Dad’s hat and threw it over his shoulder in compete contempt for his father.

Was that supposed to be funny? Was it meant to diminish the father in importance? Was it supposed to make parents want to buy pizza for the little brat prince from a store like Little Cesar’s Pizza? Was it supposed to make the bratty prince look smarter than the dad? Was it supposed to make a statement on family dynamics? What the hell was that about?

Why would anyone who is a parent, who acts and behaves like a parent, not a peer of the bratty kid, ever buy anything from a company who has so little respect for fathers? Would they have that same role filled by a woman who was supposed to be a mother? Nope. Would the dad role be filled by a gay guy, black guy, Hispanic guy? Nope. Only a white guy can be such a schmuck. A middle aged, somewhat paunchy, white guy to boot. Why? Because we all know a middle aged white male is nothing more than a schmuck who is worthless, and the only good he does is bring home the bacon, or pizza in this case.

Subliminal messages abound in advertising, movies, television and even in books. We are all rotten parents because we don’t give our little princes and princesses exactly what they want, when they want it, and how they want on a daily basis. We are no longer #1 Dad or #1 Mom or grandparent, we are failures in the eyes of the men and women who run big business. We are failures to be mocked and insulted on a daily basis, yet it is folks like the dad in that advert who actually pay the bills and buy most things for the household and the bratty kids.

Every time I see that ad, I get ticked off. If my child had ever behaved in such a way, they would be doing chores for a month straight, and that is after being told off in no uncertain terms about how much of an ungrateful, wretched little monster they were! Makes me want to reach through the screen and smack that kid right out of the chair he is lounging in along with his hateful attitude.

It isn’t right to portray parents who are trying to feed their kids as inept imbeciles. It creates the idea in kid’s heads that their parents aren’t Number One in any way. Sure teenagers feel that way, but that is part of the whole distancing themselves from their embarrassing parents that happens to every family. By making this kid in the ad ten years old or under, the subliminal message to all kids that age who see the ad, is that Dad is just one stupid mistake from being a total failure who doesn’t deserve the kid’s respect.

Next time a commercial comes on that your child is likely to see, pay attention to the subliminal messages, as well as the context and content of the message. Kids remember what they see and hear, and many copy it as well. And folks, never, ever, buy the products that are using ads that promote division, insults, or politically correct attitudes toward parents who are adults that actually parent, or their children. They don’t deserve your money, time, or loyalty.

I am getting off the soap box now. Going to go educate my cussing corner for a minute. Have a good evening.

Family Reunion

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Last weekend, I took my mother to a family reunion down in Texas. I hadn’t been to an event like that as an adult. I knew three people in the entire room, one was my mother. I felt odd, awkward, out of place, and strange. As a mature female of over 60, it was like being back in junior high where everyone else had gone to school together forever and I was the new kid. Awkward.

So, I sucked up my shyness and talked about genealogy, family history, and said hello a lot. I also smiled a lot and I ate far too much good food. It is no wonder all of my family tends toward the round shape, the good cooking gene runs in the family line.

As a child, I grew up away from my parent’s home town. We lived all over the place with the military, and as an adult my husband and I both wanted to be on the move. So I don’t really understand knowing all about one’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and extended family. I know my dead relatives better than the living because I am a family history addict. I am a bit like the odd duck in the family.

They grew up together, or at least with knowledge of one another. And that was a great thing to see. My memories of my grandparents are strong, and real, but these cousins are from different places than my branch of the tree. Still, you could see the solidarity, love, and strength in knowing their family was there in any time of need.

My mother loved every minute, she had looked forward to the event for months and could hardly wait to get there and meet everyone. She kept telling me that she couldn’t belove we were blood relatives to so many people. Of all of her generation, in her family line, she is the only one left. Her parents had two daughters, and my aunt passed away long ago.

Another interesting thing was how the faces looked like faces I knew as a child. The same nose, eyes, mouth, laugh, hairline, walk, and even the way they stood reminded me of other long gone family. Funny how DNA directs how one looks and moves. Strong blood lines tend to breed true. This one certainly does.

I am thankful I went. It was good to see my cousins, two of the few, from my youth that I actually remember. I am thankful that family is so important to our extended family of cousins that they have this reunion every year. I am thankful that I was able to visit the graves of my great great grandfather and grandmother who started our family lines in Texas and Oklahoma.

Maybe next time, I won’t feel so disconnected and awkward. And, perhaps, I will know more than three people in the room.

It Was A Nice Visit

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I went to visit my son in Oklahoma last week. It was his birthday. I was glad to have a bit of time alone with him, and had a nice chat catching him up on everything going on with his family, his daughter and granddaughter, and us. I shared a few photos, and gossiped a bit about things, and of course, complained about the politics of the country and the craziness that the left is doing its best to force on the rest of us hard working folks.

It was a nice visit, sitting in the warm sun as the Oklahoma breeze fluttered by. The grasses in the fields nearby danced along to the song of the birds and bugs flying about. I spent a few minutes arranging the flowers I brought in lieu of a gift as I chatted on about how nice the area was looking, and that the quiet was so peaceful around him. Everyone seemed to be keeping their places nice with flowers and trees.

I reminded him to say hello to everyone as I packed up my things to go. Told him I love him too. It’s a nice place at White Dove Cemetery, up on the hill. I’m glad to know he is there and that he would like that particular place to spend his rest.

It was as good as it can be when a mother visits the grave of her son. Yeah, it was good, for what it can be.