Happy Thanksgiving.
I've said before that I feel bad for turkeys on Thanksgiving not because we eat them, but because they don't know how delicious they are.
Today, instead of feeling bad for turkeys, I will try to focus on the things in life that I am thankful for: the blessings of home, loved ones, and the beautiful world that we live in, the laughter of my children, the health of my family and friends, the forgiving and wonderful God who made me.
And turkeys. I can't help but love them.
**I first published this post way back on Thanksgiving 2011. Those were the days.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Holy Crap
So Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, and everyone’s excited about feeding
their faces and eating the heck out of a turkey and some stuffing, because on
this special day, gluttony is acceptable.
Except in my world.
Here in Andrealand, gluttony has been acceptable for a few weeks
now.
Seriously. The day it
got a little chilly and I put on some blue jeans, I announced that sugar, bread,
booze, and sodium were the new main food groups.
And since then I've gained like 800 pounds.
Now obviously, I’m exaggerating. A person cannot gain 800 pounds in a few weeks. But I have to admit that at the rate I’m
going, it’s like I’m trying.
I’m not sure what changed exactly, but it’s like a little
switch in my brain flipped and at mealtimes instead of warning “Alert! You are full!
NO MORE EATING!” it crooned in my ear, all silky smooth and seductive-like,
“Hey girl. Everyone loves a healthy
booty now. Have another cinnamon roll.”
Every. Time.
But you guys. I hit
the wall. None of my clothes fit
anymore. Well, okay, I’m not exactly
going around in the nude. But if you
look closely, elastic and lycra feature heavily in all my wardrobe choices. At least three people I know are doing or
have just finished a detox/dietary cleanse.
I never knew so many at once to do this before, when I had a handle on
things. Someone is telling me something. Maybe God is saying “Okay, Andrea, you’ve
shown me that you’re thankful for all the food I’ve provided. It’s time to settle down.” It’s a wonder that I heard anything over the chomping.
And I have to admit, I’m not altogether thankful that this
is all going down the week of the biggest eating tradition in the history of
our noble country.
But this Thanksgiving, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say:
ENOUGH. I can’t keep going in this
direction. I feel terrible. My body hates me.
So I’ve decided to cut back a little. I’m getting a head start on my springtime
health kick. I’m doing my New Year’s
resolution to be more mindful of what goes in my mouth a little early this
year.
I feel good about it.
I hope my body responds in rapid succession, because cutting back on eating during the holidays is a Capital S Stupid idea. But I can do it. Heck, I’ve even been known to do a cleanse once upon a time. That was fun.
So wish me luck and shoot me a prayer or two, if you’re that
type of person who prays for another to be less of a hog. I’m totally thankful for it.
*******
Labels:
decisions,
diet,
embarrassing,
food,
Thanksgiving
Monday, November 25, 2013
Good Morning, Brain
The other day my husband said to me, “I’m impressed at your
commitment to getting up so early every day.
I hate doing it.”
I thanked him and tamped down his compliment (why am I still
doing this?!?!?), explaining that I’m no hero.
I enjoy the quiet, and I find it best at 5 am. I get up early so I can write.
During the week I sit down with my journal, the computer,
and a cup of coffee, and I don’t move for two hours. It’s really two different things, his 5 am and
mine. He gets up early so he can exercise before work an hour away. Everything about that sounds just awful to
me.
I love that writing is the first thing each day, except when
I get up to write and have nothing to write about. My dreams don’t always leave me with deep
thoughts, the internet doesn’t always inspire with topics of
interest, and nothing has happened yet that I care to talk about. There are five blog posts in my drafts folder
and I’m bored with all of them. The
subjects that popped into my head yesterday as I grocery shopped, folded
laundry, talked with my kids? All
gone. I’ve not yet made a habit of
writing everything down.
Still, I get up early and write. It’s not great writing. It might not even be good writing.
I write anyway, hoping that something will shake the
thoughts loose. So far this morning, the
following is what brewed in my mind:
Why some moms have Pinterest boards devoted to smashing down
other moms.
A blog post by a parent responding to other parents who only have boys OR girls and talk about having it so much better than parents who only have the other gender, or parents who have both. How I hate when people make comments like “That’s why I’m so glad I don’t have {insert opposite gender here}.” Don’t people realize that they sound rude? And trifling?
The upcoming holidays and annoyance at “I’m done with my Christmas shopping!!” posts on Facebook.
Deserted cabins being overrun by forest animals.
No one talks about bandits anymore.
Facebook birthday wishes.
It’s one of the simplest nice gestures out there. Do people notice if you miss wishing them a hbd?
I love coffee. I should cut back. Forever for the rest of my life.
I’m still confused about perimenopause, both what it is and
how to say it. I pronounce it “periomenopause.” That's not right.
One of my children’s heads is going to spin right off onto
the floor. I can almost see the hormones
whizzing through the air and plinking off the walls. How many days does this vacation last?
Friday, November 22, 2013
How Do You Keep Track?
This post is sponsored
by React Mobile. I have been compensated
for this post, and all words, perspectives and opinions are my own.
The big question in my circle is: when should a child have a cellphone?
And surprise, there’s no one answer to this question. Were you looking for one? This is parenting, people. If you are looking for clear answers to parenting
questions then you should not be a parent. The answers are as diverse as there are children
in the world.
Some of my kids’ friends have had cellphones since they were
8 or 9 years old. My kids at 8 and 9
were inherently careless with their stuff, and I knew that they
weren’t ready for a mobile device that needs to be handled with care, updated, charged
regularly and placed properly in its holding place until the next usage. Their electronics at this age were handheld
video game systems and iPods that never left the house.
One reason for giving young kids cellphones is for parents to
keep track of them when they are away from home. Now, look: my kids are usually at home. When they're not, they are at school, at a
school-sponsored activity, or with a trusted adult. Even today they're not out of our sight for
long, and we know where they are headed if they are out alone. On rare occasions we hand them one of our
cellphones and tell them to call when they get where they are going, and
call again when they are on their way back.
As kids grow, the instances of their independence correlate
with their maturity and ability to take better care of possessions. My celebration as a parent who raised youngsters
to take care of electronic devices for more than a month without breaking or
misplacing them was short-lived when I realized that they are spending more and
more time without my protection.
They can wait for me to pick them up.
They can call me when they’re finished.
They can get rides with friends' parents.
They can wander the earth alone.
And this makes me, as a mom, a little nervous. Because I know what’s out there, and it’s not
always friendly.
My son is getting a smartphone this year. When he does, I will be relieved that I
will have a way to contact him reliably.
No more will he have to rely on a friend’s cellphone; he’ll always know
what time it is so he can check in, and we will be able to let him know if we
will be late or if plans change. He’ll
be safer with a cellphone when he’s out and about. I know, I know – welcome to the 21st
century.
But there is an added measure of protection that I’m going
to share with you.
We will be sure to download the React Mobile app onto his
phone, which is a fantastic new tool that can be used to keep track of your
kids using their smartphone. Much more
than a “find me” app, React Mobile is a safety feature that a
smartphone user can activate if they are alone in a place where they
don’t feel totally comfortable.
You enter in your contacts, turn on the Follow Me option, and your contacts are alerted if you need them. Or if you want them to know where you are. Or if a mom wants to know where her son is.
Parents can use the app to track their child's position in real time as they move from place to place. Say my son is going to the high school football game, then getting a ride from a friend’s mom to the local pizza shop for a post-game hangout. He can send me a text through the app to let me know where he's going, and after he activates the Follow Me option, the app shows me in real time (using Google map info and his phone's GPS) that he is where he says he is, and when he taps the "I'm Safe" button, I know that he is okay.
The React Mobile app can also be activated (Send SOS) if he finds himself in a dangerous situation. He can use the app to alert me and any of his
emergency contacts (including an automatic option to call 911) that he needs immediate
assistance. The app will provide all his emergency contacts with the alert and his location, which is vital information for the authorities, not to mention any worried parent.
The React Mobile app is a tracking device, a lifeline, and an
alert system all in one, and the best part is that it’s free. Okay, that's not the best part. The best part is that it gives me peace of mind when my child goes off into the world by himself. But it’s still pretty great.
And it’s the first thing that is going on his new smartphone. I think we’re both ready for it.
*******
Download the React Mobile app for free:
Google Play (available on select smartphones):
https://play. google.com/store/apps/details? id=com.reactmobile.lite
https://play.
*******
Labels:
cellphones,
kids,
parenting,
safety,
sponsored
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Her Name Was Lola
I was a kid in the 70s.
Feathered hair, bell bottoms, banana seat bicycles, Holly Hobbie – this was
my time.
My parents were music lovers and they played records at home
and the radio in our station wagon was always on. We sang along to James Taylor, The Jackson 5, America,
Kenny Rogers, Neil Diamond, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Diana Ross, and Donna
Summer. They were huge Beatles fans and
when my parents stopped listening to their records, my brother and I
continued, having memorized all the lyrics.
And I loved disco.
At the holidays my favorite album was Christmas Disco. Disco Duck was a regular on our turntable,
music sung by Donald Duck to a thumping and syncopated disco beat. The Bee Gee’s Saturday Night Fever was an 8-Track
that we rarely played, yet I’d stick it into the slot on my stereo and attempt
to sing along to the falsettos and hard-to-decipher words that garbled together
over the synthesized melodies.
But my favorite song of all wasn’t the run-of-the-mill disco
that we heard on the radio. It was to
become the end-all and be-all of disco tunes that marked my childhood. Seldom heard on the radio, I sang the tune over and over in my head, imagining the story behind the words, the
drama played through the swoops and strings and the tragic ending to Barry
Manilow’s Copacabana.
She was a showgirl
The love affair between Lola the showgirl and her bartender boyfriend Tony was a grown-up fantasy set in sophisticated New York City,
filled with suspense and murder and ending with a poor elderly woman dressed in
a thirty year old costume, drowning in her sorrows at the bar where her love
began and ended. Don’t fall in love, the
lyrics warned. It was the perfect blend
of catchy, intrigue, and camp. I loved
it.
The hottest spot north of Havana
Still do. To this
day, Copacabana is the most frequently played song on my iPod. I could sing all the lyrics right here, right now. And I am. I’m actually singing it.
His name was Rico, he wore a diamond
During high school and college, we requested music on the radio. We'd dial the number to
the radio station, stay on the line, and talk to the DJ who might or might not
play our requests as part of his line-up.
While my friends were waiting to hear Madonna and Duran Duran,
I was wishing that the Top 40 DJs would play Copacabana. After all, the song had long been gone from
the airwaves, and it never occurred to me to find it in a record store.
Music and passion, always in fashion
In my twenties the 70s found resurgence in various bars and
they would play disco music along with the popular music. I made sure we frequented these places and they
always played Copacabana. I would spin
and twirl and sing when it would play, my husband and our friends surely thinking
that I was the weirdest person with the strangest taste in music.
Now it’s a disco, but not for Lola
Later, after I made my first iPod purchase, Copacabana was
the first song I bought. I played it for
our children, taking their little toddler hands and dancing and singing
along and watching their little faces brighten and eyes widen with the drama of the music. We sang the story together, and they never minded when I played it
over and over. These days, they listen as I play it in the car on the way to youth group. They tell their friends to listen to the words.
She lost her youth and she lost her Tony
Now she’s lost her mind
These days, when I hear it, my eyes fill with tears at the
first beats of the percussion. It might
be memories of my childhood, or leftover emotion from when I first realized the
sad story behind the song, or my own sappiness that looms larger and larger with
every passing day. Whatever it is, my
love for Copacabana is without equal – no other song comes close, can
simultaneously make me sing and dance and go there. To the Copa.
*******
This post inspired
by:
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
Prompt #1: An old
school song that makes you happy.
Labels:
memories,
music,
reflection,
writing prompts
Monday, November 18, 2013
Old School Blogging – November
I’m linking today with Elaine of The Miss-Elaine-ous Life
and Brittany of That’s Vandy for November’s Old School Blogging edition! It’s the one where you answer random
questions about what you are doing right now.
Simple, fun, endlessly interesting.
This one is from May of 2008, when I wasn’t even on Facebook
yet but would be in a few months, and then I participated in all of these
internet memes. I didn’t even know what
a blog was back then, which isn’t hard to believe, considering my general
cluelessness.
But I do now, and I’m helping Elaine and Brittany bring it
back! Get ready, people. This is going to blow your mind.
Where is your cell
phone? OMG WHERE IS IT?
Ha ha ha, just kidding. It’s
sitting right over there, plugged into the wall being charged so I can put it
in my purse to die. My cell phone is an
afterthought. I know, can you believe
that? I’m so weird it’s crazytown.
Your significant
other? He is on his way to work so I can sit here and fill out questionnaires for you
fine people to read.
Your hair? Is terrible.
Last time I got my hair colored was in March of this year. I have quite a few white hairs that I pulled
out a few months ago, and they grew back in and stick up about 4 inches from my
head. It’s pretty much the worst ever.
Your mother? Was here over the weekend and I told her that her sweatshirt smelled stinky. She didn't even care and wore it all weekend.
Your father? Was here with my mother and probably
missed the whole stinky sweatshirt thing.
Your favorite thing? Hanging out with family and friends and
laughing and talking.
Your dream last night? I helped Gwyneth Paltrow move out of her
apartment. She had packed nothing and
was very disorganized. I wondered how
she was so successful. She even had rats. Later, I was a chef’s assistant and helped assemble
desserts at a fancy restaurant. The dessert
was a plate of cookies and chocolate mice.
The cookies kept falling apart and I was sad for the people who were
likely paying a lot of money for me to handle their food so much. It was my birthday and the chef made me some
stir-fried vegetables as my birthday meal.
I wanted cake.
Your favorite drink? Red wine.
I don’t even care what kind.
Your dream/goal? To write for a living.
The room you are in? The kitchen.
It’s super early and I drag my laptop here each morning so I can write
before everyone gets up.
Your fear? Drowning/being buried alive/burning
alive/bear attack/shark attack/lion attack/gorilla attack/escaping zoo animals/sleeping
outside/dying with my husband and leaving my children orphaned. Going crazy/being in a city and forgetting
what hotel we’re at/someone taking my children from me. There are more but I think I got the point
across that I fear many things.
Where do you want to
be in six years? I hope to still be
right here. My son will be a senior in
high school and I can’t see making any big changes to our lifestyle between now
and then. But you know, anything can
happen.
Where were you last
night? At a roller skating party. Not mine, silly, a friend of my daughter’s. The kids, they still like to roller skate. It’s kind of a nice feeling.
What are you not? Ambitious.
Muffins? Of course.
In college I ate a huge cream cheese muffin every day. I also drank a huge cup of coffee with cream
and sugar along with my muffin. Those
were heady times.
One of your wish list
items? I love art and would love a great, quirky art collection.
Where you grew up? In rural western Pennsylvania. I never tipped a cow, but we did go corning.
The last thing you
did? Slept all night. Dreamed about Gwyneth Paltrow. Last
night before the skating party, I helped my daughter with her science
project. I think I’ll get an A.
What are you wearing?
Sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and slippers.
Your TV? A source of frustration and grief. It’s got too many channels, too many
options. I watch almost no TV whatsoever
and could cancel our subscription any time and never miss it for a second.
Your pets? No pets.
We are terrible pet owners and every single animal we’ve had has died
prematurely, except for the one we had to give away because we got anonymous
hate mail because it didn’t know how to behave in the neighborhood.
Your computer? A
black laptop that I love but it's probably in need of an upgrade. I’m not a good judge of the nuances of electronics
performance.
Your life? Pretty good. I can't complain. Although I do, sometimes.
Your mood? I just woke up and the house is quiet;
nothing has happened yet. I'm content.
Missing someone? My brother Tyler, who I only see once a year
and who shares my sense of humor completely.
He’s quite a bit younger than me so I always feel like I miss out on a
lot with him.
Your car? An
8-year-old Nissan Altima that likes to surprise me by refusing to start right away. Will
I be stranded somewhere today? There’s always a
possibility.
Something you are not
wearing? No makeup, no jewelry, no
actual shoes, no barrettes in my hair.
Favorite store? I’m not much of a shopper, but I spend a lot
of time in Target. On occasion, I try
on all the clothes at TJ Maxx.
Your summer? Always too short and packed full. It’s kind of a pressure-cooker.
Like someone? I’m most like my mother. Sometimes my clothing stinks.
Your favorite color? Yellow.
When was the last time
you laughed? Yesterday. Today is still too new. I laugh at a lot of things. And why not?
If I didn’t laugh, I’d be curled up in a ball sobbing.
Last time you cried? On Saturday while watching two movies:
Parental Guidance and The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Oh, I’m sorry, did I just say that I hardly
watch any TV? Well, I don’t watch any except
for nights when I watch TWO movies in a row. For the record, I would not miss them if we did not have TV.
What is one thing on
your to-do list? Buy Christmas
gifts. ‘Tis the season, people.
Okay, bloggers, now it’s your turn. Copy the questions and get yoself linked up
with Old School blogging! Go ahead and tag
Brittany (@BrittanyVandy) and Elaine (@elainea) on Twitter with #OSBlogging and
see what other trouble you can get into.
Non-bloggers, thank you for reading. I love you all.
Now you are up to the minute on me. What about you?
*******
Friday, November 15, 2013
Ten Ways To Avoid Stress Over The Holidays - My post at at QueenLatifah.com today!
You guys.
I'm SOOOOO excited to be over at Queen Latifah's website today talking about how to avoid being stressed over the holidays!!! Wheeeeeee!!!
Whee with seven e's means I'm pretty darn excited.
How do you keep from going over the edge during the holidays? I've come up with a list of things that I'm going to keep in mind this year. And no, guzzling wine isn't one of the ten things.
Believe me, I've tried that. It doesn't work.
Follow me and read more about it!
See you there!
I'm SOOOOO excited to be over at Queen Latifah's website today talking about how to avoid being stressed over the holidays!!! Wheeeeeee!!!
Whee with seven e's means I'm pretty darn excited.
How do you keep from going over the edge during the holidays? I've come up with a list of things that I'm going to keep in mind this year. And no, guzzling wine isn't one of the ten things.
Believe me, I've tried that. It doesn't work.
Follow me and read more about it!
See you there!
Thursday, November 14, 2013
She’s Such an Andrea
When I was a kid I was into finding out more about myself.
Okay, I am an adult and I am into finding out more about
myself.
This is just the type of person I am. Some may call me introspective. Others may say that I’m deep. Maybe even a navel-gazer. Self-absorbed. Egocentric?
Yes. I will claim all of these.
Anyway, in the past I consumed information about
zodiac signs, and I was amazed at how accurate the descriptions fit me. When I had a dream I’d pore over dream
analysis books and try to guess what my brain was telling me while I slept.
So of course I know what my name means.
Traditionally, Andrea means womanly, the feminine counterpart
of Andrew, which means manly.
It’s probably the most boring meaning of a name ever in the history of
name meanings. And when you’re a kid and
you are looking up the meaning of your name and it says “Womanly,” you wish
your name meant charming (Bonnie) or beautiful (Jackie) or beloved
(Holly). Womanly is boobs and hips and
having your period and wearing mom jeans and being old (Andrea).
Andrea can also mean brave, which is cool I guess, but not
how I would describe myself. I can support
being thought of as brave, but as I eschew the outdoors mostly because there
are WILD ANIMALS AND PEOPLE out there, no one’s naming a movie after me.
In my quest for meaning, I turned to my favorite research
spot and yours, the internet. And on the
internet I found some interesting meanings for my name that I can really
get behind.
From Urban Dictionary, which not only provides definitions, but also examples for usage:
Andrea
comes from the Latin meaning "Womanly" or "Beautiful Lady".
She is steadfast and confident,honest and reliable.A tower of strenth (sic) for
thoughs (sic) she cares for and a rock to the family.
That
girl is quite the andrea.
Oh, my grammar and spelling.
Short and sweet:
the
sexiest person on the planet. funny, smart, and just amazing. everyone needs a
piece of andrea.
hey
did you see andrea?
omg yeah she is so hot!!!
omg yeah she is so hot!!!
Yeah, I get that a lot.
And here:
1.
a sound out girl
2. has a worrying appreciation of queen
3. the best person ever
4. someone who is attractive and nice
5. very feminine and has a vagina and is straight and not manly at all!
2. has a worrying appreciation of queen
3. the best person ever
4. someone who is attractive and nice
5. very feminine and has a vagina and is straight and not manly at all!
oh
wow she is such an andrea.
I like Queen for sure.
But I’m not sure that anyone should worry about it. And I think #5 is just another way of saying
“womanly.”
Meaning
"princess"-often leo's (sic) or cancers. Very athletic and amazingly
hot.And almost everyone has bown (sic) hair.
guy#1:wow
that girl was hot and a good kisser
guy#2:do you know her name?
guy#1: no but most likely it was andrea
guy#2: true dat
guy#2:do you know her name?
guy#1: no but most likely it was andrea
guy#2: true dat
I like the way that this author added the qualifier
“amazingly” before hot. Where is this
person? I’d like to send him a thank you
card.
So evidently Andrea means hot, smart, good kisser,
confident, nice… and womanly. I guess I
shouldn’t complain that my name means something boring. After all, I’ve always liked it, and now that
I know I share it with so many other amazing women, I like it even better.
It definitely is more palatable than Kuwanyamtiwa, which
means badger going over the hill.
Then again, true dat.
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
Labels:
internet,
names,
reflection,
writing prompts
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Loner
I am a stay at home mom, belonging to a group that remembers
its heyday in the 1950s and 60s, when women were expected to stay home and
take care of housework and the family’s needs, watch soap operas and bake fresh
cookies every day. Dresses with
crinolines were optional, as was the heavy use of tranquilizers to get through
the maddening dullness of everyday life.
Smoking cigarettes was required.
Life has changed since then for the stay at home mom,
although the tasks have stayed the same.
Babies cry and need to be bathed and fed. Kids make messes that need to be cleaned up,
grocery shopping needs to be done, as do laundry and cleaning. Car pools need to be arranged. The mundane is still mundane.
These days it is no longer implied that a mother will stay
home to take care of the children. For many
families this just isn’t possible.
Lifestyles demand a dual income.
When people find out that they are going to be parents, the smart ones
sit down and map out a plan. They shop
for daycare, figure out time off from work and save money for college. My
husband and I were pretty young and less established when we found out we were
going to be a family. We made one
decision: I would be a stay-at-home mom.
This decision was easy to make. I didn’t have a career; had
just started working, in fact. And my
employer was gracious enough to let me to work from home, which was unusual at
that time and the best of both worlds. Six
years later I was no longer working for an income. Two months into full-time stay at home status
and I was spending my days leisurely looking around for tranquilizers.
Eventually I got into a groove, and today I own this job.
My husband has an unusual work schedule, so his time at home
varies. This suits me fine, since I am a
loner who doesn’t require constant human interaction. I like the simplicity of aloneness. I like
quiet. I like not sharing. And it’s nice to have one less person’s
underwear to fold or plate to rinse off at the end of the day.
That’s not to say living without him is preferable, although
sometimes it seems that way.
The problem with being alone so much is exactly the thing
that draws me to it – I love it. When he
returns home, there I am, finger waving at him: Pick up your shoes! Put those papers away! Stop yelling at the kids! Did you drop sauerkraut on the floor? He returns home, only to disturb my well-run
machine, and his parts don’t fit. The
machine has to be re-calibrated, and for what?
A day where he works from home, say that again? I was planning to vacuum the floors. I don’t come to your workplace and mess up
your system.
It’s not fair. I am
not a 50s housewife, deferring and yes, dear-ing and fetching slippers and
applying lipstick before he comes home (okay, I’ve done that – I love lipstick). I am SAHM, the CEO of this biz. So, you started a new company within your
company today? Well, I got ninety-six
gallons of laundry detergent for five bucks using two coupons. Now everyone has clean socks for another
month. BOOM.
He doesn’t always appreciate my love of being alone. It’s an okay quality to have, but not when I’ve
normalized his empty seat at the table. I’ve
alienated him more than once. It’s
something that I struggle with, something that our marriage struggles with.
But we make it work. We
committed to it, and we take it seriously.
The love is there. The family we’ve made, the life we’ve decided on – it’s hard, like anything in life. Plus,
my love of being alone isn’t my biggest love.
Once upon a time, it was him.
And it still is.
Happy 14th, Keith.
Um, this is your gift.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Harder They Fall
The front door swung open, and
there was my rumpled and gangly seventh grader, tossing his backpack onto the
floor. “Guess what, Mom?”
“What?” I called from upstairs. He tipped his
head up to look at me.
“We are blogging in my Language Arts class, and I told my
teacher that you are a blogger. Check
your blog, Mom. My whole class was on it
today. All of her classes were. You probably had a lot of hits on it. Check your stats!”
My ego blipped as I scanned my
brain for any recent online swearing I might have done, any complain-y posts
about school or education or how much I hate homework, or anything that could be embarrassing for him or me.
Mostly me.
I checked the stats.
Nothing of significance had happened. No surprise there.
“She is going to ask you to speak to my class,
Mom. Probably all of them. You should write her an email and
tell her when you’re available.”
I looked down at my house slippers and then at the screen of
the computer, which still bore the evidence of the “work” I had been doing that
day in the name of blogging – examining yet another BuzzFeed article akin to
the one I perused today with the headline “The Cast of Honey Boo Boo Dressed As The Kardashians.”
I am always available.
“I will wait to hear from your teacher,” I responded
calmly. I didn’t want to appear
eager. Plus, my messenger was a
twelve-year-old who has to be reminded to use utensils when eating.
Meanwhile, my stomach flipped. Me? Talk about blogging? Well, I guess I’ve been doing this for a
while. I could be considered an expert.
I have a faithful readership, numbering in the dozens. I personally make up only a third of my blog
hits per day. Maybe I’m not The Pioneer Woman. Not right now, anyway. But I could be. I am a blogger – anything can happen, and
this could be the first step.
The days wore on and I checked my email no less than ten
times a day. When would she contact
me? Was my middle-schooler playing a cruel
joke? He is so grounded. Maybe my email address isn’t clear on the blog's home page. Maybe I should send a note to
school. Maybe I will get business cards
made and tell him to make it rain in English class.
The email came. Mrs.
Mowery, would you like to come and talk to my classes about blogging? Why, certainly, I calmly replied. When would be an opportune time for me to
speak to the young scholars? I prissily asked.
No matter that Gmail doesn’t have a crisp British accent feature. I am Blogging Royalty, a local celebrity
asked to speak to four middle school English classes on a Friday about my
expertise. I am a super star, Young House Love with DIY Lasagna instead of DIY Whole House Plumbing Overhaul. I am the second coming of The Bloggess, Miss Jenny
Lawson.
I. Am. The. Next. Dooce.
I spent the bulk of the next day asking for tips from my
blogger friends, reading internet articles about netiquette and typing up links
to websites that would help these budding bloggers produce quality online work,
knowing that in the future they would think of my visit and how much my advice
had helped them wade through the tangled interwebs. I would impart priceless wisdom that they could previously only glean from expensive blogging conferences. I typed up no less than three pages of
blogging knowledge. It was not overkill in
the least. There is so much information, and I had so much to give.
The day came, and I chose my outfit carefully, packing my
laptop in the computer bag I had carried for official business in graduate school nearly a hundred years ago. I am on a new path now, I
thought, as I dusted the years of disuse off the black pleather. My son and I drove to school and I walked stoically
to the classroom while mentally transforming myself into the sage advisor on all things in
the blogiverse.
After we settled into class and I introduced myself to my son's lovely Language Arts teacher, I sat quietly at a desk and listened as she talked about their
blogging exercise and I waited until the floor was mine.
I stood, gathered my pile of handouts to give to the students, took a deep breath, and
spoke. “Hello. I’m a blogger.”
And the lights went out, plunging the room and the entire school into darkness.
I made the rest of my speech that day, and I think the kids
enjoyed it, but not as much as they enjoyed hanging out in the room with not
much to do but their blogging assignments and play games on the school’s still-working
laptops until the principal announced that they would be dismissed two hours
after school had begun.
Fifteen minutes later my son and I returned home and I changed out of my Blogging
Royalty costume into black sweatpants to do the rest of the chores that I had smugly
charged my husband with as I left that morning.
We did go to Chili’s for lunch, where my son and I shared
our adventure with my husband. Their
Chicken Tortilla soup is pretty awesome.
I’ll bet Ree Drummond doesn’t know that. And OMG, did you see the photo article on BuzzFeed about Disney Princesses with beards? Genius.
![]() |
My son and me, The Queen of Blogging. |
*******
Friday, November 8, 2013
Blink
In a moment, my kids are firmly ensconced in tweendom, one
with his foot caught in the door of teendom.
Soon they will be high school graduates, then college
students, then young marrieds, then parents, then senior citizens.
I’m not being dramatic.
This is how fast the time goes.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to see many of the people
that make up my history: parents and brothers, grandparents, aunts, uncles and
cousins, family friends. It’s funny how
a funeral can be so sorrowful yet so comforting at the same time. It felt like a holiday during any of the past
thirty years, except there was a casket and everybody was crying.
When we came home and I looked at the pictures, I saw my own
girl’s face smiling back at me. There I
was wearing white tights at Christmas time, sitting next to Granddad. There I was at ten, twenty, thirty, forty.
The time is gone, yet I feel the same as I did in this picture
taken ten years ago. My babies are
almost looking me in the eye today, and there they are sleeping in our arms. It went by so fast. I talk to my mom on the phone and it’s like
when I finished school and began life and we started talking every day. It could be the day we bought our first
house, the first day I was alone with my new baby, the day I quit my job, the
day I made spaghetti for dinner.
My life is a cliché.
Everyone from here to there says it – you blink and they’re gone. “They” are children, grandparents, years,
hours, minutes. Seconds. I get it.
I’m living it. I say it.
I miss my babies. I
miss the simple tasks of the day with them.
I miss bathing them, feeding them, strapping them into the car
seat. There was no juggling of schedules
and calendars, no fitting all the puzzle pieces in. There were naps, and chicken nuggets, and
diaper bags.
There were nighttime rituals. There were snacks every night and 8:00 bed
times.
Last night, I kissed my son goodnight and because I’m a
silly thing who is over my head in nostalgia these days, I rubbed my nose
against his just because it was what I did when he was little.
His surprised smile, a rarity these days, told me that he
remembered.
Never underestimate the power that an Eskimo kiss has on a t(w)een
boy. Or the wonders it can do for his
mom’s homesick soul.
*******
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Do You Hear What I Hear?
I live for early morning quiet.
Yeah, I’m one of those.
If I’ve gotten some time to sleep well, and get up in the morning while
it’s still dark, and it’s just me and the new day, it’s a good day.
There’s just something about the softness of silence that
wraps around everything like a familiar blanket. It’s warm and comforting. It inspires me to take gentle steps, to move
more deliberately, to be nicer and more at peace with everyone, including
myself. A great day is when the calm of
the morning influences the entire day.
Everyone still sleeps in the house when I get up. I love the idea of peaceful snoozers just a
floor above. I love that we are all
together here in the silence. My coffee
mug and I keep watch while they snore.
The occasional car on the highway – dark-early commuters
getting a head start on the traffic – interrupts the hum of my computer, the
brewing of the coffee, the fan of the heater blowing on chilly mornings like
today. My husband, an early commuter
like the few on the road outside, wakes and leaves so quickly that his noises
are soon forgotten, absorbed into the quiet.
It only lasts a short time.
The sun lightens the sky as the noises outside get louder,
more frequent. The noises inside do,
too. I hear the bathroom door close, the
water of the shower. Soon there will be footsteps,
then voices. The buzz of the refrigerator will again be background noise
instead of the featured solo.
Voices talking to me.
Voices vying for my attention, rising up against each other. My voice will join theirs.
The morning quiet is replaced by chatter about schedules,
the rustle of breakfast, the preparing of book bags and lunchboxes.
The day is here.
*******
This post inspired by:
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
Prompt #5: Listen.
Write about what you hear, right now.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
After
After a loss, everything changes.
The air is different.
No longer are familiar surroundings the same. That tree is now growing in a world that
contains a vacant spot that wasn’t there just days before.
Tears stream down faces that are typically smiling, happy to
see you again.
Relationships change.
Cousins who see only each other once a year now hug with a ferocity and
strength that you’ve never felt before.
Voices that you have never heard say the words “I love you” speak these
words to you over and over and over again.
You hang onto these affirmations as if they had healing powers.
Old photos take on a different light. You love them now for different reasons; the
people in them are no longer within arms’ reach, and the photos are the closest
thing to them besides your own memories.
You come home to a house that you have filled with love and
warmth, and it seems cold in places that weren’t before. It feels off.
Soon, the warmth and comfort will be back. The memories will help, and so will the
mundane. When this load of wash is
finished, when those pictures go back into the album, when the last excuse for
absence is turned into the teacher – the everyday will smooth the rough,
eventually.
Life will go back to normal.
Or a semblance of what that was.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Shut Up
It happened twice in the same month.
I was alone, shopping.
Both times happened in the middle of the morning, that magical time where
stores are empty of the throngs of shoppers that highlight evenings, weekends,
and holidays. It was just me, the
retired population, and the dwindling sea of stay-at-home moms with their small
children, out looking for deals on cheap T-shirts, chips, and two-for-one London
Broil.
As I perused the selection of spaghetti sauces at the
grocery store, I idled my cart next to a young mom and her small child, an
adorable girl with bouncy curls and long lashes, a little rumpled as if she had
just woken from a nap, little leggings covering chubby legs that were stuffed
into sparkly pink Velcro sneakers.
I smiled at her while her mother shopped. Such a sweet time when kids are little, I
thought, as I always do when I see a mom out and about with smalls in tow. I remembered those days in my own past, the
fog of wistfulness obscuring memories of tantrums over toys, food refusals, all
those sleepless nights and my own lack of self-care brought about by the never-ending
mothering that bled each day into the next.
Good times. It seemed like
yesterday.
I was thrust out of my idyllic reverie when this little
cherub looked me up and down, and, never taking her eyes off of me for a
second, pointed at me as if I was a sideshow participant, void of feeling or personality
and placed there for her entertainment, and proclaimed loudly to her mother, “Mommy,
she’s BIG!”
I was taken aback. I raised
my eyebrows a fraction, bit my lip and smiled.
She’s just a child, I thought. She doesn’t know any better. Rudeness in kids is nothing but innocence
when they’re this young. Plus, at nearly
six feet tall, and over that with any kind of shoes on, I AM big. I’m just sensitive. All my life people have taken it as their
personal mission to advise me on my tallness.
It’s the stranger-touching-the-pregnant-woman’s-belly phenomenon –
everyone feels impelled to reach out and comment on my height. I’ve learned to smile and respond:
Yes. I am tall.
The mother said nothing, clearly embarrassed and flustered by
her daughter’s outburst. She smiled at
me while simultaneously avoiding eye contact and tried to distract the tot with
a can of diced tomatoes. I self-righteously wished she would
have admonished the child and apologized to me, but she didn’t. Maybe she’d wait to correct her until they were safely out
of my earshot. Maybe she wouldn’t, and raise
yet another human who feels it’s okay to comment on strangers' appearances. I felt the child’s eyes on
me as I finished my shopping and the pair scurried away.
The next time it happened I was in a big box store,
searching for something specific in the toy aisle, a futile task if you know
anything about how big box stores are organized so that the one thing you want
is missing, but there are twelve of everything else.
Maybe it was the time of day, or the mood I was in, or the
fact that the same incident had happened to me just a couple of weeks before, but
I was not so zen about the name calling this time. The girl, at the other end of the aisle with
her mother, stared at me the same way the other one did. As they exited the aisle, she turned to her
mother, thinking she was out of earshot and with eyes fixed on me, said “She’s
BIG!”
I lowered my eyebrows into a frown, wrinkled my nose, and
bared my teeth slightly at her. Then I
turned and walked in the opposite direction before I said it.
*******
This post inspired by:
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
Prompt #5: The last time someone called you a name.
Labels:
kids,
names,
writing prompts
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