tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75865973681872893602024-03-14T01:17:55.441-05:00Roaring MomsA Positively Funny Twist on RealityDee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-63416841605499622962018-12-23T23:13:00.000-06:002018-12-23T23:22:19.218-06:00A Recipe for Christmas Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hanging on my kitchen wall is a handwritten recipe for chili sauce. I've never made this recipe, nor have I eaten this sauce. I found the recipe scrawled on and old slip of office stationary. The heading reads Pacific Elevator Company, Kansas City, Missouri. It fell out of an old cookbook I was looking through with my Auntie M one day.<br />
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I love old cookbooks. The terminology and techniques fascinate me. For example, this particular chili sauce recipe calls for "eight teacups of good vinegar".<br />
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So when my Auntie M decided we <i>must</i> have a Christmas cookie backing day this year, I scoured my old cookbooks. No way was I gonna grab pre-fab, refrigerated cookie dough from the grocery store. But I wasn't looking for something printed in those cookbooks. I was looking for a handwritten index card I had used as a bookmark for decades. If I could only remember in what book.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GYQfyXQCN9E/XCBXPvRwNvI/AAAAAAAAASM/hzJl8wTwLxQZfsaqXBHhi5_tbaKovRBzwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GYQfyXQCN9E/XCBXPvRwNvI/AAAAAAAAASM/hzJl8wTwLxQZfsaqXBHhi5_tbaKovRBzwCEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_4760.JPG" width="200" /></a>After nearly a half-hour, I found it. The Dieker vanilla wafer recipe. Mr. Dieker was my fourth grade math teacher. His wife was this lovely woman whose house I remember was always filled with something good to eat and a lot of laughter. Their children were living, breathing recreations of every sweet-faced, blonde-haired cherub painted on old-fashioned Christmas cards or Gerber baby food ads. I remember summers at the swimming pool with them and snapping green beans and sucking on strawberries from a big garden we helped plant in their backyard. And I remember those sugar cookies.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mfejoGkc5p0/XCBXTJSUdGI/AAAAAAAAASU/kjEbLeAppy4Vp0CCvDJMM1vFA25D9k55wCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mfejoGkc5p0/XCBXTJSUdGI/AAAAAAAAASU/kjEbLeAppy4Vp0CCvDJMM1vFA25D9k55wCEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_4763.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Yesterday, my Auntie M arrived with festive aprons and a basket full of Christmas shaped cookie cutters. She opened a sparkly tin to reveal a dozen different kinds of sprinkles and toppings and edible glitter. I rolled out the Dieker dough. My kids, home from college, slipped into baker mode, and for the next six hours we cut and baked and frosted and decorated and sang and laughed.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RZHkOSCN5sY/XCBXaLUzqQI/AAAAAAAAASY/iQkeWpGv3UgPeUg9PUBc0falJl6TWiuyACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RZHkOSCN5sY/XCBXaLUzqQI/AAAAAAAAASY/iQkeWpGv3UgPeUg9PUBc0falJl6TWiuyACEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_4750.JPG" width="150" /></a>As I mixed up a second batch, I marveled that there must be something magic in that dough, for I was transported back forty years to a snowy day in a small town where a little girl rolled up a giant ball of snow to make the bottom of a six-foot tall snowman that would have its picture in the paper the next day. I fell back to a Christmas eve when Santa, himself, knocked on our door and delivered our most desired toys right into our hands. Then, in a flash, it was Christmas morning and my little ones (whose college versions now joked over whose gingerbread man most resembled a muddy alien) chased their Jesse and Woody dolls around the living room. At the end of the day, we had created this beautiful mess and mess of merry memories, too. In my mind, the laughter and stories and disasters and secrets we shared with Auntie M around a table full of Christmas cookies emblazoned their love right into that faded little index card.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hNiPI91Wwt0/XCBXI0kr97I/AAAAAAAAASE/Wy8VTSjOMBA-GXkvDStTRGFS-qkZzeWEACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hNiPI91Wwt0/XCBXI0kr97I/AAAAAAAAASE/Wy8VTSjOMBA-GXkvDStTRGFS-qkZzeWEACEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_4752.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
Yes, there is something magical about an old recipe. The terminology and techniques are quaint and quirky, but woven into the handwritten instructions is a secret code.<br />
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I've often wondered about that old chili sauce recipe--the one that calls for "a heaping peck of large, round tomatoes" and "one grated nutmeg". What special occasions and traditions happened around this pot of chili sauce? It's code will never be deciphered. It will remain a fun mystery hanging on my kitchen wall. The amazing magic in the Dieker Dough, however, has been revealed. I've promised myself to keep it that way.<br />
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In fact, I've done some digging. Dieker Dough isn't the only magic card in my kitchen. It seems I've got a whole deck. Watergate cake. Peanut Butter Pie, Grandpa's Steak Stew. Aunt Polly's Pink Champagne Punch. I have a feeling 2019 will have us picking a card, any card. I can't wait to see the magic unfold.Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-38351039318093321762018-05-31T11:19:00.000-05:002018-05-31T11:19:46.859-05:00Parenting the Uni-mind<br />
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It’s completely my fault. They remind me constantly it’s how
I raised them. </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1a11DGnxYWk/WxAf9_mqOWI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/UtnRWmtDhawlgrFv_qllttaAd3bmP7nngCLcBGAs/s1600/Unimind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1a11DGnxYWk/WxAf9_mqOWI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/UtnRWmtDhawlgrFv_qllttaAd3bmP7nngCLcBGAs/s200/Unimind.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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They look like a couple of normal college kids, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t let the image fool you. I’m pretty sure they have the
skills to serve as top-secret espionagers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before my empty-nester days, I prided myself in knowing all
the details of the secret lives of my four kids. Then two of them went off to
college, and I felt more out-numbered by this younger duo than I did with all
four. These two could get their story straight with barely a glimpse across the
room. We call them…the uni—mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My empty nest has done nothing to diminish the outnumbered
feeling. In fact, now that they are young adults living three hours away, the
cahoots they’re in involves more than staying out after curfew or which one
stole my secret Little Debbies stash. Now it includes covering up adult
things—like surgery. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One innocent Thursday, I expected my two college kids home
sometime in the evening. Instead, I received a call admitting a change in
plans. “I won’t be home tonight, mom, because I’m having surgery in the
morning.” What’s more, she didn’t need me to come. That would just be weird.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Uh…what?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a minor procedure to remove a small bone chip in her
knee that had been bothering her for some time. I knew about the chip. I didn’t
know about the surgery. Still, this Roaring Mom had a major freak-out. My son,
at nineteen years old, would be going with her to check her out after and drive
her home. Everything was taken care—except the huge taffy-pull on my heart that
happens when your kids no longer need you for stuff that you need them to need
you for. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a way around it, though. I called my son, one-hundred
percent certain he wouldn’t want the responsibility. The call went something
like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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ME: So, what’s the plan tomorrow
morning?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
HIM: What plan?<o:p></o:p></div>
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ME: I need you to tell me what’s
happening tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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HIM: (Hesitantly) I don’t know.
What do you think is happening tomorrow?<o:p></o:p></div>
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It went on like this for five minutes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The loyalty of the uni-mind is strong. Not even the
I-gave-birth-to-you could crack it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Apparently, however, what had worked (maybe too well) was my
daily repeated mantra from their childhood: You-guys-were-born-16
months-apart-on-purpose-so-you-could-keep-each-other-entertained-so-go-play. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m continually blamed for their independence and strong
will and opinionated voice. “You told us to be true to ourselves. You told us
to be independent. You told us not to make decisions based on what other people
think.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is mindboggling, satisfying and terrifying to watch them
grow up. The surgery went fine, and I survived not being there for it. So, if
this bit of adulting is my fault, I’ll take the blame. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But moms, even when they no longer need us for what we need
them to need us for, we shouldn’t let go too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the midst of my freak-out and my son’s
assurance that they “got this”, he paused just long enough to let me know he’ll
always need me for something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>HIM:
You should be proud that we are mature and responsible enough to handle this. Oh,
and while I have you on the phone, can get twenty bucks for a haircut?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
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Roaring Mom Win! I think I set a speed record on Square
Cash. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You know, if he’d been really smart, he would have asked for
fifty right then. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Guess my work isn’t done after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-81945293304071300192018-02-21T17:09:00.000-06:002018-02-21T17:09:48.069-06:00The Blame for What's Wrong With America<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Read carefully the following words. All of these comments were made within the last few months by teenagers in a school with a mostly white student body. </span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-e68b4cbc-ba93-2ee8-3513-9b6f0e48c338" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I were sitting in a room full of ____________ and didn’t know them, I would be scared.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">All that is wrong with our country right now can be blamed on ______________.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was sitting in class, and they were talking about some awful part of our history and someone asked, “And whose fault is this?” Everyone answered, __________________. I was practically the only _________________ in the class. I felt so uncomfortable and awkward.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">__________________ have had all the privilege and the power for so long, it’s someone else’s turn. We should just eliminate all of them. Yes, the world would be a much better place if all the ____________ were gone. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fill in the blanks with the word or group of words you think were originally used. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did you write in the word </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">blacks? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did you write in </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">gays</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">? How about </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jews?</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Go ahead. Reread the comments and fill in the blanks with those words. Does it scare you? Are you concerned at all at the casual communications of our youth? I hope it scares you. It should.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, let me tell you the actual words originally used in the comments.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I were sitting in a room full of straight, white males and didn’t know them, I would be scared.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">All that is wrong with our country right now can be blamed on the straight white male.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was sitting in class, and they were talking about some awful part of our history and someone asked, “And whose fault is this?” Everyone answered, the straight, white male. I was practically the only straight, white male in the class. I felt so uncomfortable and awkward.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Straight, white men have had all the privilege and the power for so long, it’s someone else’s turn. We should just eliminate all of them. Yes, the world would be a much better place if all the straight, white men were gone.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That last comment was said in jest, but I’m not sure it matters. Or maybe it does. Maybe the fact that we can casually joke about exterminating an entire race-based gender should matter a lot more than it does. Maybe that’s the problem.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-25689987725703569022017-11-11T15:29:00.000-06:002017-11-11T15:29:06.562-06:00How to Love Your Life<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know that friend you have who, when you ask her how things are going, spews all over you? I mean, that’s what friends are for, right? And if I didn’t want to know, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m all for love and support, but I gotta tell you about another kind of friend. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-434e8ba1-acf5-2447-ed96-481de2a4900c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am blessed to meet up with my friend Lori about two or three times a year. There comes a point during every one of our catch-up conversations where she looks me in the eye, displays a giggly grin and says, “Man, I love my life.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She’s also tall and trim and beautiful and smart and funny. But don’t start hating her. Her life is not perfect. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you knew her, you might be tempted to say...but she has a great husband. No wonder she’s happy. She has great kids (eight of them, I might add). She has a beautiful home. She never has to worry about finances. She doesn’t deal with disease. She doesn’t have the problems the rest of us have. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My answer to that---BULLSHIT! (By the way, she has this terrible habit that is one of my favorite things about her. Let’s just say the swear word jar in her house is for the parents.)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She has a great husband because she married a great guy. In other words, she chose judiciously. Their marriage isn’t perfect. No one’s is. But they work on it. Sometimes together, sometimes individually.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She has great kids because she constantly reflects and seeks out better ways to parent. She struggles. They struggle. She tries and fails and tries again--just like every other parent. More than once have we mused on how we’ve scarred our kids--not on purpose, but because every parent does. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She has a beautiful home because they worked and saved and prayed for it. Then created it. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She doesn’t worry about finances? Ha! She has eight kids, remember? And we all deal with disease and illness and health...and death. And so has she. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So how is it that she never fails so exclaim, “Man, I love my life”? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Consider this. What if “I love my life” didn’t meant what we think it means? What if it didn’t mean I enjoy my life? Or my life is perfect? Or I have no stress?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if we thought of love as an action verb? What if we “loved” our lives the way we love our pets or our children? To love another is to care for it, right? What if “I love my life” meant</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I seek out peace.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m open minded and humble enough to learn how to be a better parent or person.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I reject harmful people and substances and places and activities.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I actively seek out nourishing people and substances and places and activities.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I practice gratitude.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if loving our lives meant taking care of our lives?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder what would happen if we started all our catch-up conversations with “I love my life”? I wonder what would happen if we started every day that way? </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lori creates a life she loves because she cares enough about her life to nourish it. Even in turmoil and tragedy, she chooses to love her life. Love is a choice, and life is a series of choices. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Choose judiciously. Choose love.</span></div>
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Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-10510062339622244092017-10-29T12:54:00.000-05:002017-10-29T12:54:12.727-05:00How Do I Empty Nest?<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When you have a parenting blog and all your kids become adults, you kind of run out of material. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know, there aren’t a lot of parenting blogs even for parenting teens, unless it’s for troubled kids and how to get them to behave. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe that’s because our teens are so intertwined with social media, we Mom Bloggers are afraid we’ll embarrass them. That is certainly the case for me. Once they became social media savvy, certain moments were off limits. I can’t count the number of times I heard “Don’t blog that” once they turned thirteen. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, thirteen passed a long time ago. I’m now an empty-nester. One of my kids is closer to thirty than she is to teenage. In fact, she has a kid of her own. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do I suddenly not parent? </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember when you first became a parent? Maybe some of you took those childhood development classes. Maybe some of you changed the diapers of your younger siblings. Maybe some of you ran babysitting services. I did none of the above. Suddenly having no children is just as unfamiliar as when I suddenly had a child. I have no clue how to do this. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know all that stuff you wish your teen would share with you but they would rather cut their tongues out than tell you? Well, once they are adults, they start telling. And you sometimes wish they had cut their tongues out. There’s just some stuff you don’t want to know. But you can’t not listen. It’s your duty, isn’t it? Because they still need advice and encouragement and celebrations and shoulders to cry on. But they don’t need dinner. Or homework reminders. Or permissions slips signed. Or permission at all. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week I called my mom and asked her for some information that I knew I could find if I put forth an effort, but it was easier to call Mom. I’m nearly half a century old, and I’m still calling mom to bail me out and give me advice and encouragement and celebrations and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on.. It’s good to know as much as things change, some things never will. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then I think back to when my oldest was five and learned how to tie her shoes. “Pretty soon you won’t need me at all,” I said. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But mom, I’ll always use you.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hope so. I really do. </span></div>
Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-65832326417526727002017-03-07T21:05:00.000-06:002017-03-07T21:05:03.337-06:00Why I am Working on Women's Day Off Wednesday<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">My oldest daughter played on one of those competitive youth teams that travelled all over the place. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">Do you know much about those club teams? </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">They are filled with drama--and only some of it is instigated by the youth. A lot of it comes from the parents and the coaches.</span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">For a while, she had one of those asshole coaches who was trying to relive his glory days through a bunch of twelve year old girls. We stayed with the team because she liked the players, and we liked the parents. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">Then came Abby or Princess as she was eventually nicknamed. She was the coach's golden girl. She was a fairly decent player--not that much better than most of the other players--but pretty good. The coach, for some reason, obsessed over this girl. She could do no wrong. The parents saw it. The players saw it. Heck, the opposition probably saw it. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">As you can imagine, eventually there was a meltdown. We're talking Chernobyl level stuff here. Oh, the emails and the phone calls and the threats and the tears! We had to DO SOMETHING. We couldn't just let this favoritism continue. Finally, we were all asked to talk to our daughters to see if they felt that Abby was indeed the coach's favorite and what they wanted us to do about it. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">So I asked, and my daughter answered.</span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">"Of course, Abby is his favorite, but what has that got to do with me? That's not going to effect the way I play or how I feel about this team."</span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">Well, I was impressed. It was a pretty mature answer for a twelve year old. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">So I reported her answer back to the parent pack. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">One mom--that one mom on every team whose daughter isn't very good, but she thinks she's the next Alex Morgan--responded with her voice all tight and teary, "Well, of course your daughter would say that. She's so secure in herself."</span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">BINGO! I couldn't have said it better myself. </span><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.32px; text-align: justify;">And that is why I am working on Wednesday. </span>Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-63024786890380305902017-02-28T20:58:00.004-06:002017-02-28T20:58:54.689-06:00More to LoveA couple summers ago I lost 25 pounds. It was one of the best things I've ever done for myself.<br />
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I teamed up with a coach, and she quickly became a friend. In our online group, I met a lot of other ladies also on the weight loss journey. We supported each other. We cheered each other. We challenged each other. Women empowering women!<br />
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I also learned to sweat for something bigger. On days when I didn't feel like doing the work, I worked out anyway for those who couldn't. It was a powerful emotional and physical journey.<br />
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Then I stopped sweating it out. I stopped meal prepping. I stopped drinking water and eating healthy. I bought the Dr. Pepper. I drank the Dr. Pepper. I'm still drinking the Dr. Pepper.<br />
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Can I make a confession? I enjoyed every aspect of that, too. I did. I wish I could say that I was racked with guilt and shame. I kind of feel like I should because I knew better and I didn't choose better. But I didn't feel guilt and shame. For the first time in my life, I did not equate my waist size with my worth.<br />
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So what am I saying? Am I saying I was wrong to meal prep and eat right and work out? No way! It was right. It was great. And, as I said, it was empowering. In fact, it was that experience that helped me lose something more important than 25 pounds. That experience helped me lose my body-shaming mindset.<br />
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I can honestly say that I love my body. I truly do. I love my jiggly thighs because they are part of a set of legs that hold me up and move me from place to place. I love my belly because it works. I don't have some of the digestive issues and stomach problems that many of my friends suffer from. I love my arthritic fingers because they remind me of what my Grandma Nina still accomplished with fingers that hung from her hands like limp, crooked sausages. (As a young girl, that's what I thought they looked like.)<br />
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I love my body, but my focus shifted from it for a while. But isn't that life? It seems to be mine. I work on my mental heath and self talk for a while. I get it to a good place. Then the focus shifts. I sweat hard and eat clean for a while. Then my focus shifts. I Dave Ramsey the shit out of my finances. Then my focus shifts. I organize my desk like an anal retentive psychopath...wait, Nope. Never done the organizing thing. That one can't hold my attention long enough to separate a paper clip from a pad of paper. But, you see what I mean.<br />
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I don't know if anyone else's focus ebbs and flows like that. Maybe I've given up. Maybe I've grown up. I'm not sure what it is, but I have accepted that I don't have enough focus to focus on all of it at once. So, I'm keeping the fat clothes and the skinny clothes. I'm keeping the body love and the positive self talk. I'm even keeping the messy desk. I guess what I"m actually doing is keeping it real.<br />
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I know that it's time for my focus to shift again. I love my body, but I'm not crazy about the lower energy levels and the worry that the blood pressure might go back up. So, I'm pulling out the meal prep stuff and throwing out the Dr. Pepper. I know it will feel great, and I'm happy to do it. I like sweating for something bigger. I like losing the weight, but you know what else? I especially love what I've gained.<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-29779436796025209322016-07-25T19:43:00.002-05:002016-07-25T19:43:35.679-05:00RIP Rant<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EurORRya4RU/V5akLFmZIkI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/fOYqyxzdP3YUwOxohgJk5KAv6KHMt3G7QCLcB/s1600/Marshall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EurORRya4RU/V5akLFmZIkI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/fOYqyxzdP3YUwOxohgJk5KAv6KHMt3G7QCLcB/s320/Marshall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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RIP, Gary Marshall.<br />
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Seriously? That's all you've got? For the man who brought us <i>The Odd Couple</i> and <i>Happy Days</i> and <i>Laverne and Shirley</i> and <i>Mork and Mindy</i> and <i>The Princess Diaries</i> and even had that part in <i>Hocus Pocus</i>, that's all you've got?<br />
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Come on! My childhood memories are full of him. My children's childhood memories are full of him. He brought laughter and smiles to millions of people, and all you've got is an acronym that sounds like a fart?<br />
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And what about this guy?<br />
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I suppose for Alan Rickman, maybe you have a POOP? Peace, Ovations, Obsequies, and Prayers?<br />
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For Mya Angelo, something more poetic might be called for.<br />
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We'll give her BARF. Benediction, Applause, Respect, and Fondness.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GAMBTUOjZE4/V5akNaA8ILI/AAAAAAAAAPw/qKZjUgV1-YQFzAZS65terg0-yYXEbnOLACEw/s1600/BOwie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GAMBTUOjZE4/V5akNaA8ILI/AAAAAAAAAPw/qKZjUgV1-YQFzAZS65terg0-yYXEbnOLACEw/s320/BOwie.jpg" width="320" /></a>If you can't tell, I hate the RIP. Hate, hate, hate it. It's is the laziest manner of recognition ever created. You know who uses it? People who want to be the first ones on social media to acknowledge the death of some big name star. I wonder how many David Bowie RIP-ers could name more than one of his songs? What about Joan Rivers and James Garner and Robin Williams? If you enjoyed the lifetime of talent and hard work and dedication these folks shared with you, don't they deserve more than the gallant effort you put forth to type three letters?<br />
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You know what's worse? When I see social media posts where regular people post RIPs for other regular people. Especially when those RIP-ers are eagerly opening their apps to be the first. I have learned of the death of more than one acquaintance or former school mate from someone's over-zealous use of the Facebook RIP. Most often those RIPs come from other acquaintances or former school mates, not the close friends and families of the deceased. You know why? The close friends and family members are actually grieving, not rushing to FB to get social media attention for their ability to type three letters.<br />
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If you need to recognize the passing of a celebrity or loved one, how about sharing a memory? How about listing your favorite things about that person? How about asking others to share as well? Wouldn't that be a better tribute? If you can take the time to tell the social media world when you have a hacking cough or need a drink or how a driver cut you off or where your potty-training kid urinated today or what an ass your ex-spouse is, can't you take the time to offer a comment of appreciation for the dead.<br />
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In conclusion, let me ask this one thing of you. When my Maker calls me, I beg of you, please do not RIP me.<br />
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Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-11692304705673466522016-07-03T10:47:00.000-05:002016-07-03T10:47:02.545-05:00Guy PowerIt's everywhere! Girl Power music, Girl Power movies. Girl Power memes and messages and mentors. As a mom of 3 daughters, I could not be happier for it.<br />
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As a mom of a son, I wonder where all the Guy Power stuff is.<br />
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My son is the youngest of my crew. The soundtrack of his childhood includes Hillary Duff, Kelly Clarkson, Avril Lavigne, and Cheetah Girls. Barbie and her Malibu house and jeep and massive wardrobe, who is employed as a CEO, a veterinarian, a teacher, an astronaut, and looks hot in a bikini, inhabited the play room. Even Blue from Blue's Clues is a girl.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-37NiO1eWQ/V3kyNhA22gI/AAAAAAAAAOs/uS8OBUnAlLMmwSXMBFdYZbGbVvVVEaXTQCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-37NiO1eWQ/V3kyNhA22gI/AAAAAAAAAOs/uS8OBUnAlLMmwSXMBFdYZbGbVvVVEaXTQCLcB/s200/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="200" /></a>I recently read one of those lists of 20 things every mom should teach her teenage daughter. It included things like "Pizza is always a good idea" and "your weight does not signify your worth". Maybe it's time someone made a list of 20 things every woman should teach her teenage son. If I made a list it might include the following.<br />
<br />
1. Don't be afraid to open the door for her. If she gives you a dirty look because she can open her own damn door, try not to let it close on her.<br />
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2. Even though too many young ladies can't distinguish between kindness and "into her", be kind anyway. That's her problem.<br />
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3. Don't stress over the perfect Promposal that will look good on social media. If she's worth anything, she'll want to go with you just because she wants to go with you.<br />
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4. Check her Twitter before asking her out. If she airs everything to everyone (even passive aggressively), don't walk away...RUN!<br />
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5. Yes, guys are clueless (including you), but teenage girls are crazy. All of them. If you really want a girlfriend, choose your crazy.<br />
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6. It's important to hang our with your buddies without the girls. If she cries about it, let her cry. You deserve to have your own friends and your own time.<br />
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7. Regardless of the media portrayals, your muscle mass does not signify your worth.<br />
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8. Some teenage girls might fall all over themselves for attention from super athletic gym rats, but those aren't the girls you'll be happy with anyway.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LqmWltE8qR4/V3kykSRuTfI/AAAAAAAAAO0/HuXPeLpPbwwYcuQX-xzxKpMArhRQi7vXQCLcB/s1600/IMG_0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LqmWltE8qR4/V3kykSRuTfI/AAAAAAAAAO0/HuXPeLpPbwwYcuQX-xzxKpMArhRQi7vXQCLcB/s200/IMG_0935.JPG" width="200" /></a>9. Confidence is attractive. Arrogance is not.<br />
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10. You don't need a girlfriend to complete you.<br />
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11. Yes, pizza is usually a good idea. So are grapefruit and carrots. Try them every now and then.<br />
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12. Life is expensive. Don't feel uncomfortable or embarrassed to discuss with your date who will pay for what. But if you invite her, be prepared to pay. If you decide to do an activity together, discuss the finances.<br />
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13. For most girls, sex = love. Don't do it unless you truly love her. Hint: You won't truly know you love her until you are willing to NOT do it for the health of your relationship. Even if she is willing, don't do it yet. You'll hurt her in ways you didn't mean to.<br />
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14. Don't kiss and tell. Just smile and make them wonder. In any case, defend her honor and your own. <br />
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15. You are enough. Just as you are. Your body, your face, your hair, your brain is all enough.<br />
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16. Guys think insulting each other is as funny as a soccer ball to the groin. Remember, a soccer ball to the groin is painful, too.<br />
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17. It is perfectly fine to appreciate beauty. And guess what else? It is perfectly fine, when you are with your buddies, to comment on a girl's fine ass and great rack and luscious legs. Don't let females fool you. We are doing the same thing regarding the guys.<br />
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18. Even though showing emotion is fine, it is also fine to "suck it up" and "be a man". Again, don't let us fool you. We like a strong man. We like to have a strong heart to fall apart on. Have you heard <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=op_tfo1PPAU" target="_blank">"Break on Me"</a> by Keith Urban?<br />
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19. Learn to cook.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Hx5oS_VNZA/V3kyu7oV-PI/AAAAAAAAAO4/LQGlAv9CGuYnv36a_PRmjg2zvIxPxImEwCLcB/s1600/Frank%2Band%2BGuitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Hx5oS_VNZA/V3kyu7oV-PI/AAAAAAAAAO4/LQGlAv9CGuYnv36a_PRmjg2zvIxPxImEwCLcB/s320/Frank%2Band%2BGuitar.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
20. In the history of the world, most of the great poets and musicians and entrepreneurs and military leaders and inventors and doctors and philosophers have been men. Don't apologize for that. They have made mistakes. So have the women in this world. But great men have done great things. Be proud to be part of that heritage.<br />
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I'm not sure this is an exhaustive list. I don't even know if it's a good list, but I did hit on some important parts. The biggest message I want young men to understand is really the same one we've been preaching to our girls. That is--don't give up your own power by believing belittling messages. Even if there is no such thing as Guy Power music or movies, create your own power. You are enough. You are perfect. You are Man, Hear you Roar. In numbers too big to ignore...<br />
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Wow. You guys really do need your own Power Music, don't you?<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-56521343019459218902016-06-26T10:38:00.000-05:002016-06-26T10:38:42.685-05:00Recuperating from Grandma CampTen things I gained in one month of living the three-year-old dream life (aka Camp Grandma):<br />
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<strike>10. A nasty cold that his mother gave me when she dropped him off. (Thanks.)</strike><br />
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<strike>9. A fist-sized bruise on my butt from the giant cracked slide that I would let him go down only on my lap. (So <i>he</i> wouldn't get a fist-sized bruise. Duh!)</strike><br />
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<strike>8. A wounded handed that felt like a freaking dog bite from the same Monster Slide.</strike><br />
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<strike>7. Elbow rug burns from wrestling on my carpeted floor.</strike><br />
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<strike>6. A ferocious ear infection from having pool water splashed directly in my ear canal. (I might never hear right again.)</strike><br />
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<strike>5. Two steps closer to senility because half of my brain now has the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song on permanent replay. (They're two. They're four. They're six. They're eight.)</strike><br />
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<strike>4. Five extra pounds on my Roaring Grandmom's belly because every time I bribed him with ice cream, I rewarded myself with the same. </strike><strike> (He doesn't share food. Ever. Unless he's eating mine.)</strike><br />
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<strike>3. A now neurotic cat who has developed a fear of anyone under three feet tall. </strike><br />
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<strike>2. The need for a new mattress. (I'm sure you can guess.)</strike><br />
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1. A full heart.<br />
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After all, none of the rest matters.<br />
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<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-11814065065166536872016-06-17T21:00:00.001-05:002016-06-17T21:00:29.541-05:00In the Zone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Meet Joan. She's the beautiful one with the got-it-all-together look in the family vacation photo. Joan is the mother of a high schooler, a middle schooler, a grade schooler, and a two-year old. Joan is a Roaring Mom. Joan is a super hero. Joan is nuts!<br />
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She doesn't look nuts, does she? She looks calm and in control. But I know that's not possible.<br />
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I know because for the last month, my apartment has been Camp Grandma to my three-year-old grandson.<br />
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I've always said God gave me good children because he knew I wouldn't know what to do with bad ones. Same goes for the grandkid. He's a good kid. Polite (especially when bribed with ice cream). Potty-trained (mostly). Cooperative (sort-of). He's three, remember? His version of all these trait is quite different from the rest of the world.<br />
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Still, I'm sure there are more than a few folks who think I might be a child abductor. In fact, one man and his three kids followed me from the playground to the park restrooms while I madhandled the banshee-screaming toddler. I was only trying to keep him from pulling down his pants and peeing on the merry-go-round, but they didn't know that.They listened at the door while I promised all kinds of candy and cookies and and Dr. Pepper, if he would only cooperate already. I endured 30 more minutes of playtime with this man's skeptical eye on me. Can you even imagine this scene with a frustrated grade schooler, an annoyed middle schooler, and an embarrassed high schooler in tow?<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OmPYK_UJ3N4/V2SnlTUpunI/AAAAAAAAANk/r2LBSisEw8gkUUEtazQxAo_AjdZx_ORhwCLcB/s1600/IMG_1657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OmPYK_UJ3N4/V2SnlTUpunI/AAAAAAAAANk/r2LBSisEw8gkUUEtazQxAo_AjdZx_ORhwCLcB/s320/IMG_1657.JPG" width="244" /></a>At one time in my life, I had four kids under the age of seven. I don't know how I did it. I really don't. Was I on autopilot? Was I daily teetering on the brink of sanity? Did I ever accomplish anything other than getting from one hour to the next?<br />
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Some things have come back to me. The necessity of opera lunch. Did you know singing during lunch makes it magically more fun to eat? Ice cream for dinner. If you throw some fruit on it, you've covered two food groups. Bribery without guilt. I will promise anything if he will just go to sleep or put on his shoes or leave the new toilet paper roll in tact. Examine Exhibit A. He came to Camp Grandma with three Hot Wheels cars. Three.<br />
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I know for a fact life was easier when I had four under seven, and I think it's because I was in that zone--that Teflon, ten-second-rule-believing, dirty-face-tolerating, Dora the Explorer binge-watching, Super Mom cape-wearing zone. For the past decade, I've been in the eye-rolling, dirty-shin gaurd-smelling, teen-drama-dealing, never-enough-food-in-the-house mode. I can't even imagine Joan's life. She's living in all four zones at once. I bow to you, Joan. (Nice job working that insanity camouflage.)<br />
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Shout out to all parents in every Roaring Mom zone. You're crushing it today. If all you do is get through the next hour, you're right where you need to be. Even if you had to bribe yourself with ice cream to get there!<br />
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<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-60749257761820800012016-04-10T21:54:00.001-05:002016-04-10T22:03:46.725-05:00How to Create Creative Kids and Other Life LessonsI've told you before about how the time my daughter came home from school complaining that the only kid who understood her jokes was the class weirdie. Her sister, completely serious, said, "I thought you were the class weirdie."<br />
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It's true. My kids are kinda weird and it might sorta, kinda be my fault a little.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVGHszc5Vk8/VwsQvAp4uQI/AAAAAAAAAME/9gXIEKL4nyAMb5toiMliH5mnFZzuEFwgA/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVGHszc5Vk8/VwsQvAp4uQI/AAAAAAAAAME/9gXIEKL4nyAMb5toiMliH5mnFZzuEFwgA/s200/FullSizeRender%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="185" /></a>But maybe not entirely.<br />
Yes, I let them and all their friends play indoor hide-n-seek without many limitations, much to the demise of my linen closet and Christmas storage area. I also let them dress themselves--tutu over everything, kitty cat shirt under everything, and Tupperware bowl...uh, I mean improvised Buzz Lightyear Helmet...on the head everywhere.<br />
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I let them cover themselves in mud and talk to imaginary friends and dress up the cat. We wrote on the walls.The best kitchen utensils were always in the sand box.<br />
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We played soccer in the house. And sword fights. And tag.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrpESslv4X4/VwsQyQ4VvcI/AAAAAAAAAMI/iKbhNOWzx_YffgUGVbbv4olJ3QE_UKrSw/s1600/Buzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrpESslv4X4/VwsQyQ4VvcI/AAAAAAAAAMI/iKbhNOWzx_YffgUGVbbv4olJ3QE_UKrSw/s200/Buzz.jpg" width="150" /></a>My kids were the ones on the playground, teaching all the Catholic school kids Cheech and Chong's Sister Mary Elephant routines. They were the ones who got in trouble for chewing gum at school and when asked how their behavior was unChristlike answered, "Well, they didn't have gum when Jesus was alive." They were the ones trying to use mind power to blow up like a giant blueberry the "stupid" teachers, just to see if it would work. (Think Willy Wonka's Veruca Salt)<br />
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But now that they are all adults, I have to admit I am not entirely to blame for their twisted, weirdie sense of humor and anything goes lifestyles. I had help--from Sesame Street.<br />
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Seriously! Did you ever notice how freaky those critters are? A giant yellow bird that carries around a teddy bear. A monster who steals everyone's cookies. A mean grump who lives in a trash can. That two headed-thing and those other guys with honking horn noses. Then, there are these fellows:<br />
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Of all the strange things we feed into our children's minds, these guys are some of my favorites. They beat out the big purple dinosaur and his annoying whiny baby friend. They trump the colorfully dressed full-grown men who sing about fruit salad...yummy, yummy. They even surpass the dancing gumdrop-looking creatures with the TVs in their tummies who worship the giant toddler head in the sky. Those other oddities are just weird. These guys are cool.<br />
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And if you're gonna be the class weirdie, you might as well be the class weirdie cool cat. And that's that!<br />
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What's the weirdest thing you ever used to entertain your kids?<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-56565309004741064382016-02-20T12:18:00.000-06:002016-04-04T15:35:08.009-05:00Sounds Like Life<div class="MsoNormal">
My son is in the next room strumming beautifully on a guitar
he didn’t even know how to play this time last year. His voice joins in harmony
with his friend’s as they practice for an upcoming audition. She does this
wonderful, improvised thing and he stops. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah! That’s great.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can hear the smiles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the sound of joy reverberating through my home. Joy and
perseverance and belief and self-doubt and trial and error and passion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thump. Thump. Thump. The ball beats a passionate rhythm
against the wall. My family room seconds as a soccer field. This is why we
can’t have nice things—because I’d rather have a soccer field in my home than
nice things. The thumping grows faster and harder, then a miss, followed by an
expletive. Then the rhythm starts again. Slow and steady and sure. Then faster.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the sound of persistence, consistency, determination,
sweat, aches, pains, skinned knees and pulled muscles. It’s the sound of missed
goals and trophies not won and championships celebrated and hard fought victories.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand outside my daughter’s bedroom and listen to her
reminisce on the phone with her friends over last night’s dance. They already
regret things they didn’t say, dance moves they shouldn’t have tried, and the
photo they didn’t take of the three of them while their hair and make-up was
still on point. But they laugh it off. There’s still time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son comes up behind me and tells me not to eavesdrop, that
privacy is a right. “Not in this house,” I joke. “Never has been.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not eavesdropping. I’m
not trying to listen in on a conversation. I’m only hearing the sound. I am breathing in the sounds of their voices and laughter and tears and lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s not much time. In eighteen months, my last two kids
will have flown the coop. They will take their noises with them. They will also
take with them their triumphs and sorrows and tenaciousness and doubt and
faith. And my heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not looking forward to the silence. <o:p></o:p></div>
Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-58111518031554668372016-02-07T15:35:00.000-06:002016-02-07T15:35:11.017-06:00I Told You So<div style="text-align: left;">
I've often heard the parenting advice that we should never tell our children, "I told you so." I think that advice should actually be</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You should never tell your children "I told you so" </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>unless it's a really big freaking deal for which </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>you totally deserve credit forever and all time.</i></div>
<br />
That's my kind of parenting advice.<br />
<br />
Ten years ago, I picked up my oldest daughter from another day of middle school. Another awful, sucky, aggravating day of middle school full of stupid mean kids that said stupid, mean things.<br />
<br />
I had already tried all the nice, forgiving, Catholic school mom stuff I was supposed to say. None of it had helped. So I finally told her what I really thought.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSbF7f6sNMs/VreywGVODnI/AAAAAAAAALc/j2DBNDOO1dY/s1600/IMG_3113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSbF7f6sNMs/VreywGVODnI/AAAAAAAAALc/j2DBNDOO1dY/s200/IMG_3113.JPG" width="150" /></a><i>Kate, don't worry about it. One day you are gonna be in California doing your thing and all those kids who made fun of you and made you feel unattractive or weird or not good enough are gonna be sitting on their couches in Wichita, Kansas, eating corn chips and watching some show on TV that you worked on. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Today, I can say I TOLD YOU SO! Today, those Roaring Moms words come true. Today, in fact all this week, the productions she has been working on for months are entertaining the corn-chip eating couch potatoes!<br />
<br />
While this post might seem like one big Roaring Mom Brag, that's not totally my intention. You all know how I feel about bragging on our kids. Yes and Always! My point, however, is more that it is perfectly fine to say "I told you so"! Sometimes our kids need to remember that we got it right. Sometimes. we need to remember that we got it right.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bNhcKskSr8A/Vre0u9Zt1bI/AAAAAAAAALs/bkGoNJMtEYg/s1600/IMG_3131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bNhcKskSr8A/Vre0u9Zt1bI/AAAAAAAAALs/bkGoNJMtEYg/s200/IMG_3131.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
This morning, in that same church parking lot, I had a similar conversation with another child o' mine. I reminded him that sometimes the doors we want to open remain closed so that a better door can open later on. Had Kate been hired on with Facebook she wouldn't have still been looking for employment when the CBS job opened up. Working for Facebook would have been cool, but I'm not sure it would have been getting-paid-to-hang-out-with-Jeff Goldblum-cool!<br />
<br />
What <i>was</i> cool was what happened when church started. The commentator explained the readings for the day. Simon had failed at fishing all day which left the door open for Jesus to instruct him to throw the nets again. Simon's failure had literally allowed him a chance to grow his faith. If he'd been hauling in the fish all day, he wouldn't not have experienced the opportunity for something greater.<br />
<br />
I smiled at my son. I told you so! <br />
<br />
If the Gospel backing up your Roaring Mom Words of Wisdom isn't enough reason to say "I told you so", surely Jeff Goldblum is.<br />
<br />
Roar On! <br />
<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-71693664793881739402016-02-04T15:54:00.000-06:002016-02-04T15:54:22.373-06:00Failing Forward<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fail Forward! Have you ever heard those words? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Those words make me cringe. When I hear them, I always
imagine myself tripping up the stairs in front of important people at a Black
Tie affair, breaking my shoes, ripping my dress, tripping the host—that kind of
thing. Going forward, yes. Even going up. But it is not pretty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Who wants that kind of embarrassment? It would take days to
get past the humiliation of the fall before you even began dealing with the <i>I’m-a-loser</i> mentality that inevitably
comes along with the failure. And have you noticed that the <i>I’m-a-loser</i> mentality is a mental
magnet. The moment you ponder one failure, the rest come rushing at you! It can
go something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I forgot the grocery list, so I came home without buying toilet paper.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I also forgot to buy Valentines for my kids’ classrooms.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t work out.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I ate <s>a donut </s>five donuts.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I forgot to pay that credit card bill from Christmas for presents
everyone has already forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I haven’t taken down Christmas and it’s Valentine’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I burned dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">My hungry, Valentine-less children hate me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I am Valentine-less, too. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I ate six donuts.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I’m going to die alone. And fat.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I am going to die and I haven’t yet made my will.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">And I haven’t saved for retirement.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">So there is nothing to will to anyone anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I have to pee and there’s no toilet paper. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I have failed at life. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">See what I mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A wise man (AKA, my father, the wisest man I know) sees failure
differently. He says that failure is the common thread to learning and
knowledge. Failure to recognize failure is the common thread of fools. Failure
is the first step to beginning again. The opportunity to begin again is one of
God’s gifts. He says he knows this because of the number of opportunities available.
A new year, a new month, a new week, a new day, a new hour, a new minute. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If failing, the opportunity to begin again, is one of God’s gifts, who
am I to want or expect something different? Even if the opportunity comes with
embarrassment and humiliation? If you think about it, who wouldn’t want the
opportunity to begin again? I mean, if you got it right the first time,
beginning again allows you to repeat the joy of a successful experience. If you
got it wrong, of course you want a do-over! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So what if your kids assuage their hunger with half a dozen donuts and
you spend the last of their tiny inheritance on delivery pizza. So what if they were the only kids that year with homemade Valentines. And so what if you discover that too much aloe-infused Kleenex can clog a toilet? The next day is
a do-over. The next week. The next month. The next year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">God is good. Life is good. And so, it seems, is failure.</span></div>
Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-79701578490910047992015-12-30T19:15:00.001-06:002015-12-30T19:15:07.102-06:00No Elves on this ShelfI can't think of a creepier concept than telling your kids that you've invited some big-headed, lanky<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pUJES354g40/VoR6ypbTk0I/AAAAAAAAAKw/nzdjewadW4c/s1600/Creepy%2BElf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pUJES354g40/VoR6ypbTk0I/AAAAAAAAAKw/nzdjewadW4c/s320/Creepy%2BElf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
armed freaky thing into your house to stare at them...for Santa. It's bad enough that we threaten/bribe our kids all year long with a promise that some big, bearded guy won't crawl down the chimney in the middle of the night if they don't behave. Now we are adding the Elf on a Shelf.<br />
<br />
If you notice, it's not even enough to hide him around the house. Now people have to be creative. He takes selfies with kids' phones when they aren't looking. He has tea with Barbies.<br />
He even gets crazy with the baking supplies.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uZd15IbEbkE/VoR6iryHjPI/AAAAAAAAAKo/8eILeKBhPvc/s1600/baking%2Belf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uZd15IbEbkE/VoR6iryHjPI/AAAAAAAAAKo/8eILeKBhPvc/s320/baking%2Belf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
As creepy as the little guy..girl...creature is, the real reason I celebrate the fact that the Elf wasn't added to the list of holiday lies we tell our children until after mine were to old for it, is this-- Elf on a Shelf would have simply been one more Mom Fail for me.<br />
<br />
Case in point: The Tooth Fairy<br />
<br />
When I was a kid and I pulled a tooth, I placed it in the "tooth glass" (a.k.a Dad's shot glass) that was filled with water and put it on my nightstand. In the morning, without fail, the tooth would be gone and in its place would be a couple quarters or a 50 cent piece.<br />
<br />
When my kids pulled their teeth, it usually took about 3 days for the busy, busy tooth fairy to finally get to our house. By that time, the Mom Fail guilt from a string of morning cries because "the Tooth Fairy forgot" had hit and a five dollar bill would miraculously appear under the pillow--for one tooth. At that rate of return, I'm surprised the kids weren't pull them left and right and gumming their food. Five bucks for one little molar! Geesh!<br />
<br />
The Easter Bunny was only slightly better. The furry guy never forgot to leave a basket, but there was that one mishap when he left a trail of jelly beans. The kids never saw the trail, but the dog did. Cleaning up rainbow colored dog vomit isn't as fun as you might think.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhVL90f6U_c/VoR9S_XeVNI/AAAAAAAAALE/-YL9Mnlmwc4/s1600/Buzz%2Band%2Belf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhVL90f6U_c/VoR9S_XeVNI/AAAAAAAAALE/-YL9Mnlmwc4/s1600/Buzz%2Band%2Belf.jpg" /></a>If I had had to care for that creepy creature, I'm sure that at some point, the stress of adding one more Big Holiday Bribe/Threat would have shredded my last bit of sanity and the inevitable would have happened. Yes, the torturous treatment of the devilish elf. Buzz Lightyear to the Rescue, folks!<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5NDb2qy0qtg/VoR8KsUF_nI/AAAAAAAAAK8/t2N-JL8Rbrs/s1600/Clyde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5NDb2qy0qtg/VoR8KsUF_nI/AAAAAAAAAK8/t2N-JL8Rbrs/s320/Clyde.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
Here's the thing I don't get. I know folks with no little kids who are inviting this eerie little elf into their homes. Sometimes, when we don't have the sweet souls of three-year-olds to reign us in, the humor goes right down the toilet pretty fast. Just ask my brother-in-law whose youngest is 21. His day to take care of "Clyde" resulted in an ugly, ugly trip to the crapper.<br />
<br />
So maybe I can think of something creepier than bribing our toddlers with mischievous, stalking doll.<br />
<br />
Adults, Grown Up People, Parents of Teens and Older Children Everywhere, hear me roar: You are off the hook! You do not need to shelve your elves. It's your turn to smile and smirk at the tired parents of toddlers who awaken on Christmas morning after only 30 minutes of sleep and 10 hours of constructing playhouses and forts and train tracks and weeks of creatively displaying Clyde. Kick up your heels, sit down and relax, celebrate. You've earned it.<br />
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Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-65653399009154174762015-12-14T17:44:00.002-06:002015-12-14T17:44:33.817-06:00If I Can Do It...My Journey Into Homemade SalsaIt's 10:00 on a Friday. I'm making homemade salsa. Of course. What else would I be doing with my life?<br />
<br />
Here's the thing--I don't really make salsa. Making salsa is falls under "cooking". I bake. I don't cook.<br />
<br />
But there's that turning over a new healthy leaf thing, so when I felt the urge to turn my kitchen into a a Roaring Mom version of the Keebler Elves Treehouse workshop, I stopped myself. I've been doing pretty good on this health kick thing. It's all about breaking old bad habits and replacing them with new healthy ones.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6Z8aWrHe3Q/Vm9IVaoR4KI/AAAAAAAAAJE/_lJPFO1_MEY/s1600/ingredients.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6Z8aWrHe3Q/Vm9IVaoR4KI/AAAAAAAAAJE/_lJPFO1_MEY/s200/ingredients.jpg" width="200" /></a>I pulled out my Fixate (21 Day Fix Approved) Cookbook and searched for a healthy replacement. I've actually always wanted to find a good homemade salsa recipe because we go through the stuff here like it's water.<br />
<br />
There are 2 steps in this recipe: <br />
<br />
1. Combine jalapeno, tomatoes, and salt in a bowl and mix well.<br />
2. Add garlic, onion and cilantro and mix well.<br />
<br />
YES! Even I can do that...but wait!<br />
<br />
The ingredients list says <i>roasted</i> jalapeno. How the heck does one roast a jalapeno? I roast a roast in a crock pot. I'm not much of a chef, but even I know that won't work. So I Google it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3HythMgoizA/Vm9MY9inuCI/AAAAAAAAAJU/WtJbAeY5TiQ/s1600/IMG_0179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3HythMgoizA/Vm9MY9inuCI/AAAAAAAAAJU/WtJbAeY5TiQ/s200/IMG_0179.JPG" width="150" /></a>Apparently I need gloves to handle the jalapeno. I don't have jalapeno-handling gloves. Hmm... A plastic bag will work, right?<br />
<br />
It is gonna have to. I am not going to the store (for probably the third time that day) just for jalapeno-handling gloves.<br />
<br />
So back to this jalapeno roasting thing. First, I have to cut the peppers (while carefully holding them with my plastic bag). Then I have to take out the seeds. Seeds are tricky little boogers to pick out with a shopping bag on your hand. Next I place them in the oven on a broiler pan. (I may or may not have Googled what a broiler pan is.) Guess what? I do, in fact, have a broiler pan. Who knew, right?!<br />
<br />
Who knew, also, that the peppers still aren't ready for salsa inclusion after they are broiled...er...uh...roasted...whatever...and cooled? They also must be peeled. How does one peel a roasted, broiled, blackened, jalapeno?<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HLKtj2TZ720/Vm9QYD29NzI/AAAAAAAAAJk/OeUh1lG_U5M/s1600/IMG_0182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HLKtj2TZ720/Vm9QYD29NzI/AAAAAAAAAJk/OeUh1lG_U5M/s200/IMG_0182.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Google was busy that night.<br />
<br />
Place the jalapenos in a sealed paper bag for fifteen minutes and the skins should peel right off. Only, I don't have paper bags. I have only plastic. You know, in case I have to handle jalapenos. I can also place the peppers on a plate and cover them with a bowl.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I have some cilantro to chop. I'm not exactly sure cilantro can be chopped. It's wet and sticks to your hands and kind of tears or smashes. It doesn't really chop. I remove the bag/glove and tear the cilantro. Done.<br />
<br />
Eventually, everything else is chopped, too--even the roasted, broasted, broiled, steamed, peeled jalapenos.<br />
<br />
But wait! There is a recipe "tip"! I could have just pulverized it all in a blender for a less chunky version.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qBbJQssrhE/Vm9RznVy6uI/AAAAAAAAAJw/qJ0wPB59iBo/s1600/IMG_0188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qBbJQssrhE/Vm9RznVy6uI/AAAAAAAAAJw/qJ0wPB59iBo/s200/IMG_0188.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?<br />
<br />
I have to try it. I like less chunky salsa. And I've come this far, anyway.<br />
<br />
Well, it smelled great, but resembled a bowl of vomit.<br />
<br />
Luckily, I had saved back a bit of the colorful, chunky, guilt-free, homemade, 21 Day Fix approved salsa. It tastes like accomplishment...and jalapenos!<br />
<br />
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<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-26583935660523317142015-08-11T15:16:00.000-05:002015-08-11T15:16:44.419-05:00Cool Kid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xCbwdxZe74/VcpW-LsUvFI/AAAAAAAAAIc/R8S8I4Jn1Lw/s1600/Cool%2BCat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xCbwdxZe74/VcpW-LsUvFI/AAAAAAAAAIc/R8S8I4Jn1Lw/s320/Cool%2BCat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Roaring Moms don't play have favorites when it comes to their children. At least that's the official position right?<br />
<br />
When my kids accused me of having favorites, I would answer, "You're right. My favorite is whichever kid is doing what I ask without complaining."<br />
<br />
Yeah...I must admit I never saw that comment suggested in any parent book. After four kids, the filter doesn't always work.<br />
<br />
So even though there is no favorite child, from time to time there is a coolest kid.<br />
<br />
The coolest kid title doesn't really have any specific criteria. One time the coolest kid was the one who reported cyber bullying to the principal at the risk of social repercussions. The coolest kid was once the one who lettered in two varsity sports and made the honor roll, too. Once it was the one who performed on Broadway. More than once, it's been the one who could make us all laugh, even when not much seemed laughable. Very often, it's been the kid who cleaned the kitchen or did the laundry without being asked. Or the one with the best sarcastic comeback. Because we value that in our family. Probably too much.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OHVqsMVtdpw/VcpXl0zmpZI/AAAAAAAAAIk/UzPnPtlvoIo/s1600/Covers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OHVqsMVtdpw/VcpXl0zmpZI/AAAAAAAAAIk/UzPnPtlvoIo/s320/Covers.jpg" width="320" /></a>Anyway, last week the coolest kid was my oldest--not just because she hung out with Mumford and Sons, Billy Idol and Elton John all in one weekend, but because she recognized and appreciated the absolute, drop everything, importance of such an opportunity. Furthermore, she immediately called me to report this Proud Mom moment and the kept me updated all weekend. She thanked me repeatedly that she grew up on good music--a lot of 80s rock, some 70s and 60s, classic stuff. Even classical stuff. A fair amount of Broadway and even some decent country.<br />
<br />
So as my Cool Kid enjoyed the final moments of Elton John in concert, she struck up a conversation with a Cool Lady. She looked 30, but was actually 46. Exactly my age. The lady was immensely impressed with my Cool Kid's knowledge and appreciation of great music. I think my daughter's answer was something like, "Thank God my mom didn't fill our heads with stupid Brittany Spears bullshit." The Cool Lady approved. "I think I like your mom," she replied.<br />
<br />
So there you have it. I have the approval of a Cool Lady hanging backstage with my daughter and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6wxp3Z_zks" target="_blank">Elton John</a>. I'm not sure it gets much better than that.<br />
<br />
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<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-85946148887635003512015-08-06T10:24:00.001-05:002015-08-06T10:24:40.600-05:0010 Reasons I'm Dreading Back to School <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wbzWeLek9VY/VcNDFKcZMDI/AAAAAAAAAH0/BeYebw8wcwo/s1600/Back-to-School.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wbzWeLek9VY/VcNDFKcZMDI/AAAAAAAAAH0/BeYebw8wcwo/s320/Back-to-School.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I want to be ready. I really do. But the answer is no on every single level. I am not ready for Back to School. I don't even feel like thinking about getting ready. All the television ads keep telling me I should be overjoyed to be send the kids back to school. There must be something wrong with me because I'm just not feeling it.<br />
<br />
Top 10 Reasons I'm dreading Back to School:<br />
<br />
10. We are not morning people. Even with a daily caffeine overdose, my brain doesn't work until at least 10:00 a.m.. During the school year, I'm out of bed a 5:30. Because I can't jump right out of bed like my mother who thought it was a great idea to start her children's day out blaring opera, I push snooze at least 5 times before I flop my lifeless body out from under the covers and slither to the shower like a dying snake. 5:30 a.m. in house full of night owls is ugly. Pure ugly.<br /><br />
9. Homework: Teachers assign too much of that crap. It's a ridiculously impossible mountain designed to produce panic attacks, fits of frustration, low self-esteem, temptation to cheat, and general FML pity parties. And that's just for the parents.<br />
<br />
8. Lunch: The guilt associated with forgetting to load up the lunch account and hitting snooze so many times that you don't have time to pack a lunch and neither do they can drive a parent to drink.<br />
<br />
7. Socks: From August to may, there is no such thing as a pair of matching socks. Is there anything that puts a nail in the coffin of your day before you even walk out the door like having to wear mismatched socks?<br />
<br />
6. Math<br />
<br />
5. Permission Slips: They are forever being lost in the black hole of the back pack. Is teaching your kids to forge your signature considered bad parenting?<br />
<br />
4.Late Night Laundry:There must be an unwritten rule that whatever uniform or favorite jeans or spirit shirt my child needs for the next day won't be located until 10:30 at night in the bottom of a hamper.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_qwMeKewegM/VcN4WpM7c9I/AAAAAAAAAII/g8-P-jtyTtU/s1600/Back-to-School-Shopping.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_qwMeKewegM/VcN4WpM7c9I/AAAAAAAAAII/g8-P-jtyTtU/s320/Back-to-School-Shopping.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
3. Special Project Supplies: I guess it's not that big of a deal that I'm doing laundry in the middle of the night because I am probably going to have to run to Walmart anyway for the special sized poster board and e colored marker that no one told me they needed until after we located the favorite jeans in the bottom of the hamper.<br />
<br />
2. Young Love: Teenage boys are cruel and teenage girls are crazy.<br />
<br />
1. And the number 1 reason I'm dread Back To School this year--My youngest two have only two years left. I can't bear the thought of all of my babies leaving home. What on earth will I do at 10:30 on a Wednesday night with no socks to match, no uniform to wash, no markers to buy, no permission slips to sign, no heartbreak to mend, no homework to finish?<br />
<br />
I can't believe it's almost over. It really did go by too fast.Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-47675686196143816562015-07-22T09:16:00.003-05:002015-07-22T09:16:59.014-05:00What They Don't Tell You<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7rWroatdTrg/Va-kyqvjO1I/AAAAAAAAAHA/eXLhqiPh1ZE/s1600/Jackson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7rWroatdTrg/Va-kyqvjO1I/AAAAAAAAAHA/eXLhqiPh1ZE/s200/Jackson.jpg" title="" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do I have to decide right now?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What do you want to be when you grow up?<br />
<br />
That's the question we ask kids, right? It's the question we were asked as kids. What do you want to be when you grow up?<br />
<br />
It's the wrong question, because there really is only one acceptable answer. Happy.<br />
<br />
So the question we should be asking kids is--how are you going to be happy when you grow up? In fact, I wonder what kind of answer a child would give. Would they look at us like we are crazy? Would they simply reply, "Duh!" Because, I bet, to most children, it's seems kind of easy.<br />
<br />
Do stuff you like. Hang out with people you like. Watch funny movies. Laugh. Sing. Dance. And if the child is a boy, possibly--make fart noises.<br />
<br />
I guess it is pretty simple, but there is a lot about adulthood they never tell you.<br />
<br />
I met a really nice woman recently at my kids' soccer game. We struck up a conversation and hit it off. Our kids didn't attend the same school. They weren't on the same teams, but we had a lot in common nonetheless. So two days later when this woman coincidentally walked into my place of business (she didn't know where I worked), and we hit it off again, I thought maybe we're supposed to be friends. Maybe we met each other twice in three days for a reason. Which would be nice. It's sometimes hard to make new friends as adults. We often become restricted by our workplace or neighborhood. I've been lucky to have awesome co-workers and fantastic neighbors, but that's not always the case everyone. And if it's not the case, how do you go about making friends as an adult? No one tells you how to do that.<br />
<br />
So it got me to thinking, what else don't they tell you about adulthood.<br />
<br />
My oldest daughter is a fairly new adult, only 23. She has great insight. Here's her answer:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>You never poop normally again after pregnancy. You can't make your own friends. Spiraling depression is almost guaranteed. No one really cares about you other than your family. You'll make more money and still never have enough. You can't call out sick. You are always going to avoid going to the doctor and just hope you don't die. You never have to do to the dentist again if you don't want to. But then your teeth are probably rotting. You actually want to sit at the kids' table again to avoid having to talk about your shitty life with other shitty adults. Don't ever think about new clothes. Not gonna happen. Overall, no one has any idea what they are doing, and no one ever admits when they're doing it wrong! </i><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dVlnSCev_c8/Va-jeObEFgI/AAAAAAAAAG0/QWrjr756T98/s1600/Blessings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dVlnSCev_c8/Va-jeObEFgI/AAAAAAAAAG0/QWrjr756T98/s320/Blessings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, given that perspective, why in the world are we asking kids what they want to be when they grow up? Instead, why aren't we asking them how they are going to be happy when they grow up. Contrary to what my daughter's answer might insinuate, she does actually have a pretty awesome life, and she is grateful for it. She's simply a realist. With that kind of reality, shouldn't we be teaching our kids to focus on happiness rather than occupation? Besides, I know 100 people who aren't doing now what they thought they would be doing when they grew up. The real trick is to be happy doing...or not doing it.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So, how are you gonna be happy when you grow up? Here's a tip...if you aren't dead, it's not too late.</b></span>Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-72947900477198743002015-07-14T12:21:00.002-05:002015-07-14T12:21:50.948-05:00What's Cookin', Good-lookin'?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bvZDqixu7iA/VaU5UcVFTwI/AAAAAAAAAGM/XgQR25B6c9Q/s1600/fixate-hotlist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bvZDqixu7iA/VaU5UcVFTwI/AAAAAAAAAGM/XgQR25B6c9Q/s320/fixate-hotlist.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Is this a midlife crisis? Is it menopause? Is it premenstrual premenopausal problems? Is it early onset dementia? A.D.D.? Heatstroke?<br />
<br />
Seriously, there is something <i>wrong</i> with me. I'm excited about buying a cookbook. A cookbook!! I don't cook, folks. I really don't.<br />
<br />
This confession made to another <a href="http://www.prayerandducttape.com/" target="_blank">Roaring Mom</a> nearly ended our friendship.<br />
<br />
Me: I don't cook.<br />
Friend: That can't be true. You feed your kids something. What did you have for dinner last night.<br />
Me: Cereal.<br />
Friend: Cereal? That's it?<br />
Me: (Proudly) No, that's not it. I thought we should also have some lean protein, so we had shrimp cocktail, too.<br />
Friend: (Dead stare) Cereal and shrimp cocktail? I don't think we can be friends anymore.<br />
<br />
My dear children still remind me of the time I did try to cook dinner and had to bring out my Emphatic Voice (you know, the one they say sounds a lot like my Angry Voice) when they kept interrupting me. What can I say? I was putting a lot of thought and effort into it. I had purchased those Tostitos Scoops chips. I carefully spooned a bit of canned refried beans topped with a dab of pre-shredded cheese into each one. I placed the plate in the microwave, set the timer, and kept watch so they wouldn't over heat. No one likes cheese that's been over-micro melted into plastic. The kids had no respect for my slaving over this creative cooking.<br />
<br />
While I stood watch, I heard from beyond the kitchen: <i>Where's my cleats? What time is practice? Can you help me with my homework? I need poster board for school tomorrow.</i><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SYVRu_AmOFw/VaU8aFQwEKI/AAAAAAAAAGc/cRt4d_e5BQs/s1600/Tostitos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SYVRu_AmOFw/VaU8aFQwEKI/AAAAAAAAAGc/cRt4d_e5BQs/s1600/Tostitos.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Finally, I had HAD it! I yelled...er, uh, said emphatically..."Can't you see I'm trying to make dinner here?!"<br />
<br />
"Mom, it's nachos."<br />
<br />
"It's fancy nachos!!"<br />
<br />
Ungrateful kids.<br />
<br />
So the fact that I am now excited over the launch of a new cookbook is kind of...weird. Something strange happened to me this summer. I got hooked on eating. I mean really eating. Not stuffing my face. Not grazing. Not snacking. Not snarfing. Just eating for nutrition, to fuel my body, to create a healthy me.<br />
<br />
So far, I've been able to get by without actually cooking. The grocery store makes a mean roasted chicken and the deli sells delicious shredded turkey. These foods fit beautifully into the 21 Day Fix program I've been using as a guide to better health. Now <a href="http://autumncalabrese.com/" target="_blank">Autumn Calabrese</a> has created the Fixate Cookbook full of 101 recipes for my 21 Day Fix. They include vegan, vegetarian, Paleo, healthy meals for a healthy me. For a healthy family!<br />
<br />
My Roaring Mom Friend has often told me that sometimes she thinks food = love. Some moms overfeed and under nourish. Some try a special show of affection with fancy nachos. Some get it right and fuel their kids for health, success, fitness, and all that good stuff. I might be a little late getting on that band wagon, but at least I'm getting on.<br />
<br />
The 21 Day Fix has lasted a lot longer than 21 Days. It has certainly fixed a lot of what I didn't want to realize needed fixing. I feel better. I have more confidence and more energy and now a new interest in learning a new skill--cooking! The best thing, however, is hearing my kids say, "Mom, we are so proud of you!" Those are just about the sweetest words a Roaring Mom can hear.<br />
<br />
Interested in starting your own 21 Day Fix? Comment below or <a href="%2Dhttp://www.beachbodycoach.com/Roaringmoms" target="_blank">click here</a> to order your own Fix!<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-42780968439549956662015-06-29T14:04:00.000-05:002015-06-29T14:04:27.342-05:00Getting Real<div class="MsoNormal">
I plan my Parent Nags. I practice them. In the shower. In
the car. In my head. Even with my 4<sup>th</sup> kid just 2 years from flying
the nest, I still hold on to the idea that Perfectly Practiced Parent Nag is my
best weapon of choice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today’s message wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t even planned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the Carmen part of
the Frank-n-Carmen was on the floor beside me, sweatin’ it out in a torturous
abs work out, the other part of that duo sat on the couch repeating, “I don’t
want to run. I don’t want to run.”<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me explain right now that I completely, totally, wholeheartedly understand
that sentiment. In fact, I think people who want to run are a little weird. I
took a poll once back when I first contemplated self-loathing through 5K
training. I asked about a dozen runners what they liked most about running.
Every single one of them said the same answer—stopping. So all of these folks
were forcing themselves to take up a hobby that the most enjoyable part of
occurred once they stopped doing it? What. The. Hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my immediate response to my son was not that I
understood his mantra. Instead I broke out the Emphatic Voice with a strong
encouragement to get off his lazy ass and go run because his team was
scrimmaging next week and even if he didn’t do it now, he would be sorry later
if he didn’t so he should stop whining and just do it already. (Okay, so the
kids are right, my Emphatic Voice sounded a lot like my Angry Voice. Also, my
strong encouragement sounded a lot like a nagging nag.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My oh-so-wise son shot back, “Geez mom, since you’ve been on
this health kick, you’re really getting on to us about working out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmm…that was not my plan. That was not what I had practiced.
It was time to improvise. It was time to get real.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I explained that my attitude really had nothing to do with a
health kick. It had everything to do with how much 2015 has sucked. It started
with the death of my beautiful friend in January, followed by the pointless
still-born birth of a co-workers baby. Then my daughter’s future mother-in-law
was found dead. A few weeks ago, another daughter attended the wedding of her
dear friends, just to turn around and attend the funeral of the newlywed
husband two weeks later. Last week, my third daughter’s classmate unexpectedly
lost his dad to a brain aneurism. Just
this week I was informed of the suicide of one my students. It’s only June,
folks. It’s only fucking JUNE! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I told him that if nothing else, 2015 has given me an
intolerance for bullshit and excuses. If you want something, you’d better go
get it now. Life is short. We don’t know if we’ll have a tomorrow. So what the
hell are we waiting for? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, “Wow, Mom. That makes a lot of sense. That was
probably the most motivational thing you’ve ever said to me.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow is right! Maybe the Perfectly Practiced Parent Nag isn’t
my best parenting option. Maybe real
life is enough all by itself. In this case anyway, I couldn’t have motivated
more if I had planned it. </div>
Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-25822007894506853452015-06-22T06:30:00.000-05:002015-06-22T06:30:02.332-05:00Play Angry is the New Play NiceLast night a wise friend gave me some sound advice. The phone conversation went like this.<br />
<br />
Friend: What are you doing?<br />
Me: I'm trying to decide if I'm so upset I can't eat or if I'm so upset all I want to do is eat.<br />
Friend: Of course you want to eat. Who doesn't want to eat?<br />
Me: (trudging my pathetic corpse to the kitchen for ice cream) Okay, I'll eat. I'm just so mad!!<br />
Friend: Good. Be mad and stay mad. You have a right to be mad.<br />
<br />
I nearly cried for joy (until I remembered I was supposed to stay angry). And at some point during our conversation, I began to believe him. I traded the soggy, melted, soppy ice cream for crunching crackers, because--let's face it--ice cream is just not an angry food. A bottomless box of Cheez-its? Now that's angry food.<br />
<br />
I've spent most of my adult life trying really hard not to be angry or ignoring my anger or apologizing for it. I never wanted my anger to make someone else feel emotionally uncomfortable. In fact, I got so good at disguising my anger that usually the people I'm angry with think I'm joking.<br />
<br />
Just ask my kids. They laugh at me when I'm mad. Truly <i>laugh</i> at me. Which only makes me madder which makes them laugh harder.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VnS2CPpg2xc/VYexJ5BBmMI/AAAAAAAAAF4/soQS-53UyWM/s1600/Play%2BAngry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VnS2CPpg2xc/VYexJ5BBmMI/AAAAAAAAAF4/soQS-53UyWM/s200/Play%2BAngry.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
A few years ago, my alma mater adopted the motto Play Angry! <br />
I'm not sure what the Wichita State University Shockers were angry about, and I'm not sure it mattered--as long as they were angry and stayed that way and played that way.<br />
<br />
Their Playing Angry has served them well. They played angry enough to get them to the NCAA Men's basketball final four. They played angry enough to complete an undefeated season. They played angry enough to earn the respect of many naysayers.<br />
<br />
And that's the thing my nice little apologetic mad moments were lacking--respect.<br />
<br />
One of my favorite movie scenes comes from <i>Terminator 3</i> when John Conner is lamenting over the fact that he is chosen to lead the world against the rise of the machine. The movie came out like 10 years ago, but I've always remembered the message of this scene.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeIy2MHZ0xE" target="_blank">Watch the Scene</a></div>
<br />
Anger is a more useful emotion than despair. God, it's so true isn't it? What does despair do for us but dive us into gallons of ice cream and ruin our mascara and make us proclaim pathetic, embarrassing, abusive self-talk? Anger IS so much more useful and powerful.<br />
<br />
I've always told my children that they have a right to their emotions. The best way to handle emotions is name them, claim them, process them, and move on. Looking back, I wish I had followed my own advice. I was too busy justifying others' emotions and apologizing for my own. Come to think of it, that kind of makes me mad. And I should be mad! I have a right to be mad! Anger is a perfectly good emotion and I've been ignoring it, wasting it all this time!<br />
<br />
Time to take my own advice. Time to take my friend's advice. If it's good enough for The Terminator and the Shockers, it should be good enough for me. Besides, you know what they say about nice guys? Playing nice gets you last place. Playing angry just might help you save mankind or get you a shot at the title or maybe some deserved respect.<br />
<br />
Or in my case...at least a good laugh.<br />
<br />
<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-54792700184700738752015-06-15T06:30:00.000-05:002015-06-15T06:30:02.131-05:00When Your Kids Don't Need You AnymoreShe was about five when she tied her shoe by herself for the first time. I smiled, all teary, at her and said, "Pretty soon you aren't going to need me anymore."<br />
<br />
She gave me a giant hug and said, "But Mommy, I'll always use you!"<br />
<br />
I hope it's true. I hope they always, always use me. That way at least I'll <i>feel</i> like they need me for something.<br />
<br />
This week I listened proudly as my oldest daughter told me about her job interview with a company that is looking to expand. She excitedly explained how she was the right one for the job. She knows what they need to do to succeed and is confident in her ability to make it happen--all while she's planning a wedding and raising her two-year-old son.<br />
<br />
My second daughter drove herself all over the Mid-west like it was no big deal. From Kansas to Oklahoma to Dallas to New Mexico. No big deal. Now she's in LA, where she knows almost no one, training to accomplish her life's dream. No big deal.<br />
<br />
My son (my baby) drove himself all over--well, not the Midwest--but far enough for this Mom, anyway. He also decided he'd teach himself to play the guitar. Two weeks and TEN SONGS later, he's already performing for family and friends.<br />
<br />
My 17-yr-old flew unaccompanied half-way across the country. Her first tweet from San Francisco informed the world that she was never coming back. She's already chosen her California college. Just last week, she insisted she was attending a Kansas university only 3 hours away. That was enough to kill me. Now it's San Francisco.<br />
<br />
No. Big. Deal.<br />
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<br />
Here's the flip side.<br />
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Just this week my oldest daughter just had to call me all excited about this new job opportunity, so she could discuss with me the pros and cons. My second daughter cried in my arms as she mourned the loss of a dear friend. She knew I understood. My son didn't need me to nag him to practice the guitar, but still required some gentle persuasion to do his homework. My senior texted me all jealous that my first<a href="https://instagram.com/roaringmoms/" target="_blank"> Instagram</a> picture was of her brother--not her. ( I also know she's quietly excited that I'm redo-ing her room for her while she's gone--just in case she does decide to come back.)<br />
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There is a definite longing for younger days when your young-uns gain their independence. There is a tugging at the heart, a sort-of-happy sadness. It sucks. And it's beautiful.<br />
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Watch out all you Moms of Toddlers. There will come a day when they no longer need you. I guess the good news is, they will always use you.<br />
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UPDATE: As I write this, I just received a picture from my second daughter of the latest long underarm hair craze because, apparently, she's jumped on this bandwagon. I'm shipping her an assortment of razors and shaving cream first thing tomorrow, along with a sternly worded note to have some self-respect and consideration for the folks around her. I guess maybe sometimes they need us more than they know. If only so we can help them help themselves. Roaring Mom to the rescue once again!!Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7586597368187289360.post-46222907655177927292015-02-08T22:09:00.001-06:002015-02-08T22:09:09.966-06:00The Best Thing I've Ever DoneAs a mom, I get it wrong <i>a lot! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I got it wrong when I gave my daughter permission to get her nose pierced just because I was mad at her dad.<br />
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I got it wrong when I let my kids quit piano, or so they have told me repeatedly.<br />
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I got it wrong when I told my daughter she wasn't sick, she just didn't want to go to ballet. And then she puked in the van on the way to ballet.<br />
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Every now and again, however, I get it right.<br />
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My son's favorite music artist was going to be in concert in Kansas City. He had to go! I agreed and bought the tickets.<br />
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The thing about living as a single mom on a teacher's salary...well, I'm a single mom living on a teacher's salary.<br />
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The day arrived, I filled up the gas tank and carefully budgeted for the trip. By budgeted, I mean we stayed at the cheapest motel I could find. The view included what my son referred to as a "rape van" just outside our door. You know--big, white (even the windows painted white). But the room seemed clean enough and the bars on the windows of the little check-in office made me feel really safe...as long as I was standing in the little check-in office.<br />
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We checked in, got ready, ran past the rape van to the car, dined at the Hardees Drive-through, and headed to the Power and Light District where I proceeded to show my son around to all the restaurants he would have had the option of patronizing if his dad had taken him to the concert. We meandered our way past the Fred Phelps clan and their "God hates Great Britain" signs, pausing only for my son to ask them, "Is that all of Great Britain, or just certain parts?"<br />
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We found our seats and the concert started. Just a boy and his guitar--<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5APeY5qeGQE" target="_blank">Ed Sheeran</a> took the stage.<br />
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My son was clearly impressed, enthralled, enthused, and cool. I, however, lost it.<br />
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Here I was sharing this moment with my son. It was his first time to see in person the artist who inspired him to pick up a guitar, who let him understand that sharing the gift of his voice was okay, even noble. Here was my son in the presence of his inspiration, and I was there, too.<br />
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I sat back and watched a boy and his guitar, and a boy and his inspiration and a thought--from somewhere outside of me--entered my psyche, and I knew it was the best thing I've ever done with and for my son.<br />
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It was better than the times I made his sister stop forcing him to play dress up. It was better than when I took him to the batting coach because I didn't know a thing about baseball. It was better than risking having a stroke because I finally relented and tried to teach him how to drive.<br />
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It was just a concert, but it was also a moment--the kind that you never forget.<br />
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It didn't happen the way I wanted. I wish I could have made it more, made it better. But in the end, it was the best thing I've ever done.<br />
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<br />Dee Linnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07084412122776244651noreply@blogger.com0