How to Love Your Life

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.

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.”

She’s also tall and trim and beautiful and smart and funny. But don’t start hating her. Her life is not perfect.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

She has a beautiful home because they worked and saved and prayed for it. Then created it.

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.

So how is it that she never fails so exclaim, “Man, I love my life”?

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?

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

I seek out peace.

I’m open minded and humble enough to learn how to be a better parent or person.

I reject harmful people and substances and places and activities.

I actively seek out nourishing people and substances and places and activities.

I practice gratitude.

What if loving our lives meant taking care of our lives?

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?

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.

Choose judiciously. Choose love.

What They Don't Tell You

Do I have to decide right now?

What do you want to be when you grow up?

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?

It's the wrong question, because there really is only one acceptable answer. Happy.

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.

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.

I guess it is pretty simple, but there is a lot about adulthood they never tell you.

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.

So it got me to thinking, what else don't they tell you about adulthood.

My oldest daughter is a fairly new adult, only 23. She has great insight. Here's her answer:

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! 

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.

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.

The Best Thing I've Ever Done

As a mom, I get it wrong a lot! 

I got it wrong when I gave my daughter permission to get her nose pierced just because I was mad at her dad.

I got it wrong when I let my kids quit piano, or so they have told me repeatedly.

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.

Every now and again, however, I get it right.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

We found our seats and the concert started. Just a boy and his guitar--Ed Sheeran took the stage.

My son was clearly impressed, enthralled, enthused, and cool. I, however, lost it.

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.

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.

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.

It was just a concert, but it was also a moment--the kind that you never forget.

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.

Why We Should Hang Out With Two-year-Olds

I recently returned from spending a week with my oldest daughter and her two-year-old son. I've known for a very long time that our children teach us the most valuable life lessons, but being in the presence of a two-year-old who isn't your own child, can remind you of life joys most of us forget.

The Top Ten Reasons Why We Should Hang Out With Two-Year-Olds:

10. They run everywhere! When it's time to eat, they run to the highchair. When it's time to go outside, they run to the front door. When it's time for a bath, they run to the tub. Maybe if we tried it, we would experience the same exhilaration for the simple things. Time for work, run to your desk. Time to walk the dog, run to get the leash. Time for your spouse to come home, run to the door. I think it could make a difference.

9. They love books! And when they find one they really love, they read it over and over and over! There is joy in reading. Most of us have forgotten that.

8. They dance. If it has a rhythm, they wiggle their little bodies and laugh and smile to the sound. Exercise and endorphins, and they didn't even have to join a gym!

7. They know what they like. Two-year-olds have favorite toys. My grandson's favorite happens to be a set of stacking cups. He stacks and unstacks and sorts and unsorts a million times a day. He doesn't feel guilty about the soccer ball lying idly in the corner or the firetruck half-hidden under the bed. He isn't full of "I should be doing this or that". He likes stacking, so he stacks.

6. They laugh. I read somewhere that the average child laughs 300 to 500 times a day while the average adult laughs only about 15 times a day. Hang out with a two-year-old, and you'll up your average.
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5. They nap. Who doesn't like a good nap?

4. They learn new words daily, sometimes hourly. The English language grows almost that fast. Merriam-Webster added 150 new dictionary words just last year. We all should aspire to broaden our linguistic lexicon.

3. They like what they see in the mirror. My grandson spends a lot of time smiling, giggling, talking, and admiring himself in the mirror. Wouldn't it be great to check yourself out and love what you see?

2. They throw tantrums. Come on. Aren't there times when you would like to throw yourself down to the ground, have a good cry, and then be over it? Maybe they have this emotional stability thing figured out more than we do.

1. They kiss and hug for any reason and for no reason. That just feels good.

Here's to channeling your inner two-year-old, or at least finding one to hang with for a while.

The Apartment Complex

It happened to me again last night. I got the "apartment complex" stare!

I was taking a brisk walk around the beautiful lake in my new serene back yard when I came upon a woman walking her dog. I immediately recognized her as a fellow soccer mom. She was surprised to see me in her neck of the woods.

"Hi. What are you doing over here?"

"Hi! Well, we just moved in to the apartments over there."

"Oh."

There it was--that blank, confused, uncomfortable stare. Once again, I found myself jumping into the upbeat explanation of my life decisions.

I first noticed this "apartment complex" stare several months ago in the lunch room at work. A fellow co-worker overheard my discussion about our upcoming move. "Uh-oh," he said. "You're moving to an apartment? Is there something going on?"

At least he was upfront and showed some concern. I quickly laughed off his concern, however, and explained that this was a choice. In fact, it was a good, healthy choice for our family. After this initial experience with the  "apartment complex" stare, I recognized it more and more. Soon, I had come up with a brilliant explanation that rolled off the tongue, sometimes even before the stare manifested itself.

"You know I have 2 out of the house now and the 2 who are left spend part of the time with their dad and we just didn't need the 5 bedroom, 3 bathrooms, 2 living rooms, a dining room and breakfast nook, office and big back yard and actually I don't really like yard work anyway, in fact, I hate it and the kids don't really like it either and although that was a great house for us at a different time in our lives, it's not the place for us now and the kids and I looked at a lot of smaller places and the apartment is the one they chose, it will be like and adventure and we really only have to live there for a year and if we don't like it we can move so it will kind of be like a yearlong vacation...oh, and we don't have to shovel snow either."  Whew!

It was ridiculous, but something good did eventually come of it. As I verbal vomited all over a single mom friend of mine one day, she breathed a heavy sigh and confessed that even though she got the house in the divorce, it had become a bit of a burden. It needed new windows and flooring. She'd been eying some new condos, but...A few weeks later another mom friend called to tell me they were  moving out of their 5 star hotel house and into an apartment. "We've become slaves to it," she said. Both of these friends seemed relieved to tell someone who understood and didn't judge and didn't give them the stare.

I guess it's no different than the look I give empty-nesters who choose mortgage over retirement or young couples who buy the biggest, baddest, fanciest, shmanciest house while still paying off crippling student loans. Perhaps instead of giving the stare, we should all just smile and ask, "are you happy there" and if the answer is yes, then we should be happy for them. After all, home really is where the heart is and should require no explanation.

If God Doesn't Make No Junk, How Come My House Was Full of It?

I've heard it said that to make room for new in your life, you must get rid of the old. Well, if that's true, I've got a whole lot of new coming my way.

Remember that show Clean Sweep, where the crew would completely clean out 2 rooms of a home, redesign, redecorate, and re-enter only those items absolutely necessary to the space? Well, imagine doing that to 14 rooms plus a garage and an attic. And all the stuff has to re-enter half as many, smaller rooms. Sound impossible? Well, it nearly was. In fact, the process is currently ongoing, so I'll let you know if it can actually be done.

I always wondered why the homeowners in the Clean Sweep episodes cried at the finished product. Now I know why. Downsizing is physically, mentally, and emotionally draining. Imagine looking at every little tiny thing in your dwelling and making a decision as to whether or not it is important enough to make the cut. Every postage stamp, kid art, wine glass, candle, blanket, and even pet must be considered. The bottom line is that I've made more decisions in the last 2 months than I have in the rest of my living years put together. I can only hope I made the right ones. In the end, the overwhelming conclusion is that I have too much stuff. We all have too much stuff. And when the place you put the stuff in is too big, you have stuff you don't even know you have. For example:

The fact that we could never find a pair of scissors for any of those Sunday night projects that the kids had 3 weeks to do, but put it off until the night before resulted in the purchase of 8 pairs of scissors that would one-by-one disappear into the 7 junk drawers located throughout our 5 bedrooms and 3 baths.

The fact that we could also never find sharpies, pencils, colored pencils, and pens during those panicked moments resulted in 2 shoe boxes FULL of writing utensils moved to the new place. We should never be at a loss for pens again. No junk drawers here.

Not sure how this one happened, but I think it has something to do with the excessively tall kitchen cabinets in the old place and my 5'3" frame. Three unopened bags of flour made the move. Now I know I like to bake, but three? Geesh! Before I started packing, I didn't know I had even one!

And finally--two laundry baskets full of socks--and not the fancy schmancy $15 socks that all the 14yr old boys are wearing now. We're talking men's tube socks from the ex-husband who left like 5 years ago, socks with holes, socks with no elastic, funky mismatched socks, and a few matching, decent running socks thrown in. Really? Who in the world needs all those socks? By the way, just so you know I'm not a complete crazy hoarder, the socks did not make the cut!

As telling as the emptying of the junk drawers and pantry is, I don't think that's why the Clean Sweep homeowners cried. I think it was the letting go of the emotional burden that brought on the tears. Hanging on to the possibility of finding that matching sock and the knowledge of the existence of scissors you can't seem to get your hands on is emotionally burdensome. It's like hanging on to the possibility that your past heartaches were only in your imagination. Sweeping clean a house that holds the memories of a lifetime, choosing the ones that make the cut, that you will carry with you into the future, purges not only junk drawers in the home, but also in the heart. And it makes room for something new.

There are Worse Things

"You are turning into the cat lady."                      

At least that's what my friends tell me. Just because during a two week period in December, nine out of ten of my Facebook posts were about my new kitten does NOT mean I'm turning into the Cat Lady. Just because my sister opened a photo text from me the other day and responded, "I thought that would be a pic of your new grandson, not your cat," does NOT mean I'm turning into the cat lady!

I have dogs. I hate the dogs, but I still have them. And what's the use in keeping alien beast canine creatures who wake me up three times a night, sneak naps on the couch which used to be green but is now a lovely dog hair white, eat entire stacks of pancakes from the kitchen table when we turn our backs, and do unspeakable semi-sexual things to each other when they are bored. In the middle of my living room. With company present. Sometimes my mother. What's the point of keeping them around if their mere presence does not preclude me from being called a Cat Lady!

Besides, if I am a Cat Lady, I'm not a very good one. I'm not sure actual Cat Ladies would allow me in their club. I almost got my last cat killed. In my defense, I did nurse it back to health after a broken leg which was NOT my fault, I might add. Still, I did almost get it killed. But not until after I tried to give it away to numerous people. But the stinking thing (and I do mean stinking) wouldn't stop pooping on everything--except the litter box. I just couldn't live in a cat toilet anymore, so I took him to the Humane Society. Seemed like the humane thing to do, right?

After I filled out all the paperwork and said my goodbyes, they inform me that they don't take Pooper Cats. They would be putting him down that day. Then the intake lady confesses that her own cat sometimes prefers to poop on her bath towels and gives me a look that says we should expect as much when we invite animals into our homes. She follows that with a mini-lecture on how cruel it is to just turn a cat out and make him live outside when he's been used to being inside.

Careful, Lady! I perfected the guilt trip lecture! In fact, maybe it was cruel of us to turn him into an inside cat when we "rescued" him from the outside. Maybe he prefers to be outside. And maybe your Pooper Cat prefers it, too and that's why he poops on your bath towels! I took Pooper Cat and left. I brought him home and introduced  him to his new lodgings--nature!

Can I help it if I missed the snuggle of a soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur? So when I saw the ad seeking a home for an unwanted kitty, I couldn't help myself. I ran over to the owner's home and scooped him up (after making sure he was box trained, of course).

So you see, I am not a Cat Lady. Just because my arms and hands and feet and legs have so many cat scratches I look like I've been attacked by a poltergeist but I still let the little furball snuggle under the covers at night does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I turn on Maru You Tube videos for hours on end because the kitty is obsessed with them, which forces me to put off my computer work until it's cat nap time, does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I like to watch the occasional Maru video myself does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I bought my first QVC purchase--a new camera--late one night with the idea in mind to document cute kitty poses does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady.

...                                                SEE MARU VIDEO HERE
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What does it mean, however, that I am now buying things off QVC in the middle of the night?
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Oh, God! I think I'd rather be a Cat Lady!

Who Gets the Tradition?

Before I was a single mom, I spent Thanksgiving gobbling up traditional trappings at an intimate gathering of...oh, about 70 people. Sometimes the gatherings were at someone's house; sometimes they were at a rented church hall. Marrying into this kind of holiday tradition was a change for me, but I tried my darnedest to fit right in. But as you know, if you've read any Roaring Moms posts at all, we have a Murphy's Law Life. What can go wrong, will go wrong.

There was the year I hosted the event at our Painted Lady Victorian Home. The only bathroom available to the hoards of family was upstairs, which was problematic enough. When the toilet boycotted and started spewing everything back up until it drained through the cracks in the ceiling and into the living room football lounge, that's when the real trouble started--and the guests left. Then there was the year I caught some nasty influenza virus literally the night before. Feeling it was too late to change venues and because it was potluck anyway, the hubby decided I could quarantine myself in the bedroom. You know, it might not have been too bad to lay in bed all day while someone else catered the meal and cleaned up, if I hadn't been on fire with fever and coughing up blood. It was awful!

Most Thanksgivings weren't so cursed. Just mine, of course. Nevertheless, chaotic, messy, noisy, crowded Thanksgivings have blessed my kids their entire lives. Their father and I deciding we would live in separate houses didn't need to change that for them.

For the past several years, my Thanksgivings have been comparatively smaller affairs--sometimes spent with my family, sometimes with my kids, sometimes with my friends, and once alone. That was fine too, because I treated myself to a big ol' stack of IHOP blueberry pancakes and no one was around to tell me that IHOP blueberry pancakes aren't Thanksgiving worthy. I've truly come to savor the small Thanksgiving. Our lives are chaotic, noisy, and messy on a daily basis. A quiet holiday that comes right after soccer and theatre season is quite welcome. There is nothing like a cozy fireplace, a cup of cocoa, the Macy's parade, a simple gathering, and a quiet day to pump me up for the Christmas season. At the end of it, I am honestly grateful that my children spent a crazy couple of hours with the cousins and battled Black Friday with that side of the family while I sat in my pajamas, stuffing my face. And I have never again had to plunge another toilet on Thanksgiving Day.

So regardless of what "the papers" that all divorced couples refer to like they are the third tablet to come down from Mt. Sinai say, the kids still get their chaotic Thanksgiving tradition with their cousins and aunts and uncles. And that's the way it should be. Through divorce, you might be able to split furniture and bank accounts evenly, but not traditions.

I hope any moms and dads from split families, blended families, and even dysfunctional families who might be reading this understand--you have your childhood holiday memories. It's time to make sure your kids get theirs. Whether that memory comes from a day with you or a with someone else who loves them shouldn't matter. Don't you want them to smile back on it for years to come? It's not the hours logged at one house that makes the memories. It's the laughter, the noise, the chaos, the cousins, the cozy cocoa, the quiet day. And maybe even the plunged toilets.

What are your most disastrous or most wonderful Thanksgiving memories?

No Ding Dang Ding Dongs for Me!

Life Lessons from a Cupcake:

You won't see me scooping up dozens of Ding Dongs like those crazy Beany Baby ladies of the 1990's. I have a truly profound reason for it, too. It is simply this--Little Debbie's Snack Cakes rule! Not only are they undeniably better tasting, they are also half the price.

Actually, there's another reason I won't be hoarding the Ho-Ho's, and here's where the life lesson is learned.

All month, I've read everyone's Posts of Gratitude on Facebook. While they've been fun and sometimes inspiring to read, I wonder---(and here is where I will offend someone, I'm sure)--how many FB Posters are actually showing that gratitude. It's easy to say you are oh-so-grateful for your hardworking hubby or your wonderful wife. It's more difficult to live that sentiment. When was the last time you met him at the door with a beer and a kiss and the TV remote? When was the last time you actually let him enjoy the Big Game without chewing his ear about the latest  girly gossip or some emotional issue? When was the last time you offered to do the dishes because she slaved over the stove for hours? When was the last time you actually listened to her girly gossip and emotional issues? Living gratitude is a much different animal than posting gratitude.

So where do cupcakes enter in? Consider this, while you stand in line with your cartful of cupcakes--when was the last time you actually purchased a Ding Dong or a Twinkie? If the closing of the company hadn't made the news, would you have even noticed their absence? Before Brenda Lee Johnson of The Closer opened her drawer of cupcake comfort, most of us probably didn't even know if Ding Dongs were still in existence. Be honest, did you have to ask the grocery clerk which aisle housed the Ho-Ho's? Then, why are you mourning the loss of them now? The point is that's it's a little late to show your gratitude for the glorious chocolate covered delicacy. Perhaps if more of you had appreciated the Ding Dong all along, we wouldn't be losing it now. And perhaps, if those workers had appreciated having a job to go to every day...

It's true that what we focus on in life is what we get more of. Gratitude and ingratitude act like magnets. If you go to work complaining about what you don't have every day, you'll bring on more of it. If you go to work with appreciation for a job, you'll bring on more of that, too. People who are grateful for whatever good they can find prosper. They work harder. They find ways to improve. They don't expect hand-outs. They see what's good and multiply it.

What good are you multiplying? I appreciate the Little Debbie almost weekly. The Swiss Roll always has been my go-to comfort cupcake. The Oatmeal Creme Pie is for extra-stressed-out days, and the Nutty Bar is a party in a box. If they ever leave us, I will know it isn't due to MY lack of appreciation. So, stock up on your Twinkies, if you must. In the meantime, live your gratitude--in your work, in your family, in your life. You never know when the good stuff you thought would always be there, won't be.

That's Nice

If nice guys always finish last, why do we keep being nice? What is so great about being nice? If I said, "How was your Disney vacation?" Would the answer be a ho-hum, "Oh, it was nice." If I asked, "How was your ride in the Lamborghini?" Would the answer be, "It was everything you'd expect...very nice." Even when talking about the weather, nice isn't bad, but even pleasant is more exciting than nice. And again, if it's only gonna get you last place, why bother?

And yet, I've always considered myself to be one of the nice girls. I've diligently instilled the nice principle into my children's psyche. Or at least I've tried. I guess that's because I've never really been competitive. I suppose I didn't mind finishing last as long as I got a chance to smile at everyone while they passed me. So it surprises me still that more than one of my children has grown up with the attitude that is basically akin to "If he didn't want me to punch him, I guess his face shouldn't have been in the way of my hand." Competitive to the Nth degree and not very nice.

There is a great Sondheim song from Into the Woods, sung by the witch who is trying to talk the other characters into giving into the demands of an angry giant in order to save mankind. The lyrics go like this:

 You're so nice.

You're not good,

You're not bad,

You're just nice.

I'm not good,

I'm not nice,

I'm just right.

I'm the witch.

You're the world.

I love this song because it reminds me that nice isn't always good. In fact, it can sometimes be the opposite. After all, God doesn't call us to do "nice", He calls us to do good. Actually, I think we may be called to do more than that. I think we are actually called to do "right". The right thing is not always the good thing or the nice thing. And a person can certainly seem like a witch when the world is so busy trying to be nice, they forget to be right. It kind of makes me want to channel my inner witch.

I think the thing that makes me the proudest is to know that my kids usually do the right thing. Ok, so they have also been to known to weigh the right thing against the funny thing and come out laughing, but most of the time they choose right. While they don't normally actually punch people in the face, they are pretty good about not taking on someone else's blame. Which is a good and right thing, too.

I asked a very wise man once why the nice ones keep on being so if they are always going to be last. His answer--because some of us want to get to heaven. I have to say that I think nice would probably get you there. But so will good and right. The important thing is to head in that direction. And when we get there, I know it will be nice. Very, very nice. Maybe even pleasant.





No Sweat, Mom!

My mom gave me the best birthday present ever. (In addition to the Mama Mia, tickets which were pretty fabulous, I must say.) The second gift was even better. She gave me...a break.

Her exact words were, "Don't sweat the small stuff." Doesn't sound particularly amazing, does it? Ironically, it's the advice I give to people all the time. It's very interesting and freeing when it comes back at you. Especially in the sentiment of a very articulate Mom.

You see,I had offered to do a favor for her, and then I messed it up. Twice. Then, I tried to avoid her while I attempted to fix it. It only took a couple of weeks for it to dawn on me that I was behaving very much like my own teenage children. Another week passed before I relented to my own voice that was banging around in my head along with the many memories of the several well-worded nags I'd delivered over the years.

Don't try to cover up a shortcoming. Deal with others directly, not in a round about way. Admit to mistakes. People would rather hear sincere apologies than lame excuses. Don't sweat the small stuff.

On the way to work this morning (while trying not to stress over the fact that I would be arriving almost 10 minutes late...again) I heard a Lightning Bolt Story. A Lightning Bolt Story is one that hits you out of the blue and shocks you like a bolt of lightning into a new and sudden understanding. In the midst of all the devastating tornadoes last week, a story came to light of a Super Mom who threw her body on top of her children to save their lives. In doing so, her legs were crushed and part of each had to be amputated.

ZAP! Illumination. A fumbled favor is not worth sweating over. Slow mornings are not worth sweating over. The overflowing laundry table, cluttered dining room table, the trash heap bedrooms are not worth sweating over. They make me nuts! They offer ample opportunity to for the composure of well-worded, perfectly punctuated nags! These things should be handled directly with sincere apologies, if necessary instead of lame excuses. But they should not be sweated over.

Thanks, Mom. You just made my life a whole lot easier. And you cut down on the deodorant allowance, as well.

Opera Lunch

The following should be read in a very high, vibrating, operatic voice:

"Please come and eat your lunch!
I've made a meal you'll love a bunch.
Hot Dogs and Mac and Cheese!
Wash your hands, first please!"

Ok, so I'm no Andrew Lloyd Weber. Heck, I'm not even a Dr. Seuss! But, apparently, I am the original (and possibly the one and only) Opera Lunch Mom.

Opera Lunch was invented when my youngest 2 were still in diapers. It was born out of a moment of sheer desperation. Here's what happened:

You know how they whine because they are hungry and you, being the Roaring Mom you are, won't allow them to have a snack because you actually have lunch planned that day and you are determined to stick to the schedule because some Super-Anal Mom made you feel guilty last week about the fact the her entire life is condensed neatly into a day timer, even down to when Little Susie sits on the pot? You know those times? Well, this was one of those times. So I bear the bickering and complaining, and I stick to the schedule. As planned, I fix the lunch that's on the menu exactly at the time that I am supposed to. I set the table and distribute the portions precisely. Then, I walk calmly to the play room and invite the precious, darlings to head to the bathroom to wash hands because lunch is served. But, once again, I must be speaking Swahili, because no one moves. No one even acknowledges my presence.

So, I try the deep breathing, the counting to ten, the Love and Logic questions. "Would you like to eat your lunch or would you like to go hungry?" Only I know that I could never let them go hungry, because...because...well, because that wasn't part of the plan. I was actually on time and organized and prepared today and, dang it, they are going to sit at the table I prepared and eat the lunch I cooked for them.

I feel the frustration waxing and my patience waning and I wonder if Little Susie's mom ever speaks Swahili and then I remember that's a big NO, because the entire family (even the newborn) takes French lessons Wednesdays at 10:00! I want to yell. I want to throw something. I want to take away every toy that is sucking their attention from the bountiful feast I so lovingly heated in the microwave!

Then, like an epiphany from on high, Opera Lunch is created. I sing, with all the volume and vibrato I can muster, that lunch awaits them in the kitchen. They giggle. I belt Verse 2! They belly laugh and follow me to the kitchen. Then, to my amazement, one of them belts out, "Can I have some ketchup pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" And so goes the entire meal! And several more for the rest of the summer.

Opera Lunch mutated many times that summer. Sometimes it was the Getting Ready for Bed Opera. Sometimes it was the Wash the Dishes Opera. We even had a Get Your Hiney Out of Bed Opera.

Someone asked me the other day why 2 of my 4 kids enjoyed performing so much. I told them it was because they had such a dork for a mom. Then I explained Opera Lunch. The guy rolled his eyes and said, "That's weird." And it probably is. But it's also much better than a summer of memories of a frustrated, guilt-ridden  Yelling Mom trying desperately to succeed as Super-Anal Mom when she just isn't. She's Opera Lunch Mom. And, even though her kids are teens, she still speaks Swahili. And she didn't even have to go to class to learn it.

Take that, Super-Anal Mom!

No Pity Party Here!

Confession time. I know I profess to face life's challenges with a smile and a determination to turn loss into a lesson and grief into gratitude. And I do. Most of the time. But, honestly, I go through a mini-depression every other week.

The living arrangement with my ex-husband requires the kids to live one week at a time at each house. I have a very strong opinion about this kind of arrangement, but that's for another blog. Nevertheless, that's the arrangement. In some ways, it works. There's not a Monday night here and a Tuesday night there and a Wednesday, Thursday somewhere else. The schedule actually provides for a small amount of stability and routine.

Still, every other Monday, when my children move to the other house for a week, it takes getting used to all over again. When we first started this arrangement, I literally did not get out of bed until Wednesday. Apparently I didn't know how to function without children bickering over who gets control of the remote or who is hogging the computer or which sister wore the other one's shirt without permission! My home was simply unrecognizable without 12 pair of shoes in the living room, 2 sets of shin guards under the dining room table, and 3 glasses on the computer desk. After nearly 2 decades as a stay-at-home mom, I couldn't come up with a good reason to get up if there was no one to coerce out of bed or complain about having to cook breakfast for. (You all know I hate to cook, right? Love the kids. Love the food. Hate the cooking.)

One morning, while trying to steal back a few inches of bed territory from the alien beast who thinks he's too good to sleep on the floor like a real dog, it hit me. No, not the alien beast! It was the idea that it is not my children's responsibility to make me happy that shook me awake. I had preached this philosophy to them forever. Which, I can tell you, sometimes came back to bite me. For example:

ME: Frank, you really should join the cross county team with your sisters. You'd love it. They have a lot of fun.
FRANK: Mom, I don't want to join the cross county team. I don't even like going to the meets to watch them run.
ME: Well, maybe if you were running in the meet, you'd enjoy it. They seem to like it. You should do it.
FRANK: I don't want to. I'm fine with soccer.
ME: But, you've never tried it. You should try it. You might like it.
FRANK: Huff! Mom, do you want me to go out for cross country?
ME: Only if you want to, honey.
FRANK: I don't want to.
ME: But...
FRANK: Mom, you always tell me it's not our job to make you happy and that we don't have to do stuff like that just to make you happy.
ME: grumble, grumble, grumble

Funny how that philosophical parenting stuff sounds really good until they use it back on us, huh?

Anyway, that morning...and it wasn't even Wednesday yet...I jumped out of bed smiling because I had found my life lesson. I blasted  Bon Jovi (because it is his job to make me happy and he does it so nicely!). I danced through my not-so-cluttered house with a joyful heart.

It isn't  their job to make me happy. And maybe it's not mine to make them happy. But it certainly is my job to provide an environment that fosters happiness. And apparently, that environment includes wayward shin guards, homeless shoes, and burnt toast. At least when they are here. Because when they are there, the maid provides a cleaner kind of happy place. And that's okay, too.

I still miss my kids when they aren't here. I still bless the technology gods for the invention of cell phones and texting and computers and Facebook so that I always feel connected to them no matter where they lay their heads at night. It's okay to miss them. It's okay to be sad that there's no one to burn toast for. It's not okay, however, to selfishly stop living and stop celebrating the fact that I am their mom every second of every day. Living in two homes, they have more of a burden than I do. I owe it to them to live gloriously and graciously. I owe it to them to take the Pity out of the Pity Party. I think a Parent Party is better idea anyway.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Today's Topic:

Things that make my family smile, laugh, giggle, chortle, and grin.

Veggie Tales (Even though we've outgrown them years ago.)
Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog
Opera Lunch (Not Lunch at the Opera, but singing opera while eating lunch! Try it.)
Chocolate (except for Sophie, but we laugh at how she doesn't like it so that's a double)
Ribs (The kind you eat and the kind you tickle!)
Painting Pumpkins at Auntie M's!
Eating Mud (Only Sophie and she was 3, but still)
Corny Jokes
Musical Theatre
Pizza
Bert and Ernie
Jeff Dunham
Bon Jovi (Okay, that's just me)
"Climbin' in Yo Window, Snatchin' Yo People Up..." (Please tell me you know what that means.)
Yoda
Han Solo (Me, again)
Princess Leia in that bikini chained to Jabba (Yeah, that's Frank)
Pirates of the Caribbean
Really Cool Shoes
Really Cool Shoes on Sale (even bigger smile)
Winning board games (Carmen: "I'm not cheating, I'm winning!)
Spongebob Squarepants
Fake Accents,especially when they fail (That's Kate, my comic acting major)
Snowball Fights
Oscar, the Stupid Alien Beast disguised as our pet dog
Random, obscure movie quotes
Kate's really inappropriate language (She has a way with words!)
Legos!
My Homemade Spaghetti and Meatballs (The only thing I can cook)


What makes your family smile? Please add your comments to this blog so we can smile with you.

While you're smiling, please take a minute to click on the blue butterfly to the left and vote for me! And, please, invite your friends and family to vote, too. I'm in a contest to become the next Good Mood Blogger! I need about 100 votes each day to make it to the next round of competition. It's a great opportunity for me and getting it would really make my family smile, laugh, giggle, chortle, and grin. Thank you so much for your support!

Claustrophobia

You know, they say some day we might be able to live on Mars. We already have a Space Station that sustains life for astronauts for months and months. I'm wondering, if I had been down in that hole in Chile, if I wouldn't have opted out of the 15 minute capsule ride and just taken up residence down there.

If being trapped in the dark with 33 men wouldn't have put me over the edge, I know the capsule ride would have. I'm just a little bit on the claustrophobic side.

I panic when I'm in an enclosed place that I can't see my way out of.

I'm a firm believer that it is our neurosis that keep us sane. Embrace your neurosis and it will keep you from slipping into psychosis. At least, that's what I believe. That belief has actually worked for me over the years. Especially since I became a mom. Roaring Mom philosophy states that we offer a better show of strength to our children when they can see our weaknesses and also see us work through them. Nevertheless, I did try to calm my few neurosis when my kids were younger, if for no other reason than to not scare them.

Case in point: Several years ago we visited the caves in Hannibal, Missouri (Mark Twain's boyhood home) while on our family vacation. This was pretty cool because I've always enjoyed Mark Twain and the kids were all big fans of the movie Tom and Huck. The caves were the exact same caves Mark Twain explored as a child and brought to life in his Tom sawyer and Huckleberry Finn adventures. Number Two Under the Cross, where Tom and Huck find the treasure, is a real life, actual place! And because of the nature of caves, it looks pretty much the same as it did back then. With the exception of a wall full of autographs from when they used to let visitors sign their names.

Anyway, we're touring these caves. In several places, the tour group had to walk single file. As I remember it, at the narrowest point, the path is only 19 inches wide. I had stayed back to take a picture and got separated from the rest of the family. They were just a few people ahead of me, but I couldn't see them because I ended up in the single file line behind a man whose head practically touched the cave ceiling, whose shoulders filled the cavity, and whose butt, I KNOW, was more than 19 inches wide. I couldn't see my kids and, more importantly, I couldn't see my way out.

I felt my throat start to close up and my chest tighten. My skin became clammy and my heart raced. Tears welled up and I knew I was going to cry or scream or have a seizure at any moment. I needed to calm down, so I did what any panic-stricken, neurosis-embracing mom would do...I inhaled deeply through the nose and out the mouth. In through the nose. Out through he mouth. In through the nose...

Oh No He Didn't!

Oh Yes He Did!

He cut one right in front of me. A big, nasty, stinky one.

I couldn't get past him. I couldn't turn around. I couldn't hold my breath because the deep breathing was the only thing keeping me from full-blown anxiety attack.

So I kept breathing. In through the nose. Out through the...nose. Ain't no way I was opening my mouth in that foul smelling air. In, out, in, out, until I finally just had to laugh.

I heard a sweet voice from up ahead, "Mom, what are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing, sweetie. Just embracing my neurosis."

"Huh?"

Who knows? Maybe I would have been okay in that capsule. As long as I remembered to breath. And laugh. Amazingly, that's exactly how the trapped miners seem to keep their sanity, too. The videos of these brave men, smiling and joking and singing in the cave were almost as inspiring as the emerging Phoenix. And nearly as miraculous. The human spirit is a wonderful thing, is it not?

Congratulations to the Chilean miners and their loved ones! You've inspired us to embrace much more than our neurosis. You've inspired us to embrace life, whether it's on Mars, a Space Station, or a deep, dark hole in the ground. God Bless You All!

Botched Birthday

It was the worst birthday party ever.

Of course, because that's the way my sitcom of a life goes, the disaster occurred at the birthday party of my one child who plans everything in excruciating detail--four months in advance. With multiple lists. And week by week schedules of tasks to be completed.

Sophie chose her favorite part of the park for the celebration. She even coerced her siblings into making signs to guide the mothers around to the party place. Since her birthday is in September, outdoor parties for her were not uncommon. The year of her 9th birthday, however, it was uncommonly hot. And, of course, she chose the one playground area with extremely limited tree coverage. Here's how it went down:

The first activity on the agenda was free play while the parents set up the picnic table and games. The guests were very excited when they arrived and played for about 15 minutes before discovering why this particular playground had been the last one in the park not claimed by anyone else that day. And no, it wasn't the excruciating heat with no shade relief. Instead, it was the way the cockle burrs had completely taken over the entire playground area. After 15 minutes of free play, the girls ran over all in a tizzy over the stickers sticking in their socks and on their shoe strings. They started picking them off, which escalated the tizzy to a torrent of shrieks as the sticker picking pricked their digits.

Attempting to stay on track with Sophie's time schedule, we ushered the guests to the picnic table where pie tins of whipped cream awaited them. Inside each tin was a piece of bubble gum. The ideas was to dive face first into the whipped cream and find the bubble gum. The first one to blow a bubble wins the game.

Ready, Set, Go! The girls dive in! And so do the swarm of bumble bees who apparently found the party game too sweet to resist. The girls run...across the prickly stickers...to the bathrooms to wash off the stickiness. The parents dispose of the pie tins and grab the pinata in a last ditch effort to save the party. Everyone loves a good pinata.

Back come the guests, through the prickly stickers. The pounding of the pinata proceeds. Yes! No one pokes an eye out. Everyone gets a turn. The last girls busts it open and the candy flies.

Ok, push pause for just a second. A little note about Sophie...she doesn't like chocolate. Another genetic mutation, I'm sure. We love her anyway. Although she had given me a specific list of what she wanted in the pinata, I decided that just because Sophie doesn't like chocolate, doesn't mean the guests should be deprived. I had filled that sucker full with miniature chocolate bars. And a few fruit snacks for the birthday girl. Ok, resume...

As the flying candy hit the prickly sticker covered ground, it landed with a splat. After all, this day set the record high temperature for September. The guests opted out of the melted chocolate finger pricking pick up game.

So the parents plucked more stickers from socks and shoelaces. Sophie opened her presents. And the guests got the heck out of there.

Still, I don't remember one crying kid or or any drama queen huffing or puffing. Amid the bloody finger tips and bumble bee swarms and wasted chocolate, there was laughter and friendship. We still laugh about that birthday, especially when things aren't going quite as we've planned. Which, if you've read even a few Roaring Mom entries, you know is most of the time.

We don't remember what candy was inside any other pinata we've ever busted open. We don't remember the exact location of many a park party. We don't recall all the silly games we convinced our friends to dive into over the years. But we remember all of that and more from the Botched Birthday. We remember the smiles and the fun. We remember that it was a Happy Birthday. Probably one of the best birthday parties ever.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful girls! And many, many more!