RIP Rant

             

RIP, Gary Marshall.

Seriously? That's all you've got? For the man who brought us The Odd Couple and Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and Mork and Mindy and The Princess Diaries and even had that part in Hocus Pocus, that's all you've got?

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?

And what about this guy?

I suppose for Alan Rickman, maybe you have a POOP? Peace, Ovations, Obsequies, and Prayers?


For Mya Angelo, something more poetic might be called for.

We'll give her BARF. Benediction, Applause, Respect, and Fondness.

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?

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.

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.

In conclusion, let me ask this one thing of you. When my Maker calls me, I beg of you, please do not RIP me.

Sounds Like Life

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.

“Oh yeah! That’s great.”

I can hear the smiles.

It’s the sound of joy reverberating through my home. Joy and perseverance and belief and self-doubt and trial and error and passion.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

I’m not looking forward to the silence. 

Failing Forward

Fail Forward! Have you ever heard those words?

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.

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’m-a-loser mentality that inevitably comes along with the failure. And have you noticed that the I’m-a-loser mentality is a mental magnet. The moment you ponder one failure, the rest come rushing at you! It can go something like this:

I forgot the grocery list, so I came home without buying toilet paper.

I also forgot to buy Valentines for my kids’ classrooms.

I didn’t work out.

I ate a donut five donuts.

I forgot to pay that credit card bill from Christmas for presents everyone has already forgotten.

I haven’t taken down Christmas and it’s Valentine’s Day.

I burned dinner.

My hungry, Valentine-less children hate me.

I am Valentine-less, too.

I ate six donuts.

I’m going to die alone. And fat.

I am going to die and I haven’t yet made my will.

And I haven’t saved for retirement.

So there is nothing to will to anyone anyway.

I have to pee and there’s no toilet paper. 

I have failed at life.

See what I mean?

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.

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!

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.

God is good. Life is good. And so, it seems, is failure.

Getting Real

I plan my Parent Nags. I practice them. In the shower. In the car. In my head. Even with my 4^th 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.

Today’s message wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t even planned.

 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.”

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.

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.)

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.”

Hmm…that was not my plan. That was not what I had practiced. It was time to improvise. It was time to get real.

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!  

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?

He said, “Wow, Mom. That makes a lot of sense. That was probably the most motivational thing you’ve ever said to me.”

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. 

When Your Kids Don't Need You Anymore

She 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."

She gave me a giant hug and said, "But Mommy, I'll always use you!"

I hope it's true. I hope they always, always use me. That way at least I'll feel like they need me for something.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No. Big. Deal.

Here's the flip side.

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 Instagram 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.)

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.

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.

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!!

How I Saved My Daughter's Sanity or Scarred Her For Life--The Jury's Still Out

We've always claimed that Carmen is our family’s best hope for normal. I often wonder if she wasn't shamed into it. By her mother.

You see, when she was younger—maybe nine or ten—she started showing definite OCD behavior. She had to touch certain spots on the floor before she left a room. She had to touch certain pieces of furniture or sections of the wall. She counted stuff. I handled this quirkiness in my usual fashion—with humor because patience has never been my strong suit.

Then it happened. An OCD quirk I couldn't laugh away.

The Quiet and Calculating One developed this truly awful habit of interrupting her speech with little humming patterns.

“So, Mom, when are we…mmm mmm mmm…going to the pool?”

“What’s…mmm mmm mmm…for dinner?”

“Can I…mmm mmm mmm… have friends over?”

I think I managed to ignore it a total of two times. Then things got real. My loving and compassionate response was, “Stop doing that! It’s annoying and people will think you are weird!”

Eventually I shortened it to, “OCD!” Every time she would start the hum, I would yell, “OCD!”

And when she asked what “OCD” meant, I snapped, “It means Oh Carmen Don’t! Because it’s annoying and people will think you are weird.”

Fast forward 7 years. I’m watching a documentary that followed kids with OCD from grade school through high school. I’m truly amazed at the struggles and challenges these kids and their families faced. One girl had to move in with her grandmother because she thought her family was contaminated. Another girl stayed home from school for three months for the same reason. Yet another took four hours to get dressed every day because of the washing rituals.

Why had my daughter not succumb to her OCD tendencies which, even though I’m making light of them here, were very real?

So I asked. She answered, “Because you shamed me out of it. You told me it was annoying and everyone would think I was weird. I didn't want to be annoying and weird, so I forced myself to stop.”

It’s true. She actually was shamed into it by her mother! I’m putting this one in the win column anyway. After all, I did stop her from a life of struggle and possibly never being able to enter a department store. Right? 

Besides, she is still our best hope for normal even if I have to shame her into it.

Even Roaring Moms don’t always get it right. What’s your not-so-proud parenting moment that somehow worked out anyway?

When Abe Lincoln meets Jack Daniels

"We don't find vulgarity funny."
I should have known that's what my mother would say when I offered to share a Comedy Central video clip that I had to preface by asking her not to be offended. I should have possibly rethought my decision to show (with my children watching, in fact reciting the clip word for word) a video entitled Drunk History. But, come on, what's not funny about drunk people explaining historical events?

Click here to see for yourself.

And my mom's response? "Well, that's an interesting type of humor to teach your children. Now they know what drunk people sound like."

At moments like that, I wonder how can I truly be a product of this family?

Can I help it if I appreciate the strategic use of a handheld fart machine? Is it my fault that I believe an F-bomb dropped for effect can be, well, effective? Is it so bad that my daughter was in only the 4th grade when she was teaching Cheech and Chong's "Sister Mary Elephant" to her fellow students on the Catholic School playground? Is it so wrong that How I Met Your Mother is considered family entertainment at my house? Ok, it probably is wrong. In fact, when my oldest two were the age my youngest two are now, I wouldn't have permitted it. I remember my very first viewing of Family Guy with my oldest. I hated it. I thought it was unnecessarily, stupidly vulgar. I was disgusted with  the movie, Anchor Man  the first time I saw it, but just this week actually paid for all of us to see the sequel. In truth, I was pretty disgusted with that too, and I will never get those 2 and a half hours back or the IQ points I lost watching it. However, it was 2 and a half hours spent with my children belly laughing and that is priceless.

It seems the older I get, the less my appropriateness filter works. That fact was proven over Christmas when my kids and I were playing the Awkward Family Photos card game. The picture was of an unattractive man in a disturbingly tight Speedo, standing in a flower garden and holding a bouquet. The question asked for a title, and before I could stop myself, I responded, "Scratch and Sniff." In front of my children. And their friends. I'm not sure if the teens laughed more at my own embarrassment or theirs. But, hey, at least I was adequately embarrassed by my lack of filter. I'm sure my mother would not have laughed at all. In fact, she might have disowned me or at least put my name before her prayer group...again.

Now, before you all judge me too harshly, let me just say that  we really dig the high brow stuff, too. We can chuckle inwardly at sophisticated wit. We really can. In fact, unless you understand the intellectual irony of Abe Lincoln dropping the f-bomb, you really can't fully enjoy the humor of Drunk History, right?

I wonder at what age we can stop worrying about offending our parents with our language or off-colored jokes, or appreciation of vulgar humor. I also wonder where I got the idea of weighing the funny against the inappropriate, and if the funny factor weighs heavier, well... I sure didn't get it from Mom and Dad.

Seriously though, how am I a product of my parents?

Come to think of it, I wonder what our neighborhood milk man's sense of humor was like back in the fall of '68? Dad was out of town a lot.

Ooops, sorry. That wasn't funny. Was it, Mom?

I've Just Been So Busy...

I've been meaning to post glorious, insightful parenting gems for weeks. I've just been so busy. At least that's my excuse.

Today, as I was busily scrolling through Facebook, I saw this:

And I stopped. Immediately. The message slapped me awake. It's what we do, isn't it? We glorify our "busy".

Now, some of what we do--of what I do--is legitimate busy. I do have teens with hectic schedules and without vehicles. It seems that their practices are always scheduled at the same time on the opposite ends of town. And of course, they are scheduled on the same day as important meetings I've been mandated to attend. There are days I am fully in favor of human cloning!

Today's Facebook post brought some perspective, however. When did society begin glorifying busy. We all know those Super Moms who spearhead every community service project and decorate personalized cupcakes for every student in her son's class for party treats and creates 50 page scrap books from found art and recycled bridal bouquets for teacher gifts and organizes the soccer treat schedule, but brings treats to every game anyway just in case someone forgets and just ran a marathon last week and NEVER has a perfectly highlighted hair out of place! We all stand in awe. How on earth does she do all of that? It makes us feel guilty when we send the bag of Oreos to school and  have to rely on Super Mom because we did, in fact, forget soccer treats. And our hair is never perfectly anything. And yet we feel so busy. In fact, we beat ourselves up if we aren't busy.

So what is the pay off for busy? Does it make us feel like Super Moms, even if we aren't crafty or won't ever run a marathon? Does busy help us feel justified for our parenting choices? Does Working Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not staying home? Does Work-at-Home Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not doing it all, like Working Mom does? I've had the opportunity to be both. If I stop my busy long enough to think about it, the answer (for me) is this. Busy does make us feel like we are sacrificing for our families. When we run--or rather drag our tired butts--through the finish line at the end of the day, we feel some satisfaction that we gave our all to our kids. That's a good feeling, but it might not be such a good lesson.

Have you noticed that our kids now glorify busy to the point that they don't know what to do with leisure? They get nervous if they aren't Tweeting or chatting or listening to music or watching TV. We can hardly blame them, though. It's how we raised them. We dragged them to Scouts and soccer and cheer and gymnastics and baseball and dance and Tae Kwon Do. We even equipped our cars with TVs and DVD players, so they wouldn't be bored while eating MacDonald's on the way to swim team. If we are honest with ourselves, there were probably many times they told us they did NOT want to go to practice or games in 100 degree weather or rain or after a late night. Looking back, I wonder why all that busy was so important. I think I'd like to have a little bit of that busy back.

Roadtrip Survival 101

At the airport the morning of the big NYC trip
just before the flight was cancelled and they had
to scramble to find another. Clearly the travel
gods do not love us!

Here's how I know my teenager is prepared for her travels to the Big Apple: I've set a splendid example. Sort of.

It is one of the summer days when I sleep in too long and wake in a panic. I have a ton of stuff to do. No time for a shower, I shellack the hair, throw on a bit of make-up and run out the door. By noon, I have successfully completed the errands, put out at least 2 figurative fires, and avoided 3 future problems! I am a woman on a mission. In fact, I am a woman done with her mission and who desperately needs a shower after running around, unbathed in the already 90 degree weather.

But fate has other plans. As I pull in, Sophie is pulling out. She is headed to Oklahoma City (about 2 1/2 hours away) for a master voice lesson. Suddenly, I have one of the Roaring Mom gut feelings that she should not go alone. So I jump in her dad's SUV with her, which is already gassed up and ready to go, and we head out.

It is a lovely mother/daughter bonding trip until...it isn't! On the way out of town we decide to grab a bite. However, according to Dirty Shirley (the technological witch referred to in the February 18, 2012 post Tech Trouble), there is nothing available other than Asian food. No offense to the Chinese, but Asian food is the only food I really, really do not like. Finally, after 45 minutes of rush hour driving while my stomach attempts to eat itself, the Hunger Anger sets in and yelling starts.

"Fine!" Sophie yells back, "It says there's a Grandy's up ahead. Turn right." Only Dirty Shirley did not signify on her deceptive little Garmin screen that this is the dirtiest Grandy's in America! Hunger wins out and we order. We ignore the bugs and spider webs and sticky substances on the tables and try to eat. But it can't happen. My hand will not let itself bring that "food" to my lips. So we leave.

An hour later, the SUV crawls to a stop on the highway. Of course, it happens as I am passing a semi, so we barely make it to the left side of the road. Vehicles whizz by, 6 inches from the passenger side. A lot of the honk. None of them stop to help.

So we help ourselves. After 45 minutes of sitting in the 100 degree heat, making numerous phone calls home and to AAA and to the tow truck place, we decide to forge the 1/2 mile walk down the nearby exit ramp to the Conoco--correction, the Dirtiest Conoco in America. I decide to make the best of it, find the humor. That's what I do, right? I grab my bag and an umbrella for sun protection, lock the car and start our journey through the tall prickly grass that lines the exit ramp.

I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I'm ruining my pedicure and my overpriced Grazies. I open the umbrella. At least I won't be sunburned, too. But the umbrella is no help. The spokes were broken and it won't hold it's shape. The wind turns it inside out.

Suddenly, a tortured laugh escapes my parched throat. "Sophie, this just goes to show you that you should always travel with sensible shoes and water. Just in case."

She stops, unamused, turns to me, and says in all seriousness,"Mom, I'm wearing tennis shoes. I have a liter of water in my bag, three oranges, a long sleeved light weight jacket and a fully charged cell phone. You are wearing blingy flip-flops, carrying a broken umbrella, a dead cell phone, and a bag of make up. I think I got this."

"Well...at least I'll look good!" Only I don't. Nor do I smell good. That extra hour of sleep was really not worth it.

An hour later, cramped in the cab of a tow truck with a mute driver who apparently doesn't believe in radios, I'm starving to death with no connection to the outside world. Sophie is still hoarding her oranges and cell phone. I hope she knows that if we are ever on Survivor, I'm voting her off and stealing her supplies!  Wait! Strike that! I'm voting myself off so I can take a hot shower in a cushy hotel. She'll be fine with her Mary Poppins backpack. And she'll be fine travelling to and from NYC, too.

What can I say? If you can't be a shining example of the right way to do it, be a memorable model of how to do it wrong. And pray your kids run in the other direction.

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.

Get A Life

So apparently my life is over and I didn't even know it. I made this realization, quite unexpectedly, while cooking dinner in my kitchen on an otherwise uneventful Monday evening. The revealing conversation went a little something like this:

Beloved Son: Why would anyone want to get old? Wouldn't you rather die young, like at 40 or something? What's there to do after 40?

Me: (mildly amused and slightly offended) Uh, I'm 40.

Beloved Daughter: Yeah, 40 isn't young!

Me: (mildly amused and reasonably offended) What do you mean 40 isn't young?

Beloved Daughter: Well, it's not like anyone really has a life after 40.

Me: (curiously annoyed) Oh, really?

Beloved Daughter: Think about it, Mom. What do you do with your life? You go to work. You come home. You grade papers. You take care of us. And we're almost all outta here. What will your life be when we're gone? Go to work, come home, and grade papers? That's not much of a life.

Me: (thoroughly depressed) Well, thanks for clearing that up.

Beloved Son and Daughter: (Laughing) But as long as YOU like it. That's what matters.

Me: (plotting revenge) Is that right?

Beloved Daughter: Well, it would be an okay life, I guess, for normal people. But you're not...normal.

Beloved Son: Yeah, you're not normal.

If any one of you Roaring Moms and Dads ever wondered what your adult life looks like in the eyes of your got-it-all-figured-out teens, there ya have it--abnormal and old. Shortly after this enlightening conversation, my normal, young teens went back to their exciting lives of staring into a cell phone screen and tweeting one-liners for the next 4 hours. So, I called a girlfriend and planned a Margarita night. I had to squeeze it in between my upcoming trip to Kansas City to watch my published author friend accept a Reader's Choice award and a fund raiser event.  Then I searched the calendar for a day I could pencil in "Get A Life." Unfortunately, there wasn't anytime available. Maybe I'll get around to that...when I'm done grading papers and taking care of my kids.

Brainiac, Smarty Pants, or Class Weirdy?

It only takes about five minutes in the presence of my nephew for me to know that I am not smarter than a 6th grader. Of course, I felt the same when he was 7, only I was not smarter than a 2nd grader. I'm not smarter than his little sister either. I often marvel at his mother and how she's able to stay sane raising not only 1, but 2 children with a genius IQ.

Then there's my other sister who held a Smarty Farty Party for her kids last year. All of them had straight A's! Great! Not only are they are highly achieving brainiacs, but they host a mean party, too!

Nothing like a little family bragging to make a Roaring Mom feel...adequately average.

Don't get me wrong. Although we're not brainiacs, we do have our strong points. After all, the FrankandCarmen were valuable members of their Scholar's Bowl team. They always knew the correct answer to questions like Who sang the song "Hey, Jude"? or What's the only animated musical to win an Oscar for Best Picture? Apparently, Pop Culture is our thing.

I still remember the day Sophie came home from school quite disturbed. "Is it bad," she asked, "when you make an obscure movie reference and the only kid who gets it is the class weirdy?" Then her sibling answered, "I thought you were the class weirdy."

At least we know our place. Well, some of us do. We're still working on Sophie.

So, in honor of my brilliantly average-but-stuffed-to the brim-with-useless-knowledge-brained kids, here's a Roaring Moms Useless Knowledge Pop Culture Quiz for all you brainiacs out there. Go ahead, give it a try. You, too, could be a class weirdy and you just don't know it! It takes a perfect score to be a Class Weirdy. Otherwise, you're just a regular brainiac. Sorry, but what's the fun in that?

1. What is Princess Leia's birthplace?
2. Who is Miss Piggy's true love?
3. What was Johnny Depp's first role?
4. The number 300 from the movie of the same name stands for what?
5. Who says, "You are a sad, strange little man..."
6. What color is Mace Windu's lightsabre?
7. What is Drake and Josh's sister's favorite nickname for them?
8. What's the most wonderful thing about Tigger?
9. What happened to Max on the night he wore his wolf suit?
10. Why does the Jayhawk fly backwards?
11. Who wears number 1 on the Women's USA soccer team?
12. Which one of the Golden Girls is from St. Olaf?
13. What was Nanny Fran's previous occupation?
14. How many Lego pieces is in the Millennium Falcon set?
15. Whose motto is "Never Give Up! Never Surrender!"?
16. When does a wizard arrive?
17. What's the name of Ron's Weasley's rat?
18. In what years did KU win the NCAA Basketball championship?
19. What is the secret ingredient in the Krabby Patty Formula?
20. Oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where...is my hairbrush?

Drinking Practice...for 13 Year Olds

I still remember my first(and last) drinking game. I was terrified and embarrassed and humiliated. Everything my mother said I would be...or would have said I would be if she ever would have acknowledged the presence of drinking games. (Instead we usually got the very cryptic, generalized "nothing good ever happens after midnight" speech. And if it wasn't good, we didn't need to know about it.)

I was so naive. How they ever let me into that sorority, I'll never know. And why I thought it was a good idea to attend that frat party is even a bigger mystery. Nevertheless, there I was, surrounded by a bunch of very impressive, beautiful, cool, drunkards falling all over themselves and each other with inebriation and laughter because of a question and answer game that resulted in someone--the winner, the loser, I'm still not sure--chugging a beer.

Ok, let's stop right there while I give you a bit of history. First, I HATED the taste of beer. Still do. It tastes like sweaty gym socks soaked in urine. In addition, the only experience I had had with "chugging" was downing big gulps out of the milk carton before my mom walked in the kitchen and caught me.

So I decided I just had to be part of this party game. I answered a question, everyone laughed, and before I knew it, someone was shoving a beer in my face. I chugged a can of sweaty urine and it came right back up, like a baby who sucked down his formula too fast. As if the fact that I had no idea what the game was, how it was played, how you won or how you lost was not embarrassing enough for my stupidly naive college sorority self, now I was covered in beer vomit. Soooo cool! At least I wasn't so stupid as to repeat the drinking game experience. I did have enough brain cells left to figure out that the name, rules, and winners of the game truly didn't matter. The purpose was to get drunk--that was it. Wow! How bored and pathetic must the very impressive, beautiful, cool people be if this was their idea of fun.

So here's the question. Why, if the purpose of a drinking game is to get drunk, why oh why are our middle schoolers playing non-alcoholic versions of them at parties? I was shocked the night my 8th grader came home from a birthday party at the home of a friend with the parents present, and he started describing the fun party games--various versions of Truth and Dare or Have You Ever where the party players had to drink for answering a certain way. There was also the Blink and Drink game where partiers watched Twilight and took a drink of soda every time Kristin Stewart blinked. So I asked my child what was the point of those games. His answer came with a vague, confused expression--to find a reason to take a drink.

I was shocked. Then I was mad. Then I was disgusted. Not with my child, but with the parents. Does it matter that there was no alcohol in their Red Solo Cups? Did the parents ever check on the kids? Did they not provide alternative activities that didn't involve mock drinking games? Was this the best entertainment they could come up with for a bunch of 13 year olds? What is wrong with parents who think this kind of fun is ok or even cool for our kids? For crying out loud, do we not have Google for a reason? If you can't think of something more appropriate, Google it. If nothing else, go to Laser Quest. Rent an inflatable obstacle course. Host a Nerf War. Play Dodge Ball. Surely, we can do better for our kids.

One humiliating, gross experience with a drinking game made me realize that all these cool kids weren't really cool at all and that games played for the purpose of finding a reason to take a drink were not only a waste of time, but also a poor determination of friendship. I was in college, arguable the appropriate time to become "educated" enough to make those kinds of educated decisions. And maybe I didn't need that much "education" because I had been exposed to a myriad of other kinds of fun that don't have "finding a reason to drink" as the purpose. So I guess I'm admitting that I'm glad for naivety that night. I think it gave me healthy perspective. Maybe we should give our kids a little naivety too, instead of helping them find a reason to drink. Wouldn't that be cool?

Praise for the Super Nag

I thought I knew all the parenting tricks. I really did. Then something interesting happened. My teenage daughter said I could nag her. In fact, she insisted I nag her! Now that's a new twist in motherhood I never expected. The same teen who tells me I care too much and that it makes her angry when I praise her asked me to nag her into submission!

You see, she's got a fitness goal. I'm really proud of her for making this goal. She's new to high school sports and wants to make sure she can compete. I tell her she's awesome. She's great! She can compete with the best of them. Her response--the ol' Huff and Puff followed by the ever effective Eye Roll. Sometimes there's even a bit of "You don't know anything, Mom" or "You have to say that. You're my mom."

And yet she comes to me, Roaring Mom, for the Super Nag! YESS!!! All those years of perfectly punctuated lectures have paid off. 

Who knew that the perfectly punctuated lecture was the desired parenting procedure, even over the perfectly punctuated praise. I sure didn't. But that's the thing about parenting--we learn more from them than they probably ever learn from us.

So, I eagerly awaited my first nagging opportunity. It didn't take long. It was only later that week, in fact. She'd been sitting in one position, staring at her phone screen so long that muscular atrophy was only minutes away.   Here was my chance and I jumped right in!

"You need to work out. Get off that phone. If you wanna earn your spot, you gotta work harder than everyone else. Stop staring at that phone. Don't be so lazy. Get up and get going! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" 

"Mom!"

"Come on! Let's go! You said I could nag you. You think Hope Solo stares at her phone for hours on end? Let's go! Let's go! LET'S GO!!!"

"Mom!"

"What? You said I could nag you."

"Yeah, I said you could nag me. I didn't say you could be annoying!"

"Oh. Is there a difference?"

"I guess not with you."

"Well, I'm just gonna keep on being annoying until you get up and go. So deal with it!'

"Fine."

"Fine."

And she got up and go-ed! Yes!  Success!

Funny, all the Roaring Mom Praise in the world couldn't motivate her, but the Super Nag did the job splendidly. 

Guess you can teach an old Roaring Mom new tricks! 

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?

Roaring Mom, Heal Thyself

I've decided to stop giving myself a heart attack.

You know the old joke that goes something like this: A man goes into his doctor's office and says, "Doc, it hurts when I bend my elbow like this." The doctor answers, "Don't bend your elbow like that."

Ok, so it's not really funny or even very clever. But we all laugh at it anyway because of the simple honest irony. We laugh because under that simply irony is the understanding that most of the time we really do cause our own problems.

Don't balk! It's true. Here's a shining example.

Walking through the living room, I notice the overflowing clutter on the coffee table, the shoe collection under the coffee table and the discarded sweatshirts on the couch. So starts the perfectly punctuated nag. "Wouldn't it be nice to live in house where we wouldn't have to be embarrassed if someone comes to the door unexpectedly? How hard it is to pick up your own crap? What makes you guys think this is the dropping ground for all your stuff. You go to your bedroom at some point during the day, why not take this stuff with you? I swear you were more self-sufficient when you were 4 years old! Will you PLEASE pick up this room!" (Or something to that lovely effect.)

In come the clutter culprits, they pick up their things and leave...they leave a still overcrowded coffee table, a mildly edited shoe collection and something stick out from the sofa cushion.

I summon my Emphatic Voice. "Did you not hear me? Seriously guys!"

Frank appears, unflappable as always. "Mom, the rest of the stuff is yours."

Wow. That was embarrassing! I was so busy focusing on the annoyance of the situation, I forgot to focus on the cause--and the solution. I forgot to look in the mirror.

Lesson learned. Now let's hope I can successfully apply it because when I do look in the mirror--the actual mirror--I don't like what I see. And I don't particularly like how I feel. What I would like to see is currently covered by 30 pounds of too much me. Accompanying the 30 pound problem I've caused myself is  a potential heart attack, high blood pressure and possible stroke, plausible Diabetes and probably Osteoporosis. As a bonus gift, I've included a closet full of clothes that don't fit and unflattering family photos. And just think--I have only myself to thank!

So how about I do just that? How about I give myself something to "thank" about and the mirror something to smile about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got my own problem to solve.

How do you need to heal yourself? Don't worry. Obviously, you are not alone.