A Whole Bunch of Agita

To say that things have been rather eventful in the Kern household lately would be quite an understatement.  First, we had major water damage in our kitchen.  A pipe leaked inside the wall between our kitchen and bathroom and seeped underneath the floor tile in the kitchen.  To get the water and rot out of there, we now have to gut our entire kitchen. To further complicate things, my father and two other family members died in the same week of unrelated circumstances.  It's to the point where we're all afraid to answer the phone for fear of learning that someone else has died.

So, in the midst of dealing with all of that, I've been busy calling our mortgage company every few days trying to convince them to release the first of our insurance claim funds.  Did you know that if you have a homeowner's claim, you have to send the insurance company's check to your mortgage company?  That's how it happens these days.  The mortgage company deposits the claims check into their own bank account and doles out the money to you in thirds.  This would be OK if they actually had a sense of urgency about getting the money to you so that you could complete the repairs.  Instead, they delay the entire process until you realize that you've been breathing mold for nearly two months while they’re still sitting on your money.

A lesson for young people:  be sure to buy your house in cash so you don't have to deal with these clowns.

You know that feeling where you're quite literally at the end of your rope and you don't know what to do?  You're so angry you could strangle someone, but at the same time, you could just as easily fall to the floor in a heap and cry for a week?  That's where I'm at.  The crazy could go either way.

Knowing that Dan and I are in a mighty fragile mental state right about now, I felt it my motherly duty to warn the kids that they'd better be on their best behaviors.

The other morning, while all three kids were together, I called a family meeting.

            "So, you guys know that things have been kind of tough around here lately for your dad and I, right?"

            "Yeah," they said in unison.

            "Well, I want you boys to be on your best behavior until we get through all of this family and kitchen stuff, OK? "   They nodded, but I wasn’t sure they really understood what I was saying.

            "That means you are not to wreck any vehicles.  You are not to get into trouble of any kind.  You are not to harm yourselves or anyone else.  You are not to get injured and need hospitalization.  I don't want to get a call from anyone's principal.  I don't want to get a call from any of your friends' parents.  I certainly don't want to get a call from a police officer.  You will go to school and work and home again without incident.  Do you understand?"

            "Yeah," they said, but quite somberly this time.

            "I hope you do, because if you guys do one thing to add to your father's and my stress levels, you are going to throw us right off the edge.  If that happens, you'll become orphans and you'll have to go live with some bearded woman with no teeth who has twenty-seven cats and only serves canned SPAM and peas for dinner.  You don't want that to happen, do you?"

They all assured me that they would do their best to keep out of trouble while their father and I sort this stuff out.

Well, almost all of them.  My son Matt got up from the table and grabbed his backpack to get ready to leave for school.  On his way out the door, he called out cheerily:

            "Bye, Mom!  I'm off to school to get detention, so expect a call from my principal.  On my way there, I'll be sure to run over as many people as possible and then wreck my truck.  I know how much you love insurance claims."

It's a good thing he moves a lot faster than I do.

One more lesson for young people:  don't have teenagers.  

An Out-of-this-World Connection

Recently, I decided to join the career-networking site, LinkedIn. I realize that I am probably the last person on Earth to do so, but hey – better late than never, right?

Because I am so new to the site, I am frequently emailed with suggestions of people with whom I may wish to connect. The faces are almost always familiar ones and follow a typical style: a professional-looking-yet-approachable photo, full name, and current impressive-sounding job title.

As I was reviewing the latest suggestions of people, I was shocked to find one that was different from all of the rest. There was no photo, no job title, and no current position. Just an odd gray head-shaped placeholder where a photo should go and a very familiar but unexpected name: William Kern.

The only William Kern I know, my father-in-law, died in May.

At first I thought that it must be some weird coincidence, that someone else must share his name. Then I saw the unusual email address and knew without a doubt that it was my father-in-law. It was Pop.

Several years ago, Pop wanted to be able to get online. Always an avid fisherman, he wanted Internet access so that he could research fishing, but he didn’t want to buy – or have to learn - a computer. At the time, there was this gadget called WebTV that could be hooked up to a television and a phone line so that you could send and receive email as well as surf the Internet right on your TV.

The dial-up connection was lousy and unpredictable, and you could only view text-based websites. Still, Pop loved his WebTV. He would spend hours reading fishing statistics, looking for information on where to fish, and hunting down gear that he wanted to buy. In fact, he used it so often that we could rarely reach him by telephone because his phone line was always connected to the WebTV.

WebTV also provided an escape from the loneliness he felt after his wife died. When he moved in with the woman who would become his second wife, he tried to bring the unit with him, but she wouldn’t allow it in her house. Her refusal abruptly halted Pop’s time on the Internet. The unit was discarded, the monthly fee for his Internet service was cancelled, and his email address was abandoned.

The last time Pop used WebTV was seven years ago, so how did he show up on LinkedIn? LinkedIn was probably not in existence back when Pop used WebTV, but even if it was, I am 100% positive that he was NOT a member. He was a self-employed carpenter for his entire life and not at all technology-savvy. No way would he have joined a professional networking site even if he could have.

After staring at the computer in disbelief for several minutes, I did the only thing that felt right in that moment.

I clicked the “Connect” button under his name.

Still Baking

(source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facepalm)

I remember reading something several years ago that said that a child’s brain isn’t fully developed until they are twenty-three years old.  The article even referred to the child’s brain as being “half baked,” which made me imagine a cake that still had quite a while to go in the oven. 

At the time, my oldest son was well into his teen years.  He seemed to make one peculiar decision after another to the point where I wondered if I’d done something wrong.  What crucial parenting step did I miss?  Learning about half-baked brains made me feel so much better.  There wasn’t anything wrong with my son or my parenting.  His poor judgment was simply a normal part of adolescent brain development.  It gave me great comfort to know that he wouldn’t be flaky forever.

The other night, my middle son, fully in the midst of teenage half-bakedness, did a really stupid thing.  He thought it was a dandy idea to go off-road driving in a friend’s field at nighttime.  Who does this?  NO ONE does this because it’s a really stupid thing to do.  You can’t see any obstacles that may be in the field.  You can’t see any places where the field might drop off. 

He didn’t let me in on his plans or I’d have told him it was a really stupid thing to do… in the nicest possible way, of course.

So my kid with his half-baked brain went off-roading at night.  He didn’t see a huge drop-off in the field and as a result, significantly damaged his truck.  He was not hurt, fortunately, but his truck needs repairs that will likely be in the thousands-of-dollars range.  Since his father and I make him pay for his own vehicle repairs, this is going to be one painful and costly lesson.

When bad decisions like this happen, decisions that would’ve been obviously bad to any rational person, I tend to launch into hyper-parenting mode.  I feel compelled to think of every single stupid thing that he might want to attempt so that I can warn him about it: do not drive off cliffs; do not leap from tall buildings; do not lick the sharp edge of a steak knife.  You know – just like those ridiculous warnings that you often see on power tools.  In fact, whoever came up with the warning “do not use lawnmower to trim hedges” surely must have spent some time with a teenager.

Some of the best parenting advice I’ve ever received came from a friend of mine.  She said that when she gets crazy worrying about her kids, she remembers all of the stupid things that she did when she was a teenager.  Somehow she survived just fine in spite of it all.  She said she chooses to trust that whatever benevolent force in the universe kept her safe, that same loving force will also be there to protect and guide her own children.

I hope she’s right.  These offspring of mine are evidently going to need a LOT of protecting.

The Old Mom

As I write this, we are pretty much in the full swing of this back-to-school thing.  With almost two weeks under our collective belts, I feel as if we might survive...if the parenting gods smile on us, and I keep my act together as Bedtime Enforcer and Signer of Reading Logs. 

This is a tall order for me. Any appearance of having my act together is strictly an illusion.  I desperately want to be one of “those moms,” the ones who always seem to have it under control; the ones who actually bake for the bake sale; the ones whose children are always well-rested; the ones who don’t have to breath their anxiety into a paper bag while driving on field trips to Philadelphia. 

After the number of years I’ve spent raising children, I should have this parenting stuff down, but I don’t.  Still, each September presents a clean slate and another opportunity for me to try once again to get it right.

As part of their annual back-to-school ritual, my son's school hosts a welcoming event for parents of kindergarteners.  Parents meet for coffee after dropping their kids off for their first day of school.  That first day can be a stressful transition for both parents and children, and this gathering gives parents a chance to meet others within the school community. 

In my effort to be more engaged this year, I volunteered to work at this event.  I thought that I could be especially helpful since I’ve been a parent at the school for many years.  I knew that I could help put new parents at ease by answering any questions they might have about the school. 

The day of the event, I did my best to project a welcoming attitude toward the new parents by engaging them in conversation.  Inevitably, they would ask if I, too, had a child in kindergarten.  “No,” I’d respond.  “My youngest is in eighth grade and I have two who’ve already graduated from the school.” 

And then, without fail, they'd smile politely and move toward a different parent.

I couldn’t figure this out.  Why were they getting away from me as quickly as possible?  They were behaving as if I repulsed them, as if I hadn’t showered or something.  (I definitely showered.  See above desire to be one of “those moms.”  “Those moms” shower before going out in public.)

After enduring this rejection six or seven times, I asked one of the other volunteers if she had any idea why so many parents didn’t seem to want to talk to me.

            “Well,” she said.  “They just don’t have anything in common with you.”

            “In common?”  I asked.  “Am I that boring to talk to?”

            “No, it’s not that,” she said.  “It’s just that these parents want to meet other parents who have children in kindergarten.  You don’t have a child in kindergarten so they really can’t relate to you.”

She was probably right.  Eighth grade was a lifetime away from kindergarten. 

Then I did something I shouldn’t have done.  I thought about how long ago it’s been since my youngest son was in kindergarten (seven years.)  Then I thought about how long ago it’s been since my oldest son was in kindergarten (eighteen years.)  Then I did the math and realized that not only has that kindergarten ship sailed a very long time ago, I also realized that I am old enough to be the mother of most of the parents here.

Ouch.  When did I become the Old Mom?

I'm not sure when it happened, but  apparently it did (probably while I was hyperventilating my way through Philadelphia.)   Somehow I've crossed the point of being youthful and relevant and landed under some middle-aged cloak of invisibility.  I've gone from skinny jeans and lip gloss to hot flashes and sensible shoes. 

On a good day, I realize that being the Old Mom isn't all bad.  I've learned a ton of things that these young moms have yet to discover for themselves.  This Old Mom may move a little slower than the others but she knows that it’s wise to wear comfortable shoes on field trips.  This Old Mom has figured out that it’s pointless to try to get a kid to bed early the night before school.  The first day of school will totally wear them out and they will naturally go to sleep earlier.  This Old Mom knows that kindergarten isn’t the end of childhood, but rather the beginning.

Those other moms aren't there yet, and it’s not my place to rush them.  And while I won't be volunteering for any more kindergarten events, I will do my best to support my son's last year of middle school. 

Just don't ask me to do it perfectly.

School Daze

At our house, we are excitedly gearing up for the start of school.

Actually, I made that part up.  We're totally not excited at all.  In reality, we are limping along, still stuck in lazy summer mode.  We are greeting these weeks of back-to-school preparation with plenty of kicking and screaming.  No one is ready to get up early, deal with homework, and pack lunches.  And by "no one," I mean me.  

It feels as if we'd finally skidded across the finish-line to summer vacation and now, here we are, preparing to start all of that school busy-ness all over again.  I feel weary just thinking about it.

I remember when the kids were small.  To put it nicely, they drove me nuts.  Three weeks into summer vacation, I was ready to ship them off to the circus.  Their constant desire for entertainment was exhausting.  I remember thinking, can't they just go outside and play for two and a half months like we did when we were kids?

I'm always amazed at how quickly small children become bored.  Even with a room full of toys, pets, TV, books, bikes, and games, they still lament that there's nothing to do.  Now that they're older, my kids know better than to use the b-word around me.  If they forget, I'm quick to remind them that I haven't been bored since 1982.  I am SO not exaggerating either. 

Jobs, bills, laundry, cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, food shopping, and yard work - if kids knew what was waiting for them once they grow up, they'd never utter the b-word during summer vacation again. 

That's why, after an entire summer of hearing their complaints that there wasn't anything to do, I couldn't wait for school to begin.  I back-to-school shopped like it was my job.  I nagged about summer reading logs.  I kept track of the days left until school on my calendar.  And when that magical day arrived?  I was more than happy to put them on the school bus and have the house to myself again.

These days?  Meh.  The end of summer feels completely different now that my kids are older.  Most noticeably, they're able to entertain themselves and don't require much from me.  No one needs me to make their lunch, change the TV channel, get out the sprinkler, or read them a story.  Two of them no longer need me to drive them anywhere. 

When we do spend time together, it's easy and relaxed.  We talk and joke and laugh.  We build camp fires and talk about internet memes.  We share movies and music and dreams.  In other words, we enjoy just being with one another. 

No way am I ready for this to end.

I know that we'll get ourselves together and be ready for school when the time comes.  For now, though, there's still some summer left.  These kids won't be kids forever, you know.

Heart Bruises

(image from www.empowermentnetwork.com)

In the years that I've been a mother, I've gotten plenty of practice at helping hurt kids feel better.  I've kissed dozens of boo-boos, applied countless bandages, and dried plenty of tears.  After a short while, the child stops crying and realizes he’s going to be just fine.  The injury, once so scary and painful, is soon forgotten and life returns to normal.

Hurts of the romantic kind are not so easy to heal.  As my boys grow older, I find that such hurts become increasingly inevitable.  No one can wander unscathed within the prickly but enticing land of love.  We can’t help getting stuck by a thorn or two, and when we do, it’s always painful and unexpected.

When it comes to heartache, I’m never quite sure what to do or say to my kids.  I mean, I know to be there for them if they want to talk, and to help them understand that one day, they really will feel OK again.  I know to remind them that they are still worthy people even if someone else says  they aren’t. 

I know to make sure that they eat a little something even if the sadness makes food seem uninteresting.  But beyond that, what?  None of this feels like enough when your child is hurting.  Even though I know that I can’t take the pain away and make it all better, all of my mama instincts drive me to at least try.

Then there’s the matter of the ex-girlfriend.  Whether she breaks up with him, or the other way around, I’m not quite sure of what to do next.  If their relationship has been a long one, and we’ve welcomed this girl into our family, I tend to feel as if I’ve been broken up with, too.  Am I expected to just abruptly halt any contact with her?  Turn off my feelings of affection?  If so, shouldn’t I say something to her before I do?  There’s no action that feels comfortable.  This is the kind of stuff that someone should include in those “What to Expect” parenting books.  

To make things even more difficult, sometimes I don’t agree with my kids’ choices.  Recently, my middle son dated a lovely girl we had both known since he was in kindergarten.  They went through elementary school together, and I knew her and her family well.  When he cavalierly announced to me that he’d broken up with her, I felt terrible.  I wanted to call her up, tell her all men are pond scum, and share a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with her.  

What’s more, I felt bad that because of my son, two other parents had to pick up the pieces of their child’s broken heart.  I know what it feels like to be there, completely powerless, knowing that the only way it’s going to feel better is with time.  

As I navigate yet another break-up with one of my sons, I’m reminded of my own heartaches so many years ago.  While they were certainly painful, years of life experience allow me to reflect upon them differently.  I’m now able to view the people who’ve come and gone in my life with love and appreciation.  No one can spend time in our hearts without leaving a part of themselves behind.  Most times, those remnants are gentle lessons that propel us forward in ways that we can’t even imagine. 

My son is a long way from the love and appreciation part, and that’s OK.  For now, I’ll be here if he needs me, helping him to scoop up the broken pieces.

Just like one of us

Whether you're excited about it or not, you have to admit that news about Kate Middleton and Prince William's baby is everywhere. In spite of all the buzz about the royal birth, people I talk to tell me that they fail to see the relevance of “just another celebrity baby."

I think these folks are mistaken. This baby is much more than “just another celebrity.” Aside from the fact that he has the potential to grow up and rule a large portion of the world, his birth is significant for another reason: the lovely Duchess of Cambridge will be able to learn what us regular moms have known all along.

Babies are unbelievably messy.

 

No doubt the royal family has a nanny to help with the baby care, but there are still going to be times when Kate will be engaged in caring for her child all by herself. In at least one of those moments, you know she will be hit with a stream of pee from her infant son, most likely when she’s either half asleep or dressed up and ready to go out. This happens so often that I’m convinced babies plan it that way, as if it’s a mandatory instruction written on their Y chromosomes. And royal or not, pee is pee. It won’t take Kate long to realize that she’s got to keep those baby bits under wraps unless she wants to receive a surprise shower.

 

Even though you and I will never see the photos, you just know that at some point, her wee little prince is going to smear her face with strained bananas or pureed peas and projectile vomit all over her hair. She’s going to wake up one day, fix her hair and her face and think she looks pretty fine. Five minutes later, that little bugger is going to ruin it all with one sticky baby hand or a tiny but mighty gas bubble.

 

We probably won’t see the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep either, but my fellow moms and I will know that they’re there. Even if she has the nanny take the night shift, eventually the baby is going to be sick or teething or anxious and she will selflessly give up her own sleep to comfort him. What she won’t realize at first is that the lack of sleep thing will continue until the kids move out. Gone forever are the nights of deep, restful, gonna-take-a-stick-of-dynamite-to-wake-me-up sleep. When you’re responsible for another human being, you tend to sleep a lot lighter.

 

Then there’s the whole attention thing. Before Baby, Kate was the one upon whom everyone’s attention was focused. Even Prince William has been completely upstaged by his wife. Now, even beautiful and stylish Kate will be shoved out of the way by relatives and strangers alike, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the new babe.

 

While I feel a certain glee in knowing that Kate is going to experience the less-than-pleasant side of baby-rearing, I’m happy that she’ll also be able to experience its joys. For example, I know that she’s going to fall fiercely in love with that little boy. His pain will become hers, and his joy will be multiplied when viewed through her eyes. She will be, at all times, utterly exhausted and yet completely revitalized by this tiny little person now sharing her life. She will have moments of feeling as if she’s the worst mother ever and then much rarer moments of feeling as if she’s finally figured it all out. And just like mothers everywhere, she will worry that all of those moments are passing much too quickly. She will wonder if she’s done enough.

 

In just a short while, she will intimately know what it feels like to be someone’s mother, and she will be forever changed by that role.

 

Just like the rest of us.

 

An Abundance of Birthdays

 

 

This week has been what we’ve come to refer to in our house as “birthday week.” My two oldest sons have birthdays within four days of one another right after the Fourth of July.

 

I do not recommend this birth plan for any wanna-be moms who may be reading. Having birthdays this close together is definitely not for the faint-hearted or the financially challenged.

 

I should know as I am in both of those groups. Still, each year, during the first week of July, I am forced to make all manner of birthday magic happen.

 

It's not always easy.

 

Even though the boys’ birthdays are so close together, we’ve always tried to celebrate them separately and in their own way. For example, the birthday child is allowed to choose the type of cake he wants (ice cream cake or regular,) as well as what we’ll have for dinner that night. The older two usually pick restaurant meals for their birthday dinners, but my youngest always asks me to cook him something special at home. I’m not sure if these choices mean that Evan really likes my cooking while the other two do not or if the older ones simply like eating out more than Evan does. Since there aren’t many kudos given out for this parenting gig, I’m going to imagine that everyone loves my cooking; Evan just loves it more.

 

When the kids were small, birthdays were active, noisy affairs. We’d have parties with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Now, all these years later, so many family members are no longer with us; the older ones having passed on, and the younger ones busy with families of their own. As a result, our celebrations these days are much smaller and quieter. The hurried assembly of a roomful of toys has given way to presents such as music gift cards or video games that take up far less space and require no parental involvement.

 

Busted budgets and dinner choices aside, as each year progresses, I’m even more aware of how many of my kids’ birthdays are already in the past. Before long, I won’t be the central person planning the festivities. Soon they’ll have girlfriends, then wives, then families to do it for them. If I’m lucky, my role will become that of an invited guest. I will tuck some money into cards and join them for cake. I'll wear sensible shoes and chin hair, and I'll tell lots of stories about when they were little.

 

If they’re lucky, I’ll behave and keep the embarrassing ones to myself.

The Cat and Dog Train Me to do Their Bidding

I have finally figured out my purpose in life.  Although this realization took some time, today showed me with remarkable clarity the true reason for my existence.

Because of my ability to grasp doorknobs, I have apparently been entrusted with an all-important task: I am sentenced to cater to the ever-changing whims of my dog and cat and the 9,347 times that they must go outside each day. 

They do not bug the kids.  Oh no.  They save their most persistent neediness for me.

Take this morning, for example.  Within the first half hour of waking up, this is how my day went:  I let the dog out.  While she was outside, I fed her, the cat, and the goldfish.  I then let the dog back in to eat.  I heard the cat meowing outside the back door, so I let him in too.  The cat ate his breakfast and wanted to immediately go back outside so I let him out.  The dog, evidently feeling slighted by all of this letting-outside-business, decided that she needed to go back out, too, and the sooner, the better.  I have no idea why such urgency.  Did she forget something out there?  Just in case she was brewing a stomach virus, I hurried to let her out again.

When I returned to the kitchen to make my coffee, I could hear the cat outside the back door, crying - actually, more like wailing - to come inside.  He'd been outside for a whopping three minutes.  Judging by the way he was carrying on, you'd think he'd been out there suffering, with no food or drink, for HOURS.  No sooner had I let the cat inside, the dog was scratching on the front door to come in. 

Do I even need to tell you what happened next?  Right.  The cat wanted out.

This was all before I'd had my first sip of coffee. 

Medical experts say that having pets is good for your blood pressure.  I think what they meant to say is that having pets is good for developing high blood pressure.  In my experience, it's also good for angry outbursts, profanity, and illogical attempts at reasoning with animals.

Tomorrow I'm going to stay in bed until the kids get up.  It would be a shame to keep all of this early morning pet bonding time to myself.

 

 

 

 

Guilt: It's what's for breakfast

Guilt has been following me around this week like a faithful puppy.  In every area of my life, my guilt-puppy is there, eager to remind me that I've fallen short yet again.

A few examples:

I didn't go to the grocery store last night because I had an event at school, so this morning, there wasn't any cereal for breakfast.  While at school, I was reminded that I should do more than I'm doing currently, so my guilt-puppy talked me into volunteering for a committee that I do not have time for.  At work, in spite of successfully completing 987 projects, the one project I did not finish is enough to confirm that I am a horrible person who cannot be trusted with responsibility.

I also didn't get the laundry done, so Evan didn't have the red shirt that he needed for Field Day at school.  I forgot an important appointment, I arrived late to a meeting, and I failed to make my middle son's school physical appointment.  While we're at it, I don't call my mother often enough or keep consistently in touch with my friends.

I won't even mention the sugar that I shouldn't be eating.

Indeed, I'm not just visiting the neighborhood of guilt; I've constructed a permanent residence.

By the time I arrived home last night, I felt pretty beaten up.  All of those abusive mind-tapes from childhood kept playing in my head, reminding me of how worthless I truly am.  I should probably just quit my jobs, put the kids up for adoption, and move under a bridge somewhere so that I'm not a constant blight on organization and decency.

Did I mention that I can be quite the catastrophist? 

Someone stop me before I start mentioning the baby pictures I never labeled and how I can no longer remember which one of my kids is which.

Today, some grace appeared to interrupt my self-reproach.  Matt decided to go out for breakfast since we didn't have any cereal, I made the physical appointment that I'd been putting off, and I called my mom.  And don't tell anyone, but you can totally revive a red shirt from the dirty clothes hamper with some Febreze and a quick tumble in the clothes dryer.

Am I perfect?  No. 

Will we survive anyway?  Absolutely. 

On Graduation: Cry Me a River? OK!

(my oldest son's graduation in 2004, when our school was new and there were fewer kids to cry over)

I just got home from the eighth grade graduation ceremony at my son's school.  It was full of the same graduation rituals that have come to define our school's culture for all of its thirteen years:  a slide show of the passing year, a skit by the 7th graders for the 8th graders, and always-inspiring words from our school's founder and principal.

I cried through all of it.

In fact, I've done that very thing at every graduation I've attended.  It doesn't matter who's graduating; my kid or yours.  I will cry just the same.

I remember one year, I arrived with a huge box of tissues.  I tapped the shoulder of a woman in front of me, whose son was graduating, and offered her some of my tissues.

                "I won't need them," she said.  "This is the third time I'm going through this.  I'll be fine."

Fine?  How could she be fine when her son is leaving the innocent environment of elementary school for the uncertain world of high school?  Clearly, she was in some sort of denial.

                "That's OK," I told her.  "I will cry enough for both of us."

It's not that an elementary school graduation is a sad affair.  Far from it!  It is lively and happy and, very often, humorous.  You don't have to look hard to see the excitement on the faces of the graduates as they consider the future ahead of them.  

I guess what trips my emotional switch is that I've known most of these kids since they were in kindergarten.  Our school is a small charter school where everyone knows everyone.   I've watched these kids grow up.  I've supervised them at recess.  I've worked on projects with them.  I've chaperoned their field trips.  I know their families.  And like one big family, we share these common milestones.

It occurred to me as I was driving home that a school is like a garden (well, not like MY garden, full of thistles and weeds, but a garden belonging to someone who actually knows what she's doing.)  Our children start out in kindergarten like seedlings, which are tended and nurtured through the years until finally, they're transplanted elsewhere when they're ready to blossom.  These kids I wept for today are some mighty fine blossoms.

Next year is going to be even more emotional for me than usual.  My middle son will be graduating from high school, and my youngest son  will be graduating from eighth grade.  Two graduations in one year!  How will I cope?  I'll probably be completely incoherent the entire month of June.

If anyone needs me this summer, I'll be the weepy mom with the red nose stockpiling tissues and waterproof mascara.  Graduation is only twelve months away and I want to be prepared.

The Cat Issues His Demands

Attention, humans.  It's me, the cat.  Lately I haven't been as comfortable in your house as I would like to be.  Since you are responsible for my complete and total happiness, I am bringing this matter to your attention.  Additionally, I know that your life would be meaningless if I were to leave, and since you lack the superior intelligence of a feline, here is a list of things that will require immediate improvement before I can consider remaining in your house. 

First of all, I've grown tired of the meat-like substance that you are trying to pass off as food.  It does not suit my palate at all.

Every day, it's the same old Ocean Surprise or Turkey and Giblets.  Yawn.  If you weren't such a dog person, you'd know that I actually prefer the more refined tastes of, say, Field Mouse or House Sparrow.  Until this can matter can be rectified, I will refuse to eat the rations that you place in my dish.
Next, there's the matter of where I sleep.  I am beyond weary of you removing me from your office chair.  Can't you understand that I require eighteen hours of sleep each day and that your chair is where I prefer to have it?  There is nothing in your boring human world that is worthy of my disturbance.  Nothing. 

And can you please do something about the dog?  I do not enjoy being sniffed by that slobbery creature from head to tail every time I walk in a room.  I mean, have you seen the places she likes to smell?  It's rude and offensive, and I won't stand for it a minute longer.

 

 

 

The dog also insists on hogging all of the sunshine in the living room.  Since she is too obtuse to realize it, you must convey to her that I require maximum sunlight exposure for my optimal comfort.

In addition, I demand that you remove all doors in the house.  I need to be able to move freely between rooms in order to satisfy my curious feline impulses.  A closed door is an insult to one who is as dignified as I am.  Remember that.


One last thing:  if I happen to bestow upon you the honor of having me sleep on your neck, you shall not complain nor attempt to move me.  You must recognize my presence on you as the privilege that it is.  Again, let me remind you that nothing is more important than my comfort and happiness.  You should be grateful that I allow you near me at all.


I trust that I've made myself clear.  I look forward to your prompt resolution of these abominations. 


Sincerely,

 

The Cat whom you call "Mewcifer"

 

 

**all photos by Lisa Kern

Showering with Stinkbugs

After a winter that dragged on way longer than any of us wanted, today held conclusive evidence that spring is finally here. The trees are full of green, the sun is higher in the sky, and smells of lilac and freshly cut grass abound.

Unfortunately, there are also other less endearing signs that spring has arrived: an abundance of insects show up too. This morning alone, I saw three spiders, and my dog Bailey has been biting at flies all week. I even saw a wooly bear caterpillar in the driveway the other day.

While I understand that bugs have their purpose, I prefer that they experience that purpose somewhere that’s far away from me.

I work with a woman who will pick up and relocate the spiders that we find in our office. I can’t believe that she does this. I tease that she gives them tea and cookies and fluffs their little spider pillows. She even does this with those extra-macho wolf spiders that make me hyperventilate just thinking about them.

She is not at all like me. If I encounter a spider, I will scream like a little girl, and then try my best to convince someone else to kill it for me. If there’s no one around, I’ll do the deed myself just so I know that it won’t jump out later and surprise me, as spiders love to do. Of course, I then spend the rest of the day shuddering over my eight-legged encounter.

This morning, I was in the shower, shampooing, when I felt something hard and odd among the strands of my hair. Almost immediately, I smelled the tell-tale odor: it was a stinkbug. Even though I was minding my own business, I somehow had a nasty, awful stinkbug in my hair.

I grabbed the bug out of my soapy hair and flung it toward the floor of the shower, but because I can’t see anything without my glasses, I couldn’t actually see where it landed. I used the hand-held shower sprayer to hopefully flush the darn thing down the drain.

By this time, my hair, my body, and the entire bathroom reeked of stinkbug. I knew I’d have to rinse
my hair and re-shampoo it in order to remove the odor.

As I reapplied the shampoo, I heard a buzzing sound and then felt something hit my leg. Of course, I couldn’t actually see where it went because A) I still didn’t have my glasses on, and B) my eyes were full of water and shampoo. It didn’t take much to conclude that the stinkbug either didn’t go down the drain, or he’d brought along a friend. Neither scenario was appealing when all I wanted to do was wash-off the stink bug odor and finish my shower ALONE.

I quickly wiped my eyes and jumped out of the shower so that I could find the stinkbug. I grabbed my glasses, but the steam of the shower and the steady stream of water I’d neglected to turn off meant that I still couldn’t see anything.

Shampoo slid down my face and into my eyes. I took off my glasses and rinsed them. I felt around for the faucet and turned off the water as I grabbed a towel to wipe my eyes. I dried the lenses of my
glasses with the towel and was finally able to see the entire area of the shower.

That sneaky, smelly, no-good stinkbug was nowhere to be found.

Although I didn’t know where my nemesis had gone, I had to do something about the shampoo dripping from my head and hair that smelled like a stinkbug frat party. I took my glasses off and stepped back into the shower.

I rinsed the shampoo and grabbed the bottle of hair conditioner. As I attempted to open the bottle, I was horrified to discover that the stinkbug was sitting on top of the cap.

I threw the conditioner bottle onto the floor of the shower and immediately aimed the shower sprayer at it. I wasn’t about to let that stinkbug escape again. I turned the water on full force, desperate to wash that stupid bug and its stench down the drain for good.

After a few minutes, I felt confident that the stinkbug had gone to a better place – or at least wherever it is that dead bugs go - and continued with my shower.

I applied conditioner to my hair and tried to hang the hand-held shower sprayer back in place. I couldn’t really see what I was doing, but I felt around to put the sprayer into its holder. As if my shower hadn’t already been enough of an ordeal, the sprayer fell down and hit me squarely on the head.

Who knew that a shower could be so eventful? After this one, I’m not sure which I need more: pest control or laser eye surgery.