A Call to Life

(image from www.animalabusersspotlight.com)

Like many of us in this area, I'm trying to make sense, if that's even possible, of the brutal murders this week of an entire family. I'm trying to understand what would motivate someone described as "a nice guy who would do anything for you" to kill the mother of his children, her mother, her grandmother, her sister, her brother-in-law, their fourteen-year-old daughter, and leave their seventeen-year-old son critically wounded and fighting for his life.

 

As a further thumb of his nose to his family and our community, this deranged killer took his own life in a peaceful wooded setting that clearly didn't deserve to be blighted with his darkness.  If this was to be his chosen end, couldn't he have just killed himself first and avoided all of those other horrific steps?

I keep thinking about the victims and how they probably went to bed Sunday night like the rest of us, taking for granted that life would continue on the next day as it always has.  The adults may have been thinking about what they'd have to do the next day at work or what still needed to be done in preparation for the Christmas holiday.  They might have left dishes in the sink and grocery lists on the fridge.  The kids were probably thinking about upcoming finals at school and getting together with friends over the winter break.  Did they ever suspect that there'd be no next day, no Christmas, no winter break?

No future?

With one man's sick and twisted decision, an entire family is eliminated.  Just like that, three children are orphaned.  Just like that, life stops.

 

My youngest son attended kindergarten with fourteen-year-old Nina Flick.  Her smiling face and ponytails live on forever in their class photo on my bookcase, so full of promise and innocence, unaware of the horrors that would eventually befall her family.

If there is any wisdom to glean from this tragedy, perhaps it's to serve as a reminder to the rest of us of how quickly life can change.  In one maniacal moment, all that we know and love can be snuffed out.  When you think about it that way, what's really important in our lives rises to the top of our consciousness and lesser things fall away.

 

These days, I hold my own kids tighter, getting in one last squeeze before they pull away from me to go to bed or leave for school.  I'm so very grateful that they are here with me and safe, their lives a brilliant promise ahead of them.

 

Perhaps by simply living our lives, and doing our best to love those around us, we can most appropriately honor those who were taken from us too soon.

I encourage all of us to begin.

**For those interested in helping, a fund has been established by Univest, WordFM, and the Rotary Club to benefit the surviving Stone and Flick childre. You can go to WordFM.org to make a donation or send checks payable to Univest Foundation with “Stone & Flick Children Fund” written in the memo line. If individuals wish to direct donations to a specific child, they can include their name in the memo line. Checks should be mailed to Univest Foundation, 14 North Main Street, P.O. Box 559, Souderton, PA 18964.  

The Truth Comes Out

(image from mentalfloss.com)

A few nights ago, the kids and I were in the living room after dinner.  It was a rare night when the oldest two were home, and all three of them were talking and teasing each other.  I was engrossed in the book I was reading until their banter suddenly caught my attention.

            “Well, at least I didn’t give you toilet water to drink when you were sick, Matt!”  This protest from my youngest son toward his older brother was the first time I’d heard such a thing.  I mean, sure, we discuss toilet water like every other normal family, but it’s usually in the context of “the cat is drinking it,” or “it’s overflowing all over the place.”

            “Wait…toilet water? Matt, you gave your brother toilet water to drink?”

            “Evan, aren’t you ever gonna forget that?  I was EIGHT!”

            “So you did give your brother toilet water to drink.  Matt, how could you?”

Evan, happy to now have an audience, proceeded to tell the story of how he asked Matt for a drink of water while he was sick on the couch and Matt gave him toilet water instead.

            “How did you know it was toilet water?”  I asked Evan, hoping that this story was just one big exaggeration.  I mean, my kids get along great, don’t they?  They’re decent and respectful to one another when I'm not around, right?

Evan was more than happy to shatter my cozy image of sibling harmony.  “I knew it was toilet water because it was warm.  Also, because Matt told me it was after I drank it.”

Matt, knowing he was snagged, simply had to report on a misdeed of Evan's. “Well, at least I didn’t lock you in your room all the time like you used to do to me.” 

I did know about this particular infraction.  Our house is old, and the door to Matt’s bedroom has a skeleton-key lock on the outside of the door rather than on the inside.  Whenever Evan and Matt would play together in Matt’s room and have a disagreement, Evan would storm out, slam Matt’s door, and then lock it from the outside.  Matt would be trapped in his room, pounding on the door and yelling, until someone freed him. 

Evan, anxious to return the attention to his own mistreatment, said, “That’s nothing like giving someone toilet water to drink.  Toilet. Water.  When they’re SICK.”  Evan was clearly going for maximum sympathy.

            “It’s not like I peed in it first or anything.  Geez, Evan!”

That’s true.  If Matt wanted to be truly evil and malicious, he could have peed in the toilet first.  I briefly wondered why Matt hadn't thought of that because if he had, he surely would have upped the gross-out factor.

They continued to tell tales of sibling pranks on one another, each trying to secure the title of Most Tormented Brother.  Apparently, they only behave like civil human beings when I'm around.

At least something good came from these confessions:  I now know to not ever ask any of them for a drink of water when I'm sick. 

Achievement for the Old and Overwhelmed

(image from thebumpyride.blogspot.com)

Recently, my son and I were talking about the idea of achievement and how this varies at different points in your life.  Obviously, as kids grow, their achievements are many:  walking, talking, potty-training, starting school, earning their drivers' license, graduation, etc.

 

This made me realize it's been a while since I've achieved anything significant (assuming not strangling that guy making sales calls on his cell phone in the middle of the restaurant where we celebrated my birthday doesn't count as an "achievement.") 

I know, I know...I have managed to keep all of the kids alive, and I don't usually embarrass myself in public (not often, anyway,) but I'm talking about medal-worthy achievements that I can claim in my increasingly "mature" age. 

The way I see it, anyone can earn an advanced degree or survive a jump out of an airplane, but you need the perfect combination of age and apathy to master these feats:

1)  I can ignore laundry piles like a BOSS.  My laundry pile is so high that we have to place caution tape around the clothes hamper.  If the pile were to fall over on a child, we'd likely never find him again.  While I do manage to wash the items on the top of the pile once in a while, I'm certain there are items of clothing on the very bottom that haven't been seen since the Bush administration.

2)  I can carry five plastic grocery bags at one time and still manage to unlock the door.  This is a true feat of dexterity and fortitude. Placing the bags on various fingers according to weight is a skill that is learned over years of dropping said bags in the middle of the driveway. Having to fish cans out from under the minivan is always a good time.  And then there's the matter of pinched off circulation.  If your fingers don't cramp up or fall off by the time you reach the door, it is a good day indeed.

3)  I can gain weight so easily that Sumo wrestlers are jealous of me.  I am so good at this that I don't even have to actually eat any food to do it.  My body has apparently found a way of  extracting calories right out of thin air.  Talk about a talent!  As soon as I increase my exercise to combat the weight gain, my body immediately assumes I'm lost in the woods and works even harder to conserve body fat.  As soon as the current thin craze is no longer popular, everyone is going to be begging to know how I do it.

4)  I can routinely miss huge areas of hair on my legs while shaving in the shower.  This one is probably less of a talent and more of a side effect of poor eyesight.  I can't understand why someone hasn't invented glasses that you can wear in the shower.  They should put tiny windshield wipers on them, too.  Then I could actually see to shave.  Until that happens, I double-dog-dare you to find someone with more patches of overlooked leg hair than me. 

I'm still perfecting my ability to scold a child without saying a word, as well as trying to break my current record of keeping houseplants alive without any water.  

Not to brag or anything, but I guess you could say I'm a bit of an overachiever.  I'm always looking for ways to improve myself!

Diving in the Deep End

(I think he shows a healthy amount of trepidation, don't you?)

My youngest son, Evan, started high school this week.  He wasn't looking forward to it.  I understood his apprehension as there's much to be anxious about.  He's coming from a school with 200 kids and going to one that has over 2000.  He'll be changing classes, obeying bells, and dealing with lockers for the first time ever.  Plus, the school is huge.  Schools this size eat smaller ones like his old school for lunch.  Speaking of lunch, he didn't even know how to use a cafeteria as he's never had to navigate one before.

I did my best to prepare him in whatever ways I could.  We studied a map of the school and plotted out routes to his locker and all of his classes.  I showed him where the bus would be parked so he could find it at the end of the day.  I reminded him to ask a teacher if he gets lost or needs help.  I assured him that everyone feels nervous when they start high school but it will get better after a few weeks. 

I don't think he quite believed me. 

During the summer, I enrolled Evan in swimming lessons. He'd never learned to swim, and since he'd need to know how for gym class, lessons seemed like a good idea.

  

Over the span of a week, his instructor guided him through a predictable sequence: first, kicking with a board, then swimming freestyle, then the backstroke, and then the breast stroke.  The final lesson would be diving.

Evan did not want to dive.  Every day, he worried about it and every night, he lost sleep over it.  I told him he'd easily bob back up to the surface and that it's incredibly difficult to sink all the way to the bottom.  We watched small kids diving in the twelve-foot end of the pool with ease.  None of this calmed his fear.  Each day, his instructor would ask, "Are you ready to try diving today?"  Each day, his response would be no.

Finally, at the last class, he couldn't avoid it any longer.  His instructor knew he was nervous, so she had him progress to the diving board in steps:  first, jump off the side of the pool straight into the water; next, squat and arc a bit into the water; finally, stand and arc into the water.  Evan performed all of these tasks, surprising himself with each success.

The only thing left to conquer was the diving board.  I knew that the diving board was a symbol of dozens of other little fears that Evan had allowed to consume him.  If he succeeded with this one thing in spite of his fear, it would give him the confidence to push through all kinds of other challenges in his life.

 

Evan's anxiety was visible as he reluctantly approached the diving board.  He paced in circles at the base of it, unable to move onto the actual board.  His instructor assured him he could do it.  His father and I assured him he could do it.  His instructor even agreed to walk out on the diving board next to him.  Evan wasn't having any of it.  He was frozen with fear.

As someone who understands anxiety well, I thought of things that help me move through fear.  In my experience, the quickest way out of fear purgatory is to get angry about being there in the first place.

"Evan, you've got to get angry at your fear," I shouted.  "It's keeping you a prisoner.  You've got to get mad and just do it!  Don't let your fear have control over you any longer.  Do it and get it over with!"

I'm sure this advice made him more angry at me than the diving board, but at least it convinced him to move.  As his instructor encouraged him, Evan inched out to the end of the board.  His dad and I cheered him on until finally - miraculously - probably just to shut us up - he dove in the water.  He bobbed back up to the surface with a huge grin on his face, jubilant over his success.  He took a dive in the deep end and he survived.

 

No doubt Evan's triumph over the diving board was on his mind as he started his first day of high school. 

When he arrived home, I asked him how school was and if he was able to find all of his classes.

"I nailed it," he said.  "It was much easier than diving in the deep end at the pool."

I don't think I have anything to worry about.  This kid's going to be just fine.

You're Never Too Old to Forget Something New

(Mewcifer, helping me study)

Recently, I've been studying for an exam that my employer wants me to take for my job.  Passing it is entirely optional unless I prefer to remain employed.

So I gathered my five remaining brain cells together - you know, the ones not busy keeping track of kids, pets, and car keys - and began studying.

 

Reading the information was fine, even with the subject matter being a bit on the tedious side.  Still, I put in the required number of reading hours and thought all was well.

My problems began when I attempted to actually recall what I'd read.  As I finished each chapter and took the practice quizzes at the end, it became clear exactly how much of what I'd read just wasn't sticking in my brain.

 

Funny thing - remembering stuff is pretty critical to passing an exam.

Considering I'm as old the invention of the ZIP code, my learning-stuff-to-pass-an-exam days are far behind me.  Combine that with the fact that you lose a quarter of your brain cells in childbirth*and it's easy to see why I'm struggling.  I've had three kids, so doing the math tells me there's very little left in the way of brain capacity to work with.

 

Yet here I am, trying to make the same demands on my brain that I did when I was twenty.  No wonder it laughs at me:  "You want me to juggle your life AND learn something new?  At the same time?  NOT GONNA HAPPEN." 

This is the same insolent brain that allows me to walk into a room without actually clueing me in as to  why I felt compelled to walk in there in the first place.  My mind can be a real jerk at times.

To have any hope of passing this exam, I knew I needed some new strategies - ones that don't rely on memorization.

I decided to increase the number of hours I sleep each night.  I figure it can't hurt, and maybe my brain will be a little more accommodating if it's not always sleep-deprived.

 

Next, I'm trying to read more carefully.  In this age of information overload, it's easy to fall into the habit of skimming content instead of reading it.  It's kind of like how you listen to every word your spouse says for the first five years of marriage, and then after that, you're lucky if you catch the fourth or fifth sentence.

My youngest son suggested that I highlight the critical words in each question (such as "is NOT correct," "is true EXCEPT") so that I don't miss them.  Looking over my incorrect answers on the quizzes revealed that skipping over those words is indeed something I've been doing.

What really seems to be making a difference is that I've also begun relating each concept I'm studying to something I already know.  I didn't make it this far in life without experiencing a ton of things, so why not put that hard-earned wisdom to work?

 

Can't remember the elements of a contract?  I'll just think back to that rock climbing participation agreement  I had to sign so Evan could go with his class.  Not sure I can recall how loss assessment coverage works?  Thinking about the Hurricane Sandy damage at my mom's condominium will certainly jog my memory.

 

My five brain cells and I are going to rock this thing.  We may not be twenty anymore, but we are wise, mighty, and determined.  And that's even better.

*OK, I totally made up that childbirth thing, but it sure feels that way!

The Early Bird Catches the Teenager

(Yes, there is a kid under there.)

Recently, our family took a break from our responsibilities and headed to the shore for the day.  Having to wake up teenagers reminded me of how I'd rather do just about anything else.  Getting five people up, showered, and out the door by a certain time is no easy feat.

Actually, only four of us have trouble waking up.  My husband is a morning person, though technically he wakes up so early that it would still be considered night by the sane among us.  By the time I stumble downstairs, eager to plant my face in a hot cup of coffee, he is already well-caffeinated and ridiculously perky.   

I don't handle "perky" well on a good day, let alone first thing in the morning while I'm still trying to unglue my eyelids.  The only reason I haven't stabbed him yet is because he moves faster than I do.  One of these days, I'm going to switch all the coffee in the house to decaf so that I have a chance of catching him.

It wouldn't be so bad if he kept quiet and stayed out of my way for, say, three or four hours while I wake up.  Instead, he hits me with questions the moment I come downstairs.  Have I seen his shoes/camera/keys?  How much money is in the bank account?  Did I remind (insert child of choice here) about (insert forgotten chore here)?  I don't know why he can't just write this stuff down on a note so that I can properly ignore it until I've had a chance to wake up.

The kids, on the other hand, are not perky at all.  On the Perky/Dead continuum, they are somewhere around Comatose.  They sleep so soundly that I'm tempted to stick spoons under their noses to see if they're still breathing.  If I can manage to rouse them at all, they will lie and tell me whatever is most likely to make me go away.  Thirty minutes later, I realize that the child who promised he was getting up and in the shower is still in his bed, sound asleep.  Believe me, no one feels more homicidal than a mom who has to start the wake-up routine all over again.

While getting ready for our shore trip, I realized that I've been doing this waking-up business all wrong.  Why should I be the one to wake up the kids when Mr. Perkypants has been up and fully conscious for hours?

 

My kids think that I'm annoying when I wake them up.  Muahahaha!  They have no idea how annoying their well-rested and super-caffeinated father can be.

I can't wait to see how this goes.  It may actually be worth getting up for.

Going Off-Duty

I am what could best be described as a crier.  Not the kind from the old days, riding through the streets, delivering news, but the weepy, snotty, need-to-bring-tissues-wherever-I-go kind.

I cry if I'm sad.  I cry if I witness something beautiful.  I cry if someone is kind to me.  I cry at movies, weddings, and funerals.  Mostly, though, I cry at the endings of things.

In the span of a week, two of my kids have graduated from something:  my middle son from high school  and my youngest from eighth grade.  Both have successfully ended one part of their lives and are moving on to a new part.  Although I am happy for them, it was inevitable:  tears were going to flow.

I worried about these graduations all year.  I hate crying in front  of other people; it's embarrassing and makes me feel overly sentimental.  What's worse is that I suffer the after-effects of crying for the rest of the day.  After a  crying spell, my eyes remain red, dry, and itchy, and  I have trouble seeing properly.  My nose and cheeks turn red and splotchy.  Definitely not my best look.

In an effort to prevent the tears, or at least minimize them, I began researching ways to prevent crying.  The "solutions" ranged from harmless but ineffective (pinch the bridge of your nose) to the odd and outrageous (open your eyes as wide as you can.)  Right.  Try not to attract attention with that one.

Out of desperation, I tried them anyway, and still ended up leaving the graduations looking as if I'd just been to a funeral. 

Since there doesn't appear to be any way of preventing my tears, I decided to find out why tears happen in the first place.  Surely they're not there just to make us miserable and self-conscious.

From what I've read, tears do everything from washing away toxins to healing our corneas to enlisting comfort and support from those around us.  But one explanation I read in an article by Jay Efran and Mitchell Greene really hit home with me:

"Physiologically speaking, emotional tears are elicited when a person’s system shifts rapidly from sympathetic to parasympathetic activity—from a state of high tension to a period of recalibration and recovery.  Depending on the circumstances, individuals typically describe such shifts as 'letting go,' [or] 'going off duty'...” 

The authors explain:  "The shift from arousal to recovery is almost always triggered by a psychologically meaningful event, such as when lost children finally spot their parents and realize that they’re safe. Typically, children don’t cry when they first realize that their parents are gone; instead, they become hyper vigilant and start searching for their missing caretakers. It’s only when the parents reappear—perhaps rounding the corner of the supermarket aisle—that their child “goes off duty,” and tears begin to flow."

To me, that process seems pretty typical of parenting.  When you're there in the trenches, taking action and  just trying to get through something (the school year, the teen years, Algebra), you're too involved to have an emotional response.  You're doing what needs to be done to survive.  It's only when you're on the other side of whatever it is that you break down and cry, releasing all of that built-up stress and tension in the process.

Considering that my two boys are about to embark on exciting new chapters of their lives, crying at their graduations was an appropriate response.  All of that preparation and guidance to get them to this point required massive amounts of both action and patience.  Going forward, I'm not going to be needed quite as much.  Instead of parenting from the front line, I'll be more on the periphery - allowing them to experience new things but ready to re-direct them if necessary.

Then again, maybe it's a simpler reason.  Maybe it's seeing these people you love so much, these people you've nurtured and guided and kept safe, achieve something so wonderful that it's more than the heart or mind can hold.  The pride and potential of the moment can't help but spill over in the form of tears.

Whatever it is, I can't wait to see what the future holds for them.

For more about why we cry:  http://www.alternet.org/story/155447/why_we_cry%3A_the_fascinating_psychology_of_emotional_release

A Cautionary Tale About Debit Cards and the Awful People Who Steal Them

Recently, I had my debit card stolen.  Well, not physically stolen, as I still had the actual card in my wallet, but its numbers were stolen.  A person in Oregon made (or bought) a fake card with my information and then used it to purchase prescription drugs in Canada.  Someone must have compromised a local card machine with one of those card scanner things that grab all of your information when you swipe your card to pay for something.

Needless to say, I wasn't happy about this.  I was even less happy when it happened again the next day with my husband's debit card.

 

Both cards were tied to a PayPal account that we have.  I reported each theft as soon as I discovered it, which was almost immediately since I get an email notification of every purchase made.

 

PayPal was great to deal with.  I called and was able to speak to a human being, and the money was returned to my account within a few days.  Waiting a few days for the cash to be returned wasn't a huge problem since I still had the debit card to my checking account.

Two weeks later, though, it happened again - this time to the debit card linked to our bank account.  The thief spent over $200 at a Food Lion in Delaware, enough to overdraw the account and cause serious financial turmoil if we didn't get some money in that account fast.

 

At first, I felt compassion toward the thief.  He didn't buy drugs from a French Canadian pharmacy; he used the card at Food Lion.  I imagined him similar to us, living paycheck to paycheck, and struggling to make do with income that's never enough.  The thief probably doesn't want to steal but is forced to in order to feed his family. 

My oldest son straightened me out.  "He probably bought liquor, Mom.  Something he can re-sell for cash.  That's what those people do." 

So much for compassion.  If I could, I would've hunted him down and given him a stern lecture about how despicable it is to steal.  Then I would have kicked him in the groin - HARD - so he remembers.

I called my bank who told me that they wouldn't be able to return the money for ten days to two weeks.  Apparently debit cards work differently from credit cards.  With a credit card, the card is killed and you're not responsible for any charges.  A stolen credit card also doesn't tie up funds in your bank account while the fraud is being investigated.  With a debit card, you could be held responsible for a portion of the charges if you don't discover them right away, plus you're without the money that was stolen.

 

Fortunately, I discovered the fraud right away.  I'm always so broke that I check my account every day to make sure nothing surprising came out that would topple our financial house of cards.  This loss of over $200 definitely qualified as a surprise!

Thanks to this terrible person who stole from us, we had to borrow the funds to cover the amount that our bank account was in the hole so that nothing would bounce, and then not spend any money until pay day.  No food, no gas, nothing.

Apparently, this type of theft is becoming increasingly more common, even in tiny towns such as mine.  Our technology is so outdated that nearly anyone with criminal intent can steal our credit and debit card information by compromising the card swipe machines.  Until technology improves, we are all vulnerable.

In our situation, the thefts likely happened a local grocery store.  We're now using checks when we food shop and cash at gas stations to prevent this from happening again.  Any place with unattended credit card machines, such as food stores or gas pumps, is a prime target for thieves to insert their number skimming devices.  Since ATM machines are also frequently compromised, it's best to get cash directly from the teller at the bank.

One good thing in all of this is that the less we rely on the plastic in our wallets, the more money our local merchants get to keep.  They won't have to pay the surcharges imposed on each transaction, whether debit or credit, by the credit card companies.  Each time we swipe our cards, that merchant pays approximately 3% of the purchase amount to the credit card companies - a significant amount, especially for small businesses.  By paying cash or using a check, the merchant won't have that expense, which will help to boost our local economy even more.

For more information about unauthorized use of credit or debit cards: 

http://www.nolo.com/legal-encyclopedia/unauthorized-credit-debit-card-charges-29654.html

http://www.usa.gov/topics/money/banking/atm-debit.shtml

What could possibly go wrong?

The other night, I sent my oldest son to the drugstore for what some might consider to be an "uncomfortable" item.  Ryan doesn't usually embarrass easily.  He's the kid who still allowed me to hug him in front of his friends when he was in high school, so I didn't think anything of asking him to pick up a package of hemorrhoid wipes for me.  (Oh grow up - they're for hygiene purposes.)  Besides, it wasn't as if I'd asked him to pick up something really embarrassing like tampons, right?

                "Are you going to be OK getting these?" I asked him through the window of his car.

                "Sure," he replied playfully.  "As long as I don't run into a girl I'd like to date."

The rest of the story, as relayed by Ryan, went something like this:

When he arrived, there weren't many people in the store, but a cute young girl was working the checkout area.  Knowing he'd have to encounter this girl as he paid for the wipes, he came up with what he thought was a brilliant idea.

                "Excuse me," he said to the girl.  "I was sent here for something and I'm not sure where to find it.  Can you help me?"

                "Sure," she said.  What are you looking for?"

                "Well, it's these wipes that are supposed to be for hemorrhoids?"  He made the statement into a question, pretending he'd never heard of such a thing before.

                "Oh yes, those are in Aisle 9, at the end."

Ryan thanked her and headed over to Aisle 9, very pleased that he was able to think up such a convincing story.

Somehow, in the time that it took him to walk to the back of the store and then up to the front again, the store had filled with people and they were all standing in the lone checkout line.  The cute girl was still there, ringing up everyone's purchases.   Ryan was glad he'd already explained to her that the wipes were for someone else.  Now he won't have to feel awkward when it's his turn at the register.

 

The line was moving slowly and Ryan was at the end of it.  He had to stand there, holding the hemorrhoid wipes, for what seemed like an eternity.  A man with seventeen bottles of soda was insisting that they were all on sale and it took a while to get all of that sorted out.

Ryan thought he was home free until two young girls "even cuter than the first girl" got in line behind him.  Only it wasn't exactly behind him.  Because the line was so long, it formed horizontally along the front of the store, forcing the girls to stand next to him.  Now he was really feeling uneasy.  He tried his best to hide the wipes from view.

At last, it was his turn to check out.  He smiled at the girl behind the counter, relieved that this whole embarrassing ordeal was almost over.  She took the package from him to ring it up and announced brightly, "So I see you found the hemorrhoid wipes!"

And that was the very last time Ryan would ever agree to go to the store for his mother.

A Dog Park for Introverts

My dog Bailey has never met anyone - of either the two-legged or the four-legged variety - that she doesn't

like. When we're out for a walk, she eagerly pulls toward anyone that she sees, her tail wagging in happy anticipation. 

Once, a woman walking toward us stopped and asked of Bailey, "Is that dog smiling?" I'm sure she was.  I have no doubt that if dogs are capable of smiling, Bailey would be just the dog to figure it out.

When I'm out for a walk, I'm not nearly as keen as my dog about meeting other people.  Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts and the occasional birdsong.  Other times I'm not interested in sharing small talk with strangers.  Still other times, the reason I am out walking with my dog in the first place is because I need to get away from people for awhile so that I can avoid the urge to strangle some of them. 

Sadly, Bailey's encounters with other people and dogs do not always go the way she'd hoped. Occasionally, she will be much more excited about meeting someone than they are about meeting her.  Of course, to Bailey, their rejection merely means that she has to try harder to win them over.  I can imagine her canine brain reasoning, "maybe if I sit adorably and offer my paw, they will love me."  She doesn't realize that the only hope of that person loving her would be if she ceased to be a dog.  Ever the optimist, Bailey continues on her walk, certain that the next person will find her agreeable.

A few times, encounters at the dog park have gone horribly wrong.  Once, a woman with a small white dog insisted that I allow her dog to meet Bailey.  Before I could object, her dog went all Cujo and nearly bit Bailey's face off.  Another time, Bailey nearly crushed a tiny dog in her enthusiasm to play with it.  A fifty-five pound dog is not usually a suitable playmate for a fifteen pound dog in spite of numerous pocket-sized dog owners suggesting otherwise.

These experiences convince me that a trip to the dog park would be much more enjoyable if there weren't any other people or dogs around to spoil it.  My introverted nature, which tends to present itself as crabby, anti-social behavior, would do best if I could just walk the dog already and then go home.  Move along folks; there's absolutely nothing to see here, and I certainly don't want to socialize.

Thus my idea for Lisa's Anti-Social Dog Park:  a place where people and dogs keep to themselves and do their best to avoid one another.  No eye contact, no small talk, and certainly none of that let's-get-acquainted butt-sniffing dogs are so fond of.  Plus, everyone - human and dog alike - would be safer thanks to the park's mandatory fifty-feet personal space requirement.  No chance for dog bites if you're no closer than a nod-and-wave distance. 

Everyone moves along the walking path and then goes home.  The end.  Wouldn't that solve so many problems?

Just don't tell Bailey about it.  I don't think she'd quite understand the concept.

Family Traditions, Take Two

Our family recently celebrated Easter, but no one dyed any eggs.  No one even asked about them.  I didn't hide colorful plastic eggs filled with coins in the back yard, either, and no one even mentioned it.

This took me by surprise because we have done these things every single year for the past 20 years, ever since my oldest son was small.  As his brothers grew, they joined the fun, too.  It's how our family celebrated Easter.  It was predictable and comforting.

My boys are older now, and traditions that used to define our family holidays now feel outdated.  The last time we did the egg hunt, for example, I had to wait for all of them to wake up.  Since when did sleep become more alluring than an Easter egg hunt?

 

Sleeping late on Easter Sunday was unheard of when my kids were younger.  Each one would bounce down the stairs before I'd even had a chance to finish my morning coffee, eager to see who could find the most eggs.  Afterward, they'd crack open their haul on the living room floor and count the treasure inside, amid a sea of colorful eggs.

I wish I'd known that the last time we colored eggs together or had an egg hunt that it was truly going to be the last time.  I would have paid more attention.  I would have taken more pictures.  I would have recorded their laughter.

I would have been fully present. 

Instead of enjoying time with my children, I was no doubt thinking about what was next:  making brunch, straightening the house, or visiting with family.  Activities were always something to get through, to tick off the To-Do list, so that we could all move on to the Next Thing.  So much of life slips by while waiting for the Next Thing.  We realize too late that it was really the first thing, that ordinary morsel of life, that mattered most.

I can't rewind and bring back the days of laughing kids collecting colored eggs on the lawn, but I can resolve to be a more active participant in my own life going forward.  When I'm with my kids, I want to truly be with them: awake, aware, and involved.  I want to feel the messy parts as well as the happy ones.

As for those family traditions, one thing is certain:  there will always be Easter baskets.  Some things endure no matter how old you are.

(photo by Lisa Kern)

AMA: Against Mom's Advice

My son has a friend who wears shorts and t-shirts all winter long.  This kid claims that his body temperature is always so high that he doesn't get cold.  He says he doesn't need to wear a coat, either.  I don't know if it's true that he has some miraculous metabolic way of keeping warm, but I've never seen the kid shivering or looking at all uncomfortable.

When I volunteer at my son's school and see this boy outside at recess, I know I can count on hearing at least one other mom make a comment about the way he's dressed.  "How can his mother let him out of the house like that?" she'll ask, only to follow up with "I'd NEVER let my child dress that way in this weather!"

What she's not considering as she questions the parenting skills of this young man's mother is that he is a teenager and her own child is only in first grade.

 

In my experience, there's a big difference in how you parent a teenager versus a six-year-old.  For starters, a six-year-old is small enough that you can pretty much put a coat on his body for him.  Of course, that kind of action isn't usually necessary since six-year-olds are generally agreeable creatures who want to please everyone.  Not so with teenagers.  Teenagers are desperate for independence and will take any opportunity to display it regardless of who it may displease.

 

The most crucial difference between parenting teens versus young children is that the stakes for teens are so much higher.  Getting a teen to realize that fact can be exasperating.  While we may try every trick in the parenting book to persuade a child to clean his room, no one is harmed if the room stays messy.  The behaviors competing for a teen's attention, though, have the potential to be deadly. Matters involving sex, drugs, or alcohol are non-negotiable, but a messy room isn't worth the same degree of passion and conviction as convincing a teen to never text while driving.

 

Parents of teens are forced to choose their battles and that often means not sweating the small stuff.  These parents have learned that they must reserve their parental energy for the most critical issues in their teen's life.

 

Many times, all that's needed is a dose of tough-love.  The teen years are a perfect time to allow the child to experience the consequences of his own actions.  You didn't clean your room?  You're going to have trouble finding anything.  Didn't do your homework?  Have fun explaining that to your teacher.  Don't want to wear a coat?  Surprise - you're going to be cold.

 

With my own teens, the not-wearing-a-coat thing still makes me crazy even though I know it's a behavior that only affects them.  I'll remind them of how cold it is outside and suggest that they might want to wear a coat, but I can't make them do it.

Nonetheless, I sometimes wish I could pin a note on their clothes that says, "I'm dressed this way against my mom's advice."  They won't be any warmer but I'd feel a whole lot better. 

The family that's sick together sticks together...or something!

It’s like a houseguest who refuses to leave.  Over the past six weeks, four members of my family have been sick with the flu.  

My youngest son is the one who first brought The Crud to us.  I don’t know who gave it to him, but when I find out, that person is definitely off my Christmas card list.  

Evan never had the flu before and couldn’t believe how he physically couldn’t get out of bed for a week.  I took care of him, though, bringing him plenty of fluids to drink and whatever food he felt he could tolerate eating.  In the process, he learned that the IDEA of a sick day is much more fun than the REALITY of a sick day.  Even Algebra class is preferable to being sick in bed with a runaway fever and teeth-chattering chills for days on end.

Two weeks later, it was my turn, even though caring for a sick kid for a week should have earned me a free illness pass - or, at the very least, sainthood.  

The flu struck me down on a Monday.  Interestingly, the same kid I’d taken care of a couple of weeks earlier never even popped his head inside my room to see if I was alive.  Kids...you give them life and they end up leaving you alone to become a flu casualty.  

Thankfully, my husband was more responsible.  He made sure that I had soup and tea and whatever else I could actually get down which wasn’t a lot.  Not many foods sounded appetizing, and of the few that did, the food didn’t taste right.  

On the positive side, the flu is a heckuva diet plan.  Once the week was done, I’d lost ten pounds.  I can hear the infomercial now for the New! Exciting! Flu2014 Diet:  Lose your appetite!  Sleep for a week!  Cough until you pee!  Lose ten pounds while trying not to die!  Can Weight Watchers promise any of that?  I don’t think so.

The flu’s next victim was my oldest son.  Like me, he disappeared into bed on a Monday and didn’t emerge until the following Sunday.  Ryan didn’t ask for much while he was sick, and when he did, he would text me with his request.  This was actually a fabulous system, eliminating the need for me to climb the stairs 400 times per day to check on him only to find that he was always sleeping.  

His texts were concise and to-the-point:

           

           

            “Can I have cough drops?”

“Can I have tea?”  

“Can I have toast?”

“When will this end?”

As soon as Ryan felt better, the flu hit my middle son, Matt, who is still sick as I write this.  Taking care of him has proved to be much more challenging than the other two.  For starters, he refuses to accept that food just doesn’t taste good.  He keeps asking for different things, hoping that one of them will be palatable, and his requests are much more specific:

            “Can you stop at the store and get me some beef stew?”

            “Can I have a glass of water with ice cubes and a bendy straw?”

            “Can I have strawberries and some other kinds of fruit on a plate?”

            “Can you bring me some scrambled eggs, ice cream, cough syrup, and grapes?”

Honestly, if he weren’t obviously sick in bed, I might begin to suspect pregnancy.

While Matt is still trying to feel better, Ryan and Evan and I have discovered that this flu leaves behind a brutal, annoying cough.  People probably won’t want to invite you to the movies, but sounding as if you’re about to cough up a lung does a great job of chasing away hovering bosses and chatty co-workers.

Want to try some Flu2014 for yourself?  The kids and I and our germs will be right over.  

How the Internet Helped Paint My Kitchen

For the past two months, my kitchen has been under some sort of construction.  We had an undetected leak inside the kitchen wall which seeped underneath the whole floor.  Since you can't dry out water from below a tile floor, the entire kitchen had to come out in order to replace the damaged floor and walls.

          This experience has not been as much fun as you'd expect.  A forced renovation doesn't feel nearly as exciting as a planned one, and I can personally attest that there's at least twice as much swearing involved.  Still, we had to do what we had to do, so the past few months have been spent packing up things from our cabinets, tearing them out, replacing the floor and walls, and putting everything back together again.

Since our cabinets were undamaged, we didn't have to worry about selecting new ones, but everything else had to be chosen.  Tile or laminate floor?  Should the countertop be solid surface or granite?  What color tile for the backsplash?  Which accent tiles?  Of course, every new choice had to also match the previous choices or the kitchen would look as if it were coordinated by a colorblind five-year-old.  While my decorating skills are not among my greatest talents, they are superior to those of a colorblind five-year-old.

Through this project, I've learned that there's nothing like a home renovation to put a marriage to the test.  In the beginning, Dan and I happily chose a countertop and flooring together, each respecting the other's opinion.  By the time we had to choose a paint color, though, neither of us could muster any energy - or cooperation - over yet another choice to make. 

Since Dan was also our contractor, working every spare moment on the kitchen in addition to his regular full-time job began to take a toll on him.  Picking a paint color was not something he was the tiniest bit interested in doing.  He just wanted to be DONE.  So instead of attempting to help me choose, or even giving me any kind of advance warning, I simply received the instruction, "I'm painting tomorrow, so pick a color."

This request should not strike fear in anyone, but it did in me.  The last time I picked a paint color, it did not end well.  What should've been the warm color of terracotta somehow morphed into Pink Panther pink when it was applied to the walls of my kitchen.  The color was so ugly that when I told my mother about the water damage in our kitchen, the first thing she said was, "Does this mean you can finally get rid of that godawful pink paint?"

After that painful pink experience, I was determined to choose a paint color I wouldn't regret.  But how could I select the right one with only a day to pick it?

I had a rare day off from work, so I set about the business of selecting paint for the kitchen.  Dan gave me one of those huge contractor paint swatch fan decks with a gazillion color choices.  Since there was a lot of gray in both the countertop and the floor, I started with the gray palette.  There were so many choices!  Names such as "Mindful Gray," "Worldly Gray," "Amazing Gray," "Intellectual Gray," and "Agreeable Gray" were amusing but not at all helpful.  I wasn't sure I wanted my walls to be smarter or more interesting than I am. 

A different color strip offered "Proper Gray" (as opposed to IMproper Gray?"), "Essential Gray" (made me wonder what "Non-Essential Gray" looked like,) and "Grayish."  Of the last one, my son Ryan said,"'Grayish?'  Really?  It's like they weren't even trying!"

I had high hopes for this color strip in spite of the lackluster names, but didn't feel confident enough to choose by myself.  I needed some real experts, so I did what any other clueless mom would do:  I asked my Facebook friends.

I posted photos of potential paint candidates along with samples of my floor, backsplash tiles, and countertop.  Within moments, friends were there to offer advice and opinions about the best color for my kitchen.

They were with me when I posted photos of the samples in the early morning sun.  They were with me when I discarded those colors and had to start all over later in the day because the dim light made them look dreadful. 

I thought my choice was settled until a friend recommended that I hold my favorite color next to my oak-colored cabinets to make sure it didn't clash.  Oops.  I'd completely forgotten about the cabinets!  She was right: the color that looked wonderful with the countertop, floor, and tile looked terrible next to the warm wood tones of my hickory cabinets.

Another friend had previously suggested a green palette which I hastily dismissed.  Now, being back at square one, I was willing to try anything - even (gasp!) The Green Palette.

I went to the paint store and selected several green-hued swatches.  Even though I had an entire color wheel at home, I wanted actual swatches to hang on the wall.

One color jumped out at me:  Silvermist.  It was a green-ish , gray-ish, aqua-ish, blue-ish color that was absolutely beautiful.  Plus, in no way did the name "Silvermist" make me feel inadequate as those gray colors had done.  Paint definitely wins points if it leaves my self-esteem intact.

I taped the swatches to the walls around the room.  The Silvermist one kept catching my eye.  I took a photo of the Silvermist swatch as well as two others and posted them to my Facebook page.  Within moments, friends commented in support of my choices.  Happily, I wasn't the only one who liked these new green-based swatches.

Dan came home from work and saw the paint swatches hanging all over the kitchen.

"So, did you pick a paint?"

"I think so," I said.  "I just want to see how the one I like looks in the morning with the sun hitting it."

Dan walked up to the Silvermist swatch.  "I really like this one."

"You do?" I was surprised that he expressed an opinion.  I mean, how would he hold it over my head for choosing an ugly color if he liked it, too?

"I like that one, too.  So do my Facebook friends."

"You asked your Facebook friends about a paint color?"

Clearly this man doesn't understand a thing about decorating.