Change is a natural part of life, but sometimes you have to be dragged into newness by circumstances or by others who have forced you to change.
When the universe, or Fate, or God, has decided that you have had enough of something, you are given clues that it is time to move on. If you don’t heed those clues, somehow you are moved along anyway, like when a job is lost or a person ceases to be a positive force in your life.
When you are thrown into change you weren’t expecting, you may complain about your bad luck and the awful things that have happened to you. You may stay in the past by repeating your sad stories.
But the state of “enough” is a turning point. It can be a springboard for a high flying leap into a better way of life. When you realize that you have been given a clean slate, a “tabula rasa,” that you can decide for yourself to move forward because you have had enough, then you give yourself freedom.
I am not an authority on life-changing, but I have had plenty of practice. Every “enough” opens a new door, and it’s even better when you can make a thoughtful change based on your own choices, rather than what is forced upon you.
My “enough” decisions are meant to improve my life experience.
I’ve had enough of:
Fast, processed, overpriced, convenience food. Cooking from “scratch” is fun, creative, and healthful, not to mention less expensive in the long run, especially if I factor in the health care savings when I take good care of myself by eating well. Slow food is my new (old) choice.
Rude, apathetic, inconsiderate, or unhelpful service workers. Any store or business that wants MY business needs to know if their employees are repelling customers rather than serving them kindly. And speaking up when I’m treated poorly is an act of self-respect. I’ll practice courtesy to workers and expect the same in return.
Gossip and judgmental behavior. I won’t participate in putting other people down, and I won’t stick around and listen when others are doing so. I wouldn’t want someone talking about my life, and it is no one else’s business anyway. I’ll let folks live their own lives without adding my two cents. No one ever asks to be gossiped about or judged. Kindness is my choice.
Being serious and worried. Aren’t we supposed to enjoy life? That is nearly impossible when stressing about what could go wrong or isn’t going right. There is always room for a sense of humor, and laughing is exercise for the mind, body and soul. If the need for being serious arises, I’m sure I’ll be able to shift into that mode. It’s like riding a bike – you don’t forget how. When I exercise my sense of humor, my life will be a comedy.
Waiting too long to get started. Procrastination defies the authority of the clock and the never-stopping time that marches on past deadlines and others waiting for me. I will start wearing my wristwatch with the alarm and the timer again, so I can wake myself from the trance that I get immersed in when I am concentrating on something. I’ll work on starting sooner and getting done earlier. This change will undoubtedly be helpful to the people in my life, and I like to be helpful.
Change is an opportunity to learn, and finding the moment of “enough” gives me the chance to grow. My theory is that change, learning and growth will keep me feeling young, so it’s all good. I’m feeling younger already.
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, August 2007.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Bittersweet Parenting
By Monday at 3:00 p.m., my son, Mark, had passed his driver’s road test. By 4:00 p.m., he had his license. And at 4:30, he had the keys to his first car.
It was a big day for my first child, who was born three weeks early, who could have been lost when the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck during delivery, and who started life weighing less than six pounds. Now, at 5’11”, he has definitely caught up.
I am sentimental. I take note of events while they are happening and realize how important it is to enjoy the moment, as each momentous occasion is unique and will never be repeated. Monday was no exception, and I’m glad I was there to witness Mark’s next step in maturity.
Of course, being sentimental, I started thinking about other occasions in his life. His first words led to sentences, which led to him verbalizing everything that came to his mind. At times his talent for words has been a challenge, when I wanted him to be quiet and he would not cooperate. But I appreciate his ability to express himself and I’m glad he talks to me.
His first steps led to walking, which allowed him to walk away from me, to run, to be independent. I had a hard time keeping up with him, but he was just a warm-up for when his brother, Tommy, was born and I had two boys to chase around.
As a first-time mother I was naïve about this parenting business and I thought I could, if I was diligent, do everything right. I was careful about what he ate, about where he played, about keeping everything clean. I remember when Mark was teething and my sister-in-law, Kathy, put her finger in his mouth to help soothe his sore gums. I asked her if she had washed her hands first. Who knew what germs she might be harboring! Yes, I was a fanatic.
I wrote a two-page instruction manual for my parents the first time they watched my precious baby while I was gone, as if they hadn’t raised three children themselves and weren’t capable of figuring out what to do. They humored me and read my list, then did their own thing after I left. Mark survived, and I never knew the difference.
His first birthday. The first time he got on the school bus to go to Kindergarten. His first sleepover at a friend’s house. At age eleven, his first week away from home at Boy Scout camp, and the bittersweet memory of my visit there that led to his sudden homesickness, and then his equally sudden decision to let go of me to stay with his troop. I saw him grow up a little right in front of my eyes, and it was gratifying and saddening at the same time.
I realize now that there is no such thing as perfect parenting. We do what we can with what skills and knowledge we have to work with, we hope for the best, we love our children, and we learn how to let go of them.
For me, that has been the hardest part, every step of the way, the letting go. I never realized how much I could love someone until I had children, and the thought of them leaving is excruciating and inevitable. If I do a good job, not a perfect job, but a good one, when they leave they will have the skills to live satisfying lives, and they will come back occasionally so I can love them in person rather than from afar. This is what I hope for.
As Mark drives off to new adventures, continuing the process of making his life his own, Tommy is right behind him, ready to grow up too fast.
I believe there is a little bit of heartbreak every time a child leaves home (unless the child is thirty) and that life is full of bittersweet moments like that. It’s a good thing we were made with hearts that can be healed by loving, because that’s the only thing that has allowed me to open my hand and let go.
And let go I will, when it is time. But not just yet. For right now, I will enjoy the time I have with my wonderful sons, and I will remember all the love that has gone into this family over the years.
Yes, someday the nest will be empty. But I know, without a doubt, that my heart will be full.
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, July 2007.
It was a big day for my first child, who was born three weeks early, who could have been lost when the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck during delivery, and who started life weighing less than six pounds. Now, at 5’11”, he has definitely caught up.
I am sentimental. I take note of events while they are happening and realize how important it is to enjoy the moment, as each momentous occasion is unique and will never be repeated. Monday was no exception, and I’m glad I was there to witness Mark’s next step in maturity.
Of course, being sentimental, I started thinking about other occasions in his life. His first words led to sentences, which led to him verbalizing everything that came to his mind. At times his talent for words has been a challenge, when I wanted him to be quiet and he would not cooperate. But I appreciate his ability to express himself and I’m glad he talks to me.
His first steps led to walking, which allowed him to walk away from me, to run, to be independent. I had a hard time keeping up with him, but he was just a warm-up for when his brother, Tommy, was born and I had two boys to chase around.
As a first-time mother I was naïve about this parenting business and I thought I could, if I was diligent, do everything right. I was careful about what he ate, about where he played, about keeping everything clean. I remember when Mark was teething and my sister-in-law, Kathy, put her finger in his mouth to help soothe his sore gums. I asked her if she had washed her hands first. Who knew what germs she might be harboring! Yes, I was a fanatic.
I wrote a two-page instruction manual for my parents the first time they watched my precious baby while I was gone, as if they hadn’t raised three children themselves and weren’t capable of figuring out what to do. They humored me and read my list, then did their own thing after I left. Mark survived, and I never knew the difference.
His first birthday. The first time he got on the school bus to go to Kindergarten. His first sleepover at a friend’s house. At age eleven, his first week away from home at Boy Scout camp, and the bittersweet memory of my visit there that led to his sudden homesickness, and then his equally sudden decision to let go of me to stay with his troop. I saw him grow up a little right in front of my eyes, and it was gratifying and saddening at the same time.
I realize now that there is no such thing as perfect parenting. We do what we can with what skills and knowledge we have to work with, we hope for the best, we love our children, and we learn how to let go of them.
For me, that has been the hardest part, every step of the way, the letting go. I never realized how much I could love someone until I had children, and the thought of them leaving is excruciating and inevitable. If I do a good job, not a perfect job, but a good one, when they leave they will have the skills to live satisfying lives, and they will come back occasionally so I can love them in person rather than from afar. This is what I hope for.
As Mark drives off to new adventures, continuing the process of making his life his own, Tommy is right behind him, ready to grow up too fast.
I believe there is a little bit of heartbreak every time a child leaves home (unless the child is thirty) and that life is full of bittersweet moments like that. It’s a good thing we were made with hearts that can be healed by loving, because that’s the only thing that has allowed me to open my hand and let go.
And let go I will, when it is time. But not just yet. For right now, I will enjoy the time I have with my wonderful sons, and I will remember all the love that has gone into this family over the years.
Yes, someday the nest will be empty. But I know, without a doubt, that my heart will be full.
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, July 2007.
Understanding
I am the kind of person who wants to understand things.
I sometimes find answers in my search for understanding, but a lot of times I am left wondering, “What were they thinking?”
For example, in my job search I have filled out a lot of applications. These documents are a basic way for companies to gather information on a person, but sometimes the space provided makes me wonder if optometrists design them so folks will buy more glasses.
One application asked for “Employment History.” That included company name, address, etc., but the spaces for that information were 3/8 of an inch tall and two inches wide. I can print quite small, but unfortunately I can’t read anything that has to be printed so tiny. I hope whatever I wrote will make a good impression. And that whoever reads it has a magnifying glass.
Another application issue is the “Wage Desired” category. This is a tough one. Why do they ask that, and how are you supposed to answer it? If you write down a smaller number in hopes of having more of a chance of getting hired, they get you at a reduced price and you don’t have a right to be unhappy about it, no matter how much you complain to your friends later.
If you shoot higher and put down what you REALLY want in the way of pay, they may toss your papers on a reject pile, assuming that you want too much and you wouldn’t be happy working for them. By the way, to the employer on whose application I wrote “$9.99,” I think I was delirious from all the miniscule writing and I hope you have a sense of humor. Think of it as a retail-merchandising tactic, okay?
Most advice I have received on the wage desirability question says that writing “negotiable” on your application is your best bet. The ideal time to discuss wages is after the interviewer likes what he or she sees and you have decided you’d like the job, and then you two can have a discussion about how you will be compensated for your vastly wonderful skills.
Besides, the word “desire” is not appropriate on a job application. I have never heard anyone say, “I desire $6.95 per hour.” That would sound weird and I would urge that person to get a life and find some more pleasurable things to desire, like loaded nachos with sour cream and guacamole, beach vacations, apple pie alamode, affection, and comfortable women’s shoes that look “hot.”
Another thing that puzzles me is why they make Wheat Thins (insert trademark sign here) in family size boxes. Don’t they know that I will open that box and eat them continually until there is nothing left except a few broken pieces and crumbs in the bottom? I am part of a family, but do not qualify as a “family” myself. (Although continuing to eat large quantities of salty wheat snack crackers COULD push me into the weight category of a “group”.) They should accurately call them “Wheat Thins Lovers” size boxes. My family never gets any of them, so why include them in the name?
Speaking of shoes, I recently went shoe shopping (not a fun experience for anyone with me, because I am really picky, but I enjoyed it). Why does anyone think that wearing those stretchy footie things protects you from the nasty foot gunk that a previous shopper might have left behind? If air and water can pass through them easily, can’t fungi? And how is a woman supposed to visualize herself looking smashing in a pair of shoes while wearing ankle-high nylon socks?
I may never get the answers to these and many more questions, but I will continue on my quest to gather mostly useless information that may lead to more column material. Hey, a girl’s gotta be able to afford those comfortable, hot shoes somehow. I think I’ll put the Wheat Thins away now, and maybe take a nap. All this thinking has worn me out, and I have to be prepared for more tiny handwriting. I’m getting quite good at it. Perhaps I can put that down as one of my “skills” on the next application. Every little bit helps!
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, June 2007.
I sometimes find answers in my search for understanding, but a lot of times I am left wondering, “What were they thinking?”
For example, in my job search I have filled out a lot of applications. These documents are a basic way for companies to gather information on a person, but sometimes the space provided makes me wonder if optometrists design them so folks will buy more glasses.
One application asked for “Employment History.” That included company name, address, etc., but the spaces for that information were 3/8 of an inch tall and two inches wide. I can print quite small, but unfortunately I can’t read anything that has to be printed so tiny. I hope whatever I wrote will make a good impression. And that whoever reads it has a magnifying glass.
Another application issue is the “Wage Desired” category. This is a tough one. Why do they ask that, and how are you supposed to answer it? If you write down a smaller number in hopes of having more of a chance of getting hired, they get you at a reduced price and you don’t have a right to be unhappy about it, no matter how much you complain to your friends later.
If you shoot higher and put down what you REALLY want in the way of pay, they may toss your papers on a reject pile, assuming that you want too much and you wouldn’t be happy working for them. By the way, to the employer on whose application I wrote “$9.99,” I think I was delirious from all the miniscule writing and I hope you have a sense of humor. Think of it as a retail-merchandising tactic, okay?
Most advice I have received on the wage desirability question says that writing “negotiable” on your application is your best bet. The ideal time to discuss wages is after the interviewer likes what he or she sees and you have decided you’d like the job, and then you two can have a discussion about how you will be compensated for your vastly wonderful skills.
Besides, the word “desire” is not appropriate on a job application. I have never heard anyone say, “I desire $6.95 per hour.” That would sound weird and I would urge that person to get a life and find some more pleasurable things to desire, like loaded nachos with sour cream and guacamole, beach vacations, apple pie alamode, affection, and comfortable women’s shoes that look “hot.”
Another thing that puzzles me is why they make Wheat Thins (insert trademark sign here) in family size boxes. Don’t they know that I will open that box and eat them continually until there is nothing left except a few broken pieces and crumbs in the bottom? I am part of a family, but do not qualify as a “family” myself. (Although continuing to eat large quantities of salty wheat snack crackers COULD push me into the weight category of a “group”.) They should accurately call them “Wheat Thins Lovers” size boxes. My family never gets any of them, so why include them in the name?
Speaking of shoes, I recently went shoe shopping (not a fun experience for anyone with me, because I am really picky, but I enjoyed it). Why does anyone think that wearing those stretchy footie things protects you from the nasty foot gunk that a previous shopper might have left behind? If air and water can pass through them easily, can’t fungi? And how is a woman supposed to visualize herself looking smashing in a pair of shoes while wearing ankle-high nylon socks?
I may never get the answers to these and many more questions, but I will continue on my quest to gather mostly useless information that may lead to more column material. Hey, a girl’s gotta be able to afford those comfortable, hot shoes somehow. I think I’ll put the Wheat Thins away now, and maybe take a nap. All this thinking has worn me out, and I have to be prepared for more tiny handwriting. I’m getting quite good at it. Perhaps I can put that down as one of my “skills” on the next application. Every little bit helps!
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, June 2007.
Inside
“We’re all the same age inside.”
I saw this phrase on a greeting card several years ago. After some thought, I realized that I felt the same inside as I had when I was younger. Time hadn’t changed the Me that made up my personality or ideas.
My interpretation of that card is that inside each person is an ageless self, therefore, we are all the same in that regard, all ageless, all the same age.
We may change our actions and reactions as we have more experiences, but we don’t change our “selves.” We gain knowledge. We acquire parts of ourselves that can either help us grow or weigh us down. We develop, but we don’t lose who we are, although we may temporarily deny or hide our true selves.
Some people call this the “inner child” and say that to be truly healthy, you need to examine how the child inside feels about your adult choices. I say that paying attention to what you really want is important regardless of the age of your gut feelings. Ignoring what makes you happy is a sure way to be miserable. And being miserable makes those around you miserable, too, because misery takes prisoners and holds them hostage.
I was inspired to think about age, a topic I usually avoid (because I’ve been in denial about my own aging) by a speaker at Adrian High School a few weeks ago. My oldest son, Mark, was one of the students inducted into the National Honor Society. (I’m very proud of him, although it annoys him for me to say so. Sorry, Mark.)
Tom MacNaughton, whom I’ve known since I was frivolously taking my youth for granted, was the featured speaker at the NHS event. As the director of the Lenawee County Department on Aging, an agency that serves the oldest population of our society, Tom knows aging – but he uses his knowledge to defy the stereotypes of growing older.
In his speech, Tom asked the question, “What kind of older person do you want to be?” He told of people in their 70s, 80s, and 90s who have stayed active and reached goals that younger folks might have given up on. He spoke of his personal goals, of long ago making a list of things he wanted to do in his life, and of running marathons at age 55. His stories pointed out the value of keeping physically and mentally fit, in order to enjoy vitality rather than assuming that decline is expected as we age.
I thought I was doing quite well at not acting my age. But the more I thought about what Tom said, the more I realized what I have given up. I’ve stopped doing things that I used to enjoy because “people my age don’t do that.” I’ve let the fear of injury or discomfort, both physical and mental, stop me from taking on some new challenges. I’ve aged myself, when I am really the same age inside that I’ve always been. Time has not done this to me – I have done it to myself.
When the shock of this realization wore off, I decided to reverse the trend and start doing more. I’ve been getting more exercise, and I’m thinking about making that list of goals, of things I want to do while I’m still kicking. Sure, I may not be as fit as I was in my twenties, but I can improve. I can take control of where this train is headed, instead of letting it run down the track without an engineer, only to be surprised later at where I end up.
When I told my mother that my column topic this week was aging, she said, “Aging is great! If you’re going up (in age), at least you’re not stopping!” I think I’ll add that to my list of “Momisms.” Another good one is “Never say you’re old! Think young and you’ll feel young.” No wonder she’s so busy all the time. She’s like the Energizer Bunny because she has no concept of being too old to do what she wants.
I’m getting out a piece of paper today, and I’m starting on that list. First item: Dance when I feel like dancing, even when my teenagers say, “Mom, PLEASE don’t dance!”
Are you with me? What kind of older person do you want to be?
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan in May, 2007.
I saw this phrase on a greeting card several years ago. After some thought, I realized that I felt the same inside as I had when I was younger. Time hadn’t changed the Me that made up my personality or ideas.
My interpretation of that card is that inside each person is an ageless self, therefore, we are all the same in that regard, all ageless, all the same age.
We may change our actions and reactions as we have more experiences, but we don’t change our “selves.” We gain knowledge. We acquire parts of ourselves that can either help us grow or weigh us down. We develop, but we don’t lose who we are, although we may temporarily deny or hide our true selves.
Some people call this the “inner child” and say that to be truly healthy, you need to examine how the child inside feels about your adult choices. I say that paying attention to what you really want is important regardless of the age of your gut feelings. Ignoring what makes you happy is a sure way to be miserable. And being miserable makes those around you miserable, too, because misery takes prisoners and holds them hostage.
I was inspired to think about age, a topic I usually avoid (because I’ve been in denial about my own aging) by a speaker at Adrian High School a few weeks ago. My oldest son, Mark, was one of the students inducted into the National Honor Society. (I’m very proud of him, although it annoys him for me to say so. Sorry, Mark.)
Tom MacNaughton, whom I’ve known since I was frivolously taking my youth for granted, was the featured speaker at the NHS event. As the director of the Lenawee County Department on Aging, an agency that serves the oldest population of our society, Tom knows aging – but he uses his knowledge to defy the stereotypes of growing older.
In his speech, Tom asked the question, “What kind of older person do you want to be?” He told of people in their 70s, 80s, and 90s who have stayed active and reached goals that younger folks might have given up on. He spoke of his personal goals, of long ago making a list of things he wanted to do in his life, and of running marathons at age 55. His stories pointed out the value of keeping physically and mentally fit, in order to enjoy vitality rather than assuming that decline is expected as we age.
I thought I was doing quite well at not acting my age. But the more I thought about what Tom said, the more I realized what I have given up. I’ve stopped doing things that I used to enjoy because “people my age don’t do that.” I’ve let the fear of injury or discomfort, both physical and mental, stop me from taking on some new challenges. I’ve aged myself, when I am really the same age inside that I’ve always been. Time has not done this to me – I have done it to myself.
When the shock of this realization wore off, I decided to reverse the trend and start doing more. I’ve been getting more exercise, and I’m thinking about making that list of goals, of things I want to do while I’m still kicking. Sure, I may not be as fit as I was in my twenties, but I can improve. I can take control of where this train is headed, instead of letting it run down the track without an engineer, only to be surprised later at where I end up.
When I told my mother that my column topic this week was aging, she said, “Aging is great! If you’re going up (in age), at least you’re not stopping!” I think I’ll add that to my list of “Momisms.” Another good one is “Never say you’re old! Think young and you’ll feel young.” No wonder she’s so busy all the time. She’s like the Energizer Bunny because she has no concept of being too old to do what she wants.
I’m getting out a piece of paper today, and I’m starting on that list. First item: Dance when I feel like dancing, even when my teenagers say, “Mom, PLEASE don’t dance!”
Are you with me? What kind of older person do you want to be?
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan in May, 2007.
Is life supposed to be fun?
I think life is supposed to be fun.
Just for kicks, I looked up the word “fun” on dictionary.com and found that the most common meaning is “a source of enjoyment, amusement, or pleasure.” That seems to fit in well with my plan to have a fun life. Who wouldn’t want their life to be a source of enjoyment, amusement, and pleasure?
I am not a profoundly serious person. I can take care of business well enough, but I also have instances of uncontrollable laughter when something strikes me as funny. This can cause problems. For example, I cannot say the word “booger” without laughing. The word is not meant to be serious. But there is no other word to use, so there it is. I try to use it sparingly.
I’m getting off track here. I seem to do that more often lately. One of the benefits of getting older is the chance to blame forgetfulness on something other than being spacey, which I have been accused of. But don’t let that fool you, I am plenty smart enough when I need to be.
While I was at dictionary.com, which is one of my favorite sites, (I love words, you know) I noticed that the word of the day was “hardscrabble.” Hardscrabble’s definition is “Yielding a bare or meager living with great labor or difficulty.” That would be quite the opposite of fun.
When I was a child I once told my mother that I wanted to have fun. I remember the day clearly when she told me that everything in life was not going to be fun, was not supposed to be fun. Why I remember that day, and exactly where I was standing in the house, and exactly how I felt, I do not know, but I do remember it. And I also remember vowing to myself that my life indeed would be fun, no matter what anyone else said.
I’m sure sometimes my mother cringes when she sees me mention her in my columns, waiting for the ball to drop on whatever she might have done as a parent. (Sorry, Mom, but this comes with the territory. You did a good job, really.)
There has to be a middle ground between constant amusement and a hardscrabble life. As a child I thought it was necessary to choose one or the other. Now I know that enjoyment comes in many forms.
I have dreams of things I want to do, and like a child I believe in those dreams. My fun has become less a matter of mirth, and more a matter of satisfaction that I have done what I wanted with my life. Dreaming is enjoyable, but living the dream is something that makes for a good life.
At some point many adults give up on their dreams. How sad. But new dreams are always possible, and they give a spark that keeps youthful enthusiasm available for folks of any age.
I’ve gone through periods of a hardscrabble life, and for a while it seems that trudging along is part of life and I had better accept it. Then I wake up from the nightmare and realize that it’s all in my head, that struggling is a sign that change is needed, and that I need to trade the nightmare for a dream that will get me where I want to go.
We all need dreams. We can’t get anywhere without them, and the inspiration they give us keeps us from having that hardscrabble life that chains us to defeat.
(Written February 25, 2007)
Just for kicks, I looked up the word “fun” on dictionary.com and found that the most common meaning is “a source of enjoyment, amusement, or pleasure.” That seems to fit in well with my plan to have a fun life. Who wouldn’t want their life to be a source of enjoyment, amusement, and pleasure?
I am not a profoundly serious person. I can take care of business well enough, but I also have instances of uncontrollable laughter when something strikes me as funny. This can cause problems. For example, I cannot say the word “booger” without laughing. The word is not meant to be serious. But there is no other word to use, so there it is. I try to use it sparingly.
I’m getting off track here. I seem to do that more often lately. One of the benefits of getting older is the chance to blame forgetfulness on something other than being spacey, which I have been accused of. But don’t let that fool you, I am plenty smart enough when I need to be.
While I was at dictionary.com, which is one of my favorite sites, (I love words, you know) I noticed that the word of the day was “hardscrabble.” Hardscrabble’s definition is “Yielding a bare or meager living with great labor or difficulty.” That would be quite the opposite of fun.
When I was a child I once told my mother that I wanted to have fun. I remember the day clearly when she told me that everything in life was not going to be fun, was not supposed to be fun. Why I remember that day, and exactly where I was standing in the house, and exactly how I felt, I do not know, but I do remember it. And I also remember vowing to myself that my life indeed would be fun, no matter what anyone else said.
I’m sure sometimes my mother cringes when she sees me mention her in my columns, waiting for the ball to drop on whatever she might have done as a parent. (Sorry, Mom, but this comes with the territory. You did a good job, really.)
There has to be a middle ground between constant amusement and a hardscrabble life. As a child I thought it was necessary to choose one or the other. Now I know that enjoyment comes in many forms.
I have dreams of things I want to do, and like a child I believe in those dreams. My fun has become less a matter of mirth, and more a matter of satisfaction that I have done what I wanted with my life. Dreaming is enjoyable, but living the dream is something that makes for a good life.
At some point many adults give up on their dreams. How sad. But new dreams are always possible, and they give a spark that keeps youthful enthusiasm available for folks of any age.
I’ve gone through periods of a hardscrabble life, and for a while it seems that trudging along is part of life and I had better accept it. Then I wake up from the nightmare and realize that it’s all in my head, that struggling is a sign that change is needed, and that I need to trade the nightmare for a dream that will get me where I want to go.
We all need dreams. We can’t get anywhere without them, and the inspiration they give us keeps us from having that hardscrabble life that chains us to defeat.
(Written February 25, 2007)
A Day for Mothers
I love being a mother.
Sometimes motherhood is the most difficult and challenging job I have ever taken on. Other times it is incredibly rewarding and satisfying. But always it is the commitment I devote the most energy to, take the most pride in, and learn the most lessons from.
Raising children to be responsible, caring adults is an honorable task. I think that my sons are turning out to be wonderful young men. I hope that whatever I have taught them will continue to be a positive influence in their lives.
After more than a decade of single parenthood, I can say that the advice I got eleven years ago is true: Parenting solo does get easier, over time.
The first few years of taking care of two small children on my own were tough. They went almost everywhere with me. If I had to go grocery shopping, I took my two little helpers. If we ran out of milk in the evening, we all got in the car to get more.
If they were sick, I sat up at night with them. When they fought, screaming and chasing each other through the house, I was the moderator. I hugged and kissed their tears away, and listened when they needed to talk about something, but not all the time and not always objectively.
I spent time with them in doctors’ offices, the emergency room, and around x-ray machines. I was with them during the sad times, the mad times, and the happy times. I sang to them. I juggled work and school functions and housework and errands, all while trying to give them the best possible childhood I could, under the circumstances.
I made lots of mistakes, and occasionally they will remind me of that. They are teenagers now. I have told them they need to get a good education so they can get good jobs, and then they can afford the therapy they might need to deal with how I raised them. They laugh at me. They call me a nerd. They love me.
I wouldn’t be half the mother I am without the direction and support of my own mother, Janet Brown. Without her love and guidance, I would have faltered in my task of raising these boys. She helped me keep my head above water when I felt I was drowning. She has never been more than a phone call away. She loves me. I am extremely lucky to have her.
My mom taught me how to cook, bake, and make excellent pie crust. She taught me how to take care of a home and nurture a family. From her I learned how to sew clothing, to hem a skirt or a pair of pants, and to make repairs on everything from wobbly furniture to a dinner gone awry. She is the ultimate in self-sufficiency, but she knows that no one is really self-sufficient, that we all need each other.
When I work in my small flower garden, I think of my mom. She has always gardened, and I grew up learning the names of flowers like portulaca, sedum, peony, petunia and four o’clocks, among many others. I spaded and weeded the vegetable garden with my brothers, and learned from my mother the wonders of nature and the value of hard work, in the fruits of our labor that fed us and beautified our home.
My mother shows me that you can be 70 years young and beautiful. I call her several times a week, just to talk. She tells me about her garden and her projects, and I remind myself that I want to be like her, active and vibrant no matter what my age. She is philosophical and believes that we attract to ourselves what we think about, so she thinks in positive ways and expects the best outcome. I love talking to her.
Because Mother’s Day is next week, I have been trying to think of what to give a mother who has given me the tools to be a good mother myself, and to have a great life. There are many options for Mother’s Day gifts. But what can I do to show her my appreciation for all she has done for me?
I will live my life with her example. I will love my sons as she loves me. I will be happy.
Thanks Mom, and Happy Mother’s Day. You are the best.
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, on May 5, 2007.
Sometimes motherhood is the most difficult and challenging job I have ever taken on. Other times it is incredibly rewarding and satisfying. But always it is the commitment I devote the most energy to, take the most pride in, and learn the most lessons from.
Raising children to be responsible, caring adults is an honorable task. I think that my sons are turning out to be wonderful young men. I hope that whatever I have taught them will continue to be a positive influence in their lives.
After more than a decade of single parenthood, I can say that the advice I got eleven years ago is true: Parenting solo does get easier, over time.
The first few years of taking care of two small children on my own were tough. They went almost everywhere with me. If I had to go grocery shopping, I took my two little helpers. If we ran out of milk in the evening, we all got in the car to get more.
If they were sick, I sat up at night with them. When they fought, screaming and chasing each other through the house, I was the moderator. I hugged and kissed their tears away, and listened when they needed to talk about something, but not all the time and not always objectively.
I spent time with them in doctors’ offices, the emergency room, and around x-ray machines. I was with them during the sad times, the mad times, and the happy times. I sang to them. I juggled work and school functions and housework and errands, all while trying to give them the best possible childhood I could, under the circumstances.
I made lots of mistakes, and occasionally they will remind me of that. They are teenagers now. I have told them they need to get a good education so they can get good jobs, and then they can afford the therapy they might need to deal with how I raised them. They laugh at me. They call me a nerd. They love me.
I wouldn’t be half the mother I am without the direction and support of my own mother, Janet Brown. Without her love and guidance, I would have faltered in my task of raising these boys. She helped me keep my head above water when I felt I was drowning. She has never been more than a phone call away. She loves me. I am extremely lucky to have her.
My mom taught me how to cook, bake, and make excellent pie crust. She taught me how to take care of a home and nurture a family. From her I learned how to sew clothing, to hem a skirt or a pair of pants, and to make repairs on everything from wobbly furniture to a dinner gone awry. She is the ultimate in self-sufficiency, but she knows that no one is really self-sufficient, that we all need each other.
When I work in my small flower garden, I think of my mom. She has always gardened, and I grew up learning the names of flowers like portulaca, sedum, peony, petunia and four o’clocks, among many others. I spaded and weeded the vegetable garden with my brothers, and learned from my mother the wonders of nature and the value of hard work, in the fruits of our labor that fed us and beautified our home.
My mother shows me that you can be 70 years young and beautiful. I call her several times a week, just to talk. She tells me about her garden and her projects, and I remind myself that I want to be like her, active and vibrant no matter what my age. She is philosophical and believes that we attract to ourselves what we think about, so she thinks in positive ways and expects the best outcome. I love talking to her.
Because Mother’s Day is next week, I have been trying to think of what to give a mother who has given me the tools to be a good mother myself, and to have a great life. There are many options for Mother’s Day gifts. But what can I do to show her my appreciation for all she has done for me?
I will live my life with her example. I will love my sons as she loves me. I will be happy.
Thanks Mom, and Happy Mother’s Day. You are the best.
Published in The Daily Telegram, Adrian, Michigan, on May 5, 2007.
Starting Fresh
I've been away for a long time, and one of my goals is to get back to writing as part of my lifestyle. Some of my newspaper column readers have been asking me when I'm going to write again, and I'm sorry for missing the connection I used to have with those in my community. Today, on the second day of a new year, I vow to make up for lost time and spill my guts in type again, repeatedly. Don't forget, you asked for it!
(With my mom, the woman who made all this possible.)
For more of my writing, check here: http://writersweekly.com/contest/summer03winners.html
A recent article in The Daily Telegram (if you count "within the last year" as recent): http://tinyurl.com/72u8xh
My most recent published piece: http://www.toledocitypaper.com/view_article.php?id=1900
More to come. Keep your eyes peeled! (A gross term if I've ever heard one!)
(With my mom, the woman who made all this possible.)
For more of my writing, check here: http://writersweekly.com/contest/summer03winners.html
A recent article in The Daily Telegram (if you count "within the last year" as recent): http://tinyurl.com/72u8xh
My most recent published piece: http://www.toledocitypaper.com/view_article.php?id=1900
More to come. Keep your eyes peeled! (A gross term if I've ever heard one!)
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