The wonderful sugar high holiday we all used to love finally came for the little one. This is actually her third...but I don't think she was aware I was using her to get the goods the last two years...
We went on our traditional trick-or-treat through our neighborhood on Thursday. She went as a "mama" giraffe because I found the costume at the flea market for five dollars. Even though she wanted to be a monkey (that junk cost 25 dollars!!), she was adorable and had a great time anyway.
Our neighborhood was PACKED OUT. I bet close to 500 kids came to our house. I was very glad my mom joined us, because our little giraffe was almost trampled by a herd of big kids more times than I care to count. I felt like knocking a few of them out and yelling "HEY! We're walking here!" Maybe if I had made an example of just one...
And the sweet little giraffe had the best attitude about it. She was saying "excuse me" (and NOT in the same way I was saying it in my head.) to the hoodlums. She was going very carefully and saying "I have to wait my turn" while fifty middle school kids cut in front of her. While the other kids were running by so fast they could barely complete the phrase "trick-or-treat", Mama G was stopping on each old lady's porch to say "I like your pretty flowers." or (the best) "I like your pretty goose!" (You know the ones...they make clothes for them...)
My highlight of the evening (besides the massive amounts of candy scored!) was my little pumpkin reading a word. Seriously. We walked by a house that had blow up ghosts in the yard, and each ghost was holding a letter. As we walked past, she said "Mommy? Does that say 'Boo'?" After I collected myself off the sidewalk, I agreed that it did, indeed, say 'Boo'. Upon further investigation, my mom and I learned that the ghosts were holding the letter 'B' and after that came 'o,o'. Whoa. It was quite a moment. I kept waiting for something to ruin it, like a favorite comedian of mine who rejoiced over his toddler son's declaration of his wishes to be a doctor. In half a breath, the dad was crushed by the follow-up statement, "or a DINOSAUR!"
I drug my poor little accessory all over creation for the entire two hour trick-or-treat window. Five minutes prior to cut off time, we were already back in our block when I noticed a house we had missed with the light still on. I asked my sweetie if she wanted to go there before we went in and she replied:
"No mommy, that's ok. I have enough candy."
Who is raising this child? I mean, really.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Cat in the Car
Yesterday was a busy day with many errands to run and preparations made for the Husband and me to go out of town this weekend. (Still not finished with that, but had to tell this story!) While waiting in line for one such errand, the two-year-old native became restless, so I proudly produced my iPod for her to play Peek-a-Boo Barn. (Because every once in a while I get smart about this parenting thing and prepare ahead.)
For all of the non-parents and parents of children old enough to enjoy actual games, this one involves a barn with a "knock, knock" sound, followed by an animal sound, at which point the child is supposed to guess the animal name before using the touch screen to slide the barn door open and check their answer. Of course, my child never takes the time to guess an animal because she is too busy sliding her finger back and forth as fast as she can between animals to get the door open as quick as possible. But it was a good thought on the distraction thing, right?
Back to the errand, we finished up and headed to the parking lot. I strapped the child in to her car seat and climbed back over the passenger seat to get out of my two door VW Beetle and walked around the car. I flopped with the weariness of an errand running mom into my seat and started the engine. All the sudden I heard "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" coming from somewhere in the general direction of my hood. I slammed the key back over as quickly as possible, but I immediately began to feel my stomach lurch. I knew I had just made cat salad under the hood of my car, and that's not what I had in mind for lunch.
I could still hear the cries when I cut the engine. Relieved that the cat was only mangled and not dead, I thought maybe it was just UNDER the car. So I jumped out and looked. No cat. I got back in the car. Still a cat crying. I got back out. I heard the child call "Mommy! What are you doing??" Checking the trunk, of course. Because a wayward cat could definitely navigate its way into my trunk! What have I been teaching this child that she can't understand her mother's illogical thought process?? My thorough search of my trunk and all of its contents produced no cat. (Throw me a bone here and at least ACT surprised, will you?)
I got back in the car, and to my dismay, heard once again the cry of that deranged feline. I was starting to think I had lost my mind, when the child finally said something that made me feel better. "Mommy? Is that a cat?" Phew. She hears it too. There was one last search I hadn't ventured yet, so in the spirit of Austin Powers (why not?) I popped the hood and got back out.
When you pop the hood of a new Beetle, it's almost like a funny joke. The hood opens a little, and the release latch pops itself out at you. With the qualities on the front end of the car already being face-like, this action causes the car to look like it stuck its tongue out at you. I giggle every time, including this one. (In fact, I'm convinced that one day I'm going to break down in the worst of circumstances and the highway patrol is going to find me along the side of a dark highway clutching my revolver and giggling hysterically at my release latch. Please bail me out when this happens.)
After a nice fit of giggles, I began to picture a really mad cat cooped up under my hood and his reaction to my reaching for said release latch. I held my breath and stood as far back as was possible for me to still clasp the latch, and with much reserve, threw the hood open. This produced another fit of giggles, because I started to realize the absurdity of the suggestion that a cat might fit under my hood. A piece of paper can't fit under the hood of that thing. And yet, here I am, peering under and wondering what I'm going to say when some nice stranger comes and asks if I need help.
I stood very still and listened hard. No meowing. Hmmmm. I can only hear the cat when I'm inside the car, and I can't see it anywhere outside the car. Somewhere in my life I was taught to reason that these facts meant the cat was in the car.
No way. I'm crazy, but I'm not blind. I refused to believe a cat climbed in my car without my knowing it. However, I had run out options, so I closed the hood and slid back in the car. "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" I leaned over to look in the floorboard of the passenger side. I couldn't believe I was actually looking there. I listened a second, because it seemed louder from that position. I also noticed that the cat had perfect rhythm...and that it was apparently meowing AND knocking...on my purse...
I dug through my purse on the passenger's seat and pulled out the iPod and turned off Peek-a-Boo Barn. The worst part? My child laughing at me hysterically from the back seat. Ok, I guess she was laughing with me...but she didn't stop there. She went right ahead and kindly stole my story.
That's right. My two year old infringed on my copyright. We took lunch to her Daddy (Ha! I just realized I could say my child came from the mailman...oh...that's GOOD.) and as we sat picnicking on the sidewalk of his mail route, I began a dramatic reenactment of the event. I wasn't even to the trunk yet when the Small One barged in and threw out the punch line:
"And mommy got in the car and outta the car and in the car and the kitty said "meow" and mommy looked and guess what daddy? IT WAS THE HIPOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA PEEK-A-BOO BARN SAID MEOW!" She laughed out loud hysterically as I sat, stunned, wondering if my own mother used to be a wonderful story teller until I barged in and took over her stage.
She always has been my "first baby of the stage." I guess we're in for a wilder ride than I originally guessed.
For all of the non-parents and parents of children old enough to enjoy actual games, this one involves a barn with a "knock, knock" sound, followed by an animal sound, at which point the child is supposed to guess the animal name before using the touch screen to slide the barn door open and check their answer. Of course, my child never takes the time to guess an animal because she is too busy sliding her finger back and forth as fast as she can between animals to get the door open as quick as possible. But it was a good thought on the distraction thing, right?
Back to the errand, we finished up and headed to the parking lot. I strapped the child in to her car seat and climbed back over the passenger seat to get out of my two door VW Beetle and walked around the car. I flopped with the weariness of an errand running mom into my seat and started the engine. All the sudden I heard "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" coming from somewhere in the general direction of my hood. I slammed the key back over as quickly as possible, but I immediately began to feel my stomach lurch. I knew I had just made cat salad under the hood of my car, and that's not what I had in mind for lunch.
I could still hear the cries when I cut the engine. Relieved that the cat was only mangled and not dead, I thought maybe it was just UNDER the car. So I jumped out and looked. No cat. I got back in the car. Still a cat crying. I got back out. I heard the child call "Mommy! What are you doing??" Checking the trunk, of course. Because a wayward cat could definitely navigate its way into my trunk! What have I been teaching this child that she can't understand her mother's illogical thought process?? My thorough search of my trunk and all of its contents produced no cat. (Throw me a bone here and at least ACT surprised, will you?)
I got back in the car, and to my dismay, heard once again the cry of that deranged feline. I was starting to think I had lost my mind, when the child finally said something that made me feel better. "Mommy? Is that a cat?" Phew. She hears it too. There was one last search I hadn't ventured yet, so in the spirit of Austin Powers (why not?) I popped the hood and got back out.
When you pop the hood of a new Beetle, it's almost like a funny joke. The hood opens a little, and the release latch pops itself out at you. With the qualities on the front end of the car already being face-like, this action causes the car to look like it stuck its tongue out at you. I giggle every time, including this one. (In fact, I'm convinced that one day I'm going to break down in the worst of circumstances and the highway patrol is going to find me along the side of a dark highway clutching my revolver and giggling hysterically at my release latch. Please bail me out when this happens.)
After a nice fit of giggles, I began to picture a really mad cat cooped up under my hood and his reaction to my reaching for said release latch. I held my breath and stood as far back as was possible for me to still clasp the latch, and with much reserve, threw the hood open. This produced another fit of giggles, because I started to realize the absurdity of the suggestion that a cat might fit under my hood. A piece of paper can't fit under the hood of that thing. And yet, here I am, peering under and wondering what I'm going to say when some nice stranger comes and asks if I need help.
I stood very still and listened hard. No meowing. Hmmmm. I can only hear the cat when I'm inside the car, and I can't see it anywhere outside the car. Somewhere in my life I was taught to reason that these facts meant the cat was in the car.
No way. I'm crazy, but I'm not blind. I refused to believe a cat climbed in my car without my knowing it. However, I had run out options, so I closed the hood and slid back in the car. "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" I leaned over to look in the floorboard of the passenger side. I couldn't believe I was actually looking there. I listened a second, because it seemed louder from that position. I also noticed that the cat had perfect rhythm...and that it was apparently meowing AND knocking...on my purse...
I dug through my purse on the passenger's seat and pulled out the iPod and turned off Peek-a-Boo Barn. The worst part? My child laughing at me hysterically from the back seat. Ok, I guess she was laughing with me...but she didn't stop there. She went right ahead and kindly stole my story.
That's right. My two year old infringed on my copyright. We took lunch to her Daddy (Ha! I just realized I could say my child came from the mailman...oh...that's GOOD.) and as we sat picnicking on the sidewalk of his mail route, I began a dramatic reenactment of the event. I wasn't even to the trunk yet when the Small One barged in and threw out the punch line:
"And mommy got in the car and outta the car and in the car and the kitty said "meow" and mommy looked and guess what daddy? IT WAS THE HIPOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA PEEK-A-BOO BARN SAID MEOW!" She laughed out loud hysterically as I sat, stunned, wondering if my own mother used to be a wonderful story teller until I barged in and took over her stage.
She always has been my "first baby of the stage." I guess we're in for a wilder ride than I originally guessed.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What's Your Name?
Since we moved we have been hopping around from church to church, still looking for a place to call home. This suits our little social butterfly just fine. Each new nursery or Sunday School class we take her to is a new chance for her to throw us out of the room. She loves this.
While we embark on this journey, we are trying to take the opportunity to teach our little pumpkin the "polite" way to address and speak to adults. She will chatter anyone who will stand still to their grave, but sometimes it happens much like a drive by shooting. She speaks rather well for her age, so she doesn't understand why people can't understand her spewing out a paragraph at top speed as she runs past.
Part of the etiquette she clearly needs to learn is to stand still and slow down. Since her mouth is generally about four feet away from the receiving ear, we've also been working on looking way up as she speaks. She's picking all this up pretty well, and she LOVES to talk to anyone who will listen, so we thought, hey-why not add a few conversation starters in there while we're at it. I mean, how cool is a two-year-old who can say "so, Mr. Jones, what do you do for a living?"
She constantly asks me "Who's that?", so I thought an age appropriate conversation skill would be to ask someone their name. I thought we had this down tonight at home group when some new people came and she walked right up to a college boy and said, "Hey! What's your name?" He answered accordingly and she came back with "I'm Gracie. I'm two and I have a pretty dress on."
Is she hitting on a college kid!? Lord!
A while later, she finally moved on to a little boy her own age (phew) and that we actually already know. I can't expect her to get it all right so soon:
"HEY! Elijah! What's YOUR name?!" Daddy found this quite hilarious.
While we embark on this journey, we are trying to take the opportunity to teach our little pumpkin the "polite" way to address and speak to adults. She will chatter anyone who will stand still to their grave, but sometimes it happens much like a drive by shooting. She speaks rather well for her age, so she doesn't understand why people can't understand her spewing out a paragraph at top speed as she runs past.
Part of the etiquette she clearly needs to learn is to stand still and slow down. Since her mouth is generally about four feet away from the receiving ear, we've also been working on looking way up as she speaks. She's picking all this up pretty well, and she LOVES to talk to anyone who will listen, so we thought, hey-why not add a few conversation starters in there while we're at it. I mean, how cool is a two-year-old who can say "so, Mr. Jones, what do you do for a living?"
She constantly asks me "Who's that?", so I thought an age appropriate conversation skill would be to ask someone their name. I thought we had this down tonight at home group when some new people came and she walked right up to a college boy and said, "Hey! What's your name?" He answered accordingly and she came back with "I'm Gracie. I'm two and I have a pretty dress on."
Is she hitting on a college kid!? Lord!
A while later, she finally moved on to a little boy her own age (phew) and that we actually already know. I can't expect her to get it all right so soon:
"HEY! Elijah! What's YOUR name?!" Daddy found this quite hilarious.
Friday, October 16, 2009
He Doesn't Need Me To
Anyone who knows me has probably figured out that I don't enjoy change. Even good change. I usually go in kicking and screaming. Even if it's a change I really need to make, I just can't handle the movement of the status quo. These days I feel the dramatic tremors of a pre-status quo quake. It makes me sweat a little.
I've been discussing this with the Lord (a step in the direction I really need to head), and I'm pretty sure He's shaking his head in exasperation at me. I know He loves me, but I sure end up heading in the wrong direction pretty often for someone who doesn't like to change her path. Based on my disdain for direction change, and the fact that I've been heading in the right direction before, I should be the equivalent of a female Billy Graham by now...I've yet to solve this problem.
Anyway, as I was saying, I was discussing this with The Man today while I vacuumed:
"Lord, I just clearly can't stay in relationship with You. I mean, have I learned anything in my whole life?? I can't even keep a house as well as my mom."
Still, small voice: "I don't need you to."
"You would think by now I would have at least picked up some of her parenting skills."
Still, small voice I'm still ignoring: "I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be a wife as selfless as my pastor's wife."
"I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be as wise a wife as my last pastor before him."
"I don't need you to."
"I'm never going to be as encouraging as my best friend."
"I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be as patient as her, either. Or as funny as my flute teacher."
"I don't need you to!"
"Or as faithful as...well...pretty much any example would do here. I mean, even the garbage man has it out for me, Lord! I know he does! Every time it rains, I look outside after pickup and all the other cans are upside down on the sidewalk and mine are right side up, collecting rain in the middle of the street! I just clearly cannot be as sensitive to others as my former student when I can't even keep the trash man happy!"
"I DON'T NEED YOU TO!!"
'What, Lord? Did you say something?" This is where I imagine the exasperated head shake.
The gist of what I received from Him after I finally realized He had something to say was that he doesn't need me to be all those other people. That's why he made them "them" and me "me". And he doesn't need me to "fix" things with relationship with Him. He's quite capable. I just need to brace myself for the shifting that is undoubtedly about to occur. Maybe I have learned something in all this time after all.
Now, if only I could remember to drink my tea before it gets cold.
I've been discussing this with the Lord (a step in the direction I really need to head), and I'm pretty sure He's shaking his head in exasperation at me. I know He loves me, but I sure end up heading in the wrong direction pretty often for someone who doesn't like to change her path. Based on my disdain for direction change, and the fact that I've been heading in the right direction before, I should be the equivalent of a female Billy Graham by now...I've yet to solve this problem.
Anyway, as I was saying, I was discussing this with The Man today while I vacuumed:
"Lord, I just clearly can't stay in relationship with You. I mean, have I learned anything in my whole life?? I can't even keep a house as well as my mom."
Still, small voice: "I don't need you to."
"You would think by now I would have at least picked up some of her parenting skills."
Still, small voice I'm still ignoring: "I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be a wife as selfless as my pastor's wife."
"I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be as wise a wife as my last pastor before him."
"I don't need you to."
"I'm never going to be as encouraging as my best friend."
"I don't need you to."
"And I'm never going to be as patient as her, either. Or as funny as my flute teacher."
"I don't need you to!"
"Or as faithful as...well...pretty much any example would do here. I mean, even the garbage man has it out for me, Lord! I know he does! Every time it rains, I look outside after pickup and all the other cans are upside down on the sidewalk and mine are right side up, collecting rain in the middle of the street! I just clearly cannot be as sensitive to others as my former student when I can't even keep the trash man happy!"
"I DON'T NEED YOU TO!!"
'What, Lord? Did you say something?" This is where I imagine the exasperated head shake.
The gist of what I received from Him after I finally realized He had something to say was that he doesn't need me to be all those other people. That's why he made them "them" and me "me". And he doesn't need me to "fix" things with relationship with Him. He's quite capable. I just need to brace myself for the shifting that is undoubtedly about to occur. Maybe I have learned something in all this time after all.
Now, if only I could remember to drink my tea before it gets cold.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
How Tea Changed My Life
My child is the best sleeper in America. At two (and a half-as she is likely to inform should you ask) years old, she is still sleeping a solid twelve hours every night, with a blessed three (sometimes four! Woo!) hour nap during the day. This is what I refer to as "happy hour(s)".
As an infant, she slept wherever you put her. She refused to be rocked or otherwise fussed over, and would scream this sentiment at any unsuspecting bed-putter until they got the clue and laid her in her bassinet and walked away. She slept so much that we did whatever we wanted. We carried our little hotdog around in her carrier and had it not been for my Postpartum Depression and lingering marsupial pouch, no one would have suspected much of a life change.
She started sleeping through the night (and by "through" I mean 8-10 hours) at 8 weeks. Her preferences for her sleep habits have matured, but certainly not changed. Now instead of screaming when you don't leave her alone at bedtime, she walks to her own crib with all appropriate paraphernalia in hand and says "Mommy, put me in my bed please." If you linger too long: "Ok Mommy, you can leave my room now." Basically I spawned the greatest sleeper of all time.
That was until I moronically introduced her to tea.
You see, our friend brought us a delicious jar of Russian Tea as a housewarming gift. I am already a tea drinker, and I'm also hooked on many harder forms of caffeine, so the content in tea never phases me. So last night I innocently thought an excellent family night would be cups of tea all around and "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything". The movie ended (thankfully! The mouthed cheese puffs were starting to freak us all out.), and we shuttled the lowest girl on our totem poll off to her bed. That was nine o'clock. When I came upstairs to go to my own happy sleep haven at 12:30, this is what I received:
"Hey Mommy! You goin to bed? Can I have a one drink?"
I peered through the door and saw 22 pounds of wide eyed energy standing erect at the side of its crib. I shrunk to the shadows, terrified. What do I do? I'm not one of these parents who ever had to deal with bedtime issues!! Maybe she's a T Rex and if I stand real still, she won't notice me...
"Hey Mommy? What are you doing at my door?"
Darn.
I tiptoed in, still holding my breath.
"Can I have a one drink?" she crooned, ever so sweetly.
"You don't need a 'one drink', and why are you awake?!" I splurted.
"Cause. Inano. (Two-year-old Appalachian word equivalent to the phrase "I don't know") Then can I potty?"
"Do you need to potty?" I studied her quizzically for a truthful response. Turns out it wasn't necessary:
"Nope." She answered plainly.
"Then why do you want to? And why aren't you ASLEEP!?"
Her eyes were still bulging like some kind of zombie when she gave her response that indicated both of our understanding of the situation:
"Mmmmm...Inano."
I told her to lay down and go to sleep and went on to my room, where I lay listening to her sing until 1 am. She woke up at nine completely refreshed. I found this odd, but shrugged it off and braced myself for a day in a house with an ill-slept toddler. Only later in the morning did I realize what had happened. I was fixing my morning cup, and the slight mini-me came in and ever-politely asked for her own cup. Delighted with her liking for something I'm so fond of, I immediately began scooping tea...into...her...cup...including...its...caffeine. oh. Oops. Good thing I'm not going for any awards here.
As an infant, she slept wherever you put her. She refused to be rocked or otherwise fussed over, and would scream this sentiment at any unsuspecting bed-putter until they got the clue and laid her in her bassinet and walked away. She slept so much that we did whatever we wanted. We carried our little hotdog around in her carrier and had it not been for my Postpartum Depression and lingering marsupial pouch, no one would have suspected much of a life change.
She started sleeping through the night (and by "through" I mean 8-10 hours) at 8 weeks. Her preferences for her sleep habits have matured, but certainly not changed. Now instead of screaming when you don't leave her alone at bedtime, she walks to her own crib with all appropriate paraphernalia in hand and says "Mommy, put me in my bed please." If you linger too long: "Ok Mommy, you can leave my room now." Basically I spawned the greatest sleeper of all time.
That was until I moronically introduced her to tea.
You see, our friend brought us a delicious jar of Russian Tea as a housewarming gift. I am already a tea drinker, and I'm also hooked on many harder forms of caffeine, so the content in tea never phases me. So last night I innocently thought an excellent family night would be cups of tea all around and "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything". The movie ended (thankfully! The mouthed cheese puffs were starting to freak us all out.), and we shuttled the lowest girl on our totem poll off to her bed. That was nine o'clock. When I came upstairs to go to my own happy sleep haven at 12:30, this is what I received:
"Hey Mommy! You goin to bed? Can I have a one drink?"
I peered through the door and saw 22 pounds of wide eyed energy standing erect at the side of its crib. I shrunk to the shadows, terrified. What do I do? I'm not one of these parents who ever had to deal with bedtime issues!! Maybe she's a T Rex and if I stand real still, she won't notice me...
"Hey Mommy? What are you doing at my door?"
Darn.
I tiptoed in, still holding my breath.
"Can I have a one drink?" she crooned, ever so sweetly.
"You don't need a 'one drink', and why are you awake?!" I splurted.
"Cause. Inano. (Two-year-old Appalachian word equivalent to the phrase "I don't know") Then can I potty?"
"Do you need to potty?" I studied her quizzically for a truthful response. Turns out it wasn't necessary:
"Nope." She answered plainly.
"Then why do you want to? And why aren't you ASLEEP!?"
Her eyes were still bulging like some kind of zombie when she gave her response that indicated both of our understanding of the situation:
"Mmmmm...Inano."
I told her to lay down and go to sleep and went on to my room, where I lay listening to her sing until 1 am. She woke up at nine completely refreshed. I found this odd, but shrugged it off and braced myself for a day in a house with an ill-slept toddler. Only later in the morning did I realize what had happened. I was fixing my morning cup, and the slight mini-me came in and ever-politely asked for her own cup. Delighted with her liking for something I'm so fond of, I immediately began scooping tea...into...her...cup...including...its...caffeine. oh. Oops. Good thing I'm not going for any awards here.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
It Doesn't HAVE to be this way
As a teacher, nothing bothered me more than kids blaming their shortcomings on disabilities. However, the older I get, the easier it becomes to do just that. I'm sure that I should have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder a LONG time ago. I can remember being sectioned off from the other students in the Gifted Program so that at least somebody would be getting work done. Parents just didn't medicate kids back then like they do today, so I was never lucky enough to be able to blame the disease.
To date, my life is one full of incomplete projects. I have boxes of journals in my attic that have 15 used pages. I write in them for a couple weeks and am overcome with embarrassment two years later when I realize it has been two years since I last wrote. Somehow, purchasing a new journal and starting over "for real this time" fixes the problem in my mind. Yet thirty two journals later I have yet to discover which time was real.
Let us muse over my scrapbooking career. Ten thousand pictures: check. Books: check. Basic supplies: check. Paper galore: check. Case for supplies: check. Actual pages even begun: hmmmm...oops.
Photography career: Camera: purchased. Digital Photography for Dummies read: half. Cute subject: birthed. Number of actual worthwhile pictures taken: 7ish.
I'm sure most readers will notice a pattern at this point. (Seems that I should notice by now.) My students even noticed it right away. They knew this pattern so well that eyes would roll every time I spouted off an enthusiastic description of a new project.
It's not that I don't want to finish these projects. It's not even that I never finish projects. I went to college. I married a wonderful man. (Though the actual ceremony was something of a "skin of my teeth" affair, even after a two year engagement...) I even graduated college. I got a job as a high school band director the day after I walked. (In December! A life dream and hard to manage in the middle of the school year!) My husband and I even spawned one of the cutest creatures on earth. Of course that project only took about ten minutes. Beyond that, I was finishing it whether I remembered I was supposed to or not. (Now. If I can just remember to leave WalMart with her each and every time I come that way.)
When I was younger, it was the actual projects themselves that held me up. Being a big dreamer doesn't combine well with being distracted by fireflies. When I was eleven I was sure I would play on the US Olympic Women's Volleyball team in 2000. (I also always wanted to go to Australia. Two birds, one stone. That's smart for eleven!) The problem with that goal wasn't desire or motivation. The real problem was that I didn't grow after eleven. I went to high school with 95 pounds on my five foot two inch frame. Not much of an Olympic athlete.
No, it's not desire that stops me. It's not even usually the height of the lofty dream. It's remembering and distractions. For example, early this morning I decided that today was the day I would start this blog. My darling child spent last night with her Grammy, and husband was off at work. I got up and headed for the computer, but detoured to the shower because I was freezing and needed to warm up first. Then, I headed downstairs, but instead of hanging the left for the computer, I hung a right for the kitchen. Breakfast in hand, I finally made it to the computer. Thirty-seven minutes into my facebook ritual, I remembered that it was story hour day at the library and rushed off to collect the offspring. Time spent writing productive prose: none.
The whole day went by, and at child bedtime, that nasty little guilty conscience started nagging me. I sent the husband to oversee the pajama and toothbrush ritual. I collected the cold tea I forgot to finish and delivered it to the microwave. I walked in to the computer and started pulling up appropriate screens. Upon the realization that my house feels more like a meat locker than October, I headed upstairs to find my hoodie. Then I remembered that I had just pulled it out of the dryer. (ADD and multilevel homes are excellent fitness tools.) Back at the computer, I had just clicked the cursor onto Word when I heard, "MOMMY! CAN YOU TUCK ME IN?" Blare through the baby monitor on my desk. My child is adorable, but she can't seem to understand that you don't have to YELL to be heard through the monitor. Hoodied and childless I finally sat down to write this.
Then I remembered my tea...which, of course, was cold again.
My friends keep demanding published stories. They can't understand why I laugh at this suggestion. It took me three and half hours to write a 1000 word blog post. I did, however receive the most wise advice from one of my youngest friends last week. I was musing over the mere idea of myself actually completing the ENORMOUS project of publishing to this friend (a former student, now in college-NOT one of the shortcoming blamers). I rattled on about being a mostly average writer with a slightly humorous subject and the memory of a gnat standing at the bottom of Mt. Publish in hysterics over the thought of lifting one foot to actually climb the thing until she finally interrupted me and said,
"It doesn't have to be that way, ya know."
Humph. Darn it. She's right. It might take me twenty years, but it doesn't have to be "undone".
So welcome, new friends, to my journey. Committing all this in front of the world is going to help force me to get it done. Some day my baby will have her life chronicled. She may not be seeing too well when her kids give her a copy in the nursing home, but it's the thought that counts, right?
To date, my life is one full of incomplete projects. I have boxes of journals in my attic that have 15 used pages. I write in them for a couple weeks and am overcome with embarrassment two years later when I realize it has been two years since I last wrote. Somehow, purchasing a new journal and starting over "for real this time" fixes the problem in my mind. Yet thirty two journals later I have yet to discover which time was real.
Let us muse over my scrapbooking career. Ten thousand pictures: check. Books: check. Basic supplies: check. Paper galore: check. Case for supplies: check. Actual pages even begun: hmmmm...oops.
Photography career: Camera: purchased. Digital Photography for Dummies read: half. Cute subject: birthed. Number of actual worthwhile pictures taken: 7ish.
I'm sure most readers will notice a pattern at this point. (Seems that I should notice by now.) My students even noticed it right away. They knew this pattern so well that eyes would roll every time I spouted off an enthusiastic description of a new project.
It's not that I don't want to finish these projects. It's not even that I never finish projects. I went to college. I married a wonderful man. (Though the actual ceremony was something of a "skin of my teeth" affair, even after a two year engagement...) I even graduated college. I got a job as a high school band director the day after I walked. (In December! A life dream and hard to manage in the middle of the school year!) My husband and I even spawned one of the cutest creatures on earth. Of course that project only took about ten minutes. Beyond that, I was finishing it whether I remembered I was supposed to or not. (Now. If I can just remember to leave WalMart with her each and every time I come that way.)
When I was younger, it was the actual projects themselves that held me up. Being a big dreamer doesn't combine well with being distracted by fireflies. When I was eleven I was sure I would play on the US Olympic Women's Volleyball team in 2000. (I also always wanted to go to Australia. Two birds, one stone. That's smart for eleven!) The problem with that goal wasn't desire or motivation. The real problem was that I didn't grow after eleven. I went to high school with 95 pounds on my five foot two inch frame. Not much of an Olympic athlete.
No, it's not desire that stops me. It's not even usually the height of the lofty dream. It's remembering and distractions. For example, early this morning I decided that today was the day I would start this blog. My darling child spent last night with her Grammy, and husband was off at work. I got up and headed for the computer, but detoured to the shower because I was freezing and needed to warm up first. Then, I headed downstairs, but instead of hanging the left for the computer, I hung a right for the kitchen. Breakfast in hand, I finally made it to the computer. Thirty-seven minutes into my facebook ritual, I remembered that it was story hour day at the library and rushed off to collect the offspring. Time spent writing productive prose: none.
The whole day went by, and at child bedtime, that nasty little guilty conscience started nagging me. I sent the husband to oversee the pajama and toothbrush ritual. I collected the cold tea I forgot to finish and delivered it to the microwave. I walked in to the computer and started pulling up appropriate screens. Upon the realization that my house feels more like a meat locker than October, I headed upstairs to find my hoodie. Then I remembered that I had just pulled it out of the dryer. (ADD and multilevel homes are excellent fitness tools.) Back at the computer, I had just clicked the cursor onto Word when I heard, "MOMMY! CAN YOU TUCK ME IN?" Blare through the baby monitor on my desk. My child is adorable, but she can't seem to understand that you don't have to YELL to be heard through the monitor. Hoodied and childless I finally sat down to write this.
Then I remembered my tea...which, of course, was cold again.
My friends keep demanding published stories. They can't understand why I laugh at this suggestion. It took me three and half hours to write a 1000 word blog post. I did, however receive the most wise advice from one of my youngest friends last week. I was musing over the mere idea of myself actually completing the ENORMOUS project of publishing to this friend (a former student, now in college-NOT one of the shortcoming blamers). I rattled on about being a mostly average writer with a slightly humorous subject and the memory of a gnat standing at the bottom of Mt. Publish in hysterics over the thought of lifting one foot to actually climb the thing until she finally interrupted me and said,
"It doesn't have to be that way, ya know."
Humph. Darn it. She's right. It might take me twenty years, but it doesn't have to be "undone".
So welcome, new friends, to my journey. Committing all this in front of the world is going to help force me to get it done. Some day my baby will have her life chronicled. She may not be seeing too well when her kids give her a copy in the nursing home, but it's the thought that counts, right?
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