Rolling, Rolling, Rolling….Rawhide!

Me and my riding shadow.

Tonight the kids are staying with their aunts, so hubby and I are enjoying a quiet, relaxing dinner and a bottle of wine, right? That’s what any rational American couple temporarily released from the bonds of parenting would be doing with their free night at home. That’s not, however, how it works in our lives. Instead of savoring the solitude of an eerily vacant house, we’re getting our bike gear together because we’re meeting friends at 6:45 a.m. tomorrow. It’s almost 10:30 and on our night off we’re getting ready to go to bed. No. Really. To bed. To sleep. Our Saturday plan is to get in a vigorous 80-mile bike ride, hopefully before the skies open up and we get hailed on. Why are we doing this? Because it’s our final opportunity for a serious training ride before we do the Colorado Bike MS 150-mile ride two weekends from now and because, well, we’re insane. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with right now.

I like to ride my bike, especially with friends. I enjoy it as much as I can enjoy any activity that is technically exercise and therefore is good for me. But, the getting ready, the gearing up, the waking up early, and the first ten minutes of the ride are pure torture. Once I get going, I truly do like riding. It’s the getting there that kills me. I try to live in the moment. I do. But, right now, I wish I could fast forward to 4 p.m. tomorrow when I’ll be finished doing the 80-miles, feeling the rider’s endorphin high after burning about 3,000 calories. Sitting here in bed in this moment, though, I am already exhausted simply thinking about 80 miles tomorrow. I would give my sons to the devil if he could make the next sixteen hours finish in an instant. All right. Maybe I wouldn’t give my darling boys to Satan, but I’d be tempted.

I know I will have a wonderful time tomorrow. I know I will enjoy it, even when it gets tough, because deep down I relish the opportunity to push myself a bit. But, as the idea of tomorrow stretches out before me, I am not enthusiastic. I am tired and I am going to sleep. And, I am praying that my forty-four year old legs are well rested, my new bike tires repel sharp debris, and the 800+ miles I’ve put in so far this year on my bike (mostly on its indoor trainer) will make this outdoor ride bearable. No matter what happens tomorrow, I can guarantee you two things: 1) tomorrow at 4 p.m. I will be drinking a beer that I truly earned and 2) tomorrow night I will sleep like the dead. Wait. Maybe that’s why I do this? 😉

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My Goal: Sons Who Are At Least One Evolutionary Step Above Primates

Hats off at the dinner table, boys.

I firmly believe in picking your battles. As a mother, I make choices every day about which wars to wage and which ones deserve a white flag. One crusade I’ve chosen is to raise young men who are polite, have good table manners, and are properly groomed. Oh. My. God. What the hell was I thinking when I picked up my sword and marched headlong into this fray? Did I not realize that I have two small primates living in my house? We’re barely one step above flinging feces here.

I spend roughly 2/3rds of my waking hours talking to myself (because no one is listening), repeating suggestions, pleas, and ultimatums all having to do with proper etiquette. I don’t care that much if my sons’ rooms are a mess or if they leave their shoes on the floor by the front door. But, it makes me crazy when they chew with their mouths open, barge into a room without knocking, or fail to flush a toilet. My life is a litany of commands (all of which are normally followed by “please” because I try to practice what I preach).

  • Get your finger out of your nose and use a tissue
  • Wash that gunk off your face
  • Hold the door
  • Say “please”
  • Say “thank you”
  • Say “excuse me”
  • Knock before you open the door
  • Use your fork, not your fingers
  • Use a napkin, not your shirt
  • Brush your teeth
  • Close your mouth when you chew
  • Don’t wipe your boogers on the walls
  • Turn the fan on when you’re in the bathroom
  • For heaven’s sake, flush the stupid toilet already

These words are on an endless, repetitive loop echoing from my otherwise empty head. It’s no wonder I feel I’ve forgotten the fine art of conversation. I don’t know how to talk to someone unless they forget to put their napkin on their lap.

One ritual I absolutely insist on is thank you notes for gifts received. While we sometimes we fail to get cards in the mail to thank a great aunt for a $10 bill slated for Easter candy, birthday and Christmas gifts must be acknowledged with a handwritten note. Steve and I both come from families where these notes are compulsory. (Exhibit A. My 81 year old father-in-law still sends us thank you notes on personalized stationery.) Because our boys’ birthdays are three weeks apart (with my birthday sandwiched in between), we write a truckload of notes before the end of June. My sons hate this with a passion that matches their hatred for American Girl dolls, but I make them do it because it’s the right thing to do. People say they don’t need it, but I bet you’d be hard-pressed to find a person who doesn’t appreciate receiving handwritten acknowledgment of their kindess. These notes, while perhaps antiquated in today’s email and text society, is simply a polite gesture I want my boys to feel is not elective. Someday, when they’re interviewing for a coveted job and they land it because the boss appreciated their gracious, interview thank you note, they will see how truly wise I am and they will thank me because they know they should.

We’ve made some progress. My boys now hold the door open for me when we walk into the house. They voluntarily help me carry in groceries. They ask to be excused from the table and they clear their own place settings. And, if they happen upon a piece of “chewy” steak, they spit it quietly without fuss into a paper napkin (although they occasionally leave the napkin behind for me to find). The whole manners gig is much more difficult for Joe because of his ADHD but, God bless him, he tries. I hold out hope that someday my sons will be the teenage boys who impress their friends’ mothers with their thoughtfulness…and not in that smarmy, Eddie-Haskell kind of way. That’s the goal, anyway. And, if I can’t achieve that, I’ll settle for sons who are at least not the worst of the bunch. In the manners game, anything better than “the worst” is something. Some days are better than others, and it’s like shoveling snow in a blizzard, but we’re making progress. As long as they don’t start picking nits off each other and eating them in front of others, I think we’re on the right track.

Posted on by Me 6

Let It Be

This is, for me, one of the faces of inner peace.

“We are not animals. We are not a product of what has happened to us in our past. We have the power of choice.”  ~Stephen Covey

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on what a shame it is when people can’t bring themselves to let go of unpleasantness in their past. Often, those memories from yesterday prevent them from enjoying a more productive and healthy present. I know people who are living daily with the negative reverberations of actions that happened decades ago. When I think about the brief time we have on this planet, I can’t fathom why anyone would willingly choose to waste a second of life stuck on past slights. Perhaps these people fail to grasp the downward, miserable spiral that is perpetuated when you let your past seep into your present? When you spend today reliving the pain of your past, you’re merely making today into a continuation of the very thing that is vexing you, which then means that your future will reflect more of the same misery, disappointment, and pain. Why would anyone make that choice?

Then it occurred to me…these people don’t realize they have a choice. They are so cut off and unaware of their response to their world, so convinced that all that is wrong in their life is the direct result of other people’s actions and not their own thoughts and behavior, that they are unable to comprehend the power they have to change their lives. Of all the human conditions, the lack of awareness regarding personal power is the saddest one I can imagine. Some people spend dozens of years convinced that their entire unhappy life is the result of what has happened to them. There is no acknowledgment that the only power we have in this life is over our reactions to the situations we encounter. The easiest way to perpetuate personal misery is to believe you are a victim, to live from that paradigm, and to refuse steadfastly to move beyond it. Indeed, some unfortunate things will befall you, but you choose whether those heartbreaks will break you or whether you will move forward unabated.

A while back I read A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle. It was a life-changing book for me because it pointed out truths I long knew in my heart but was refusing to acknowledge in my mind. One of the most powerful messages I got from the book came from a quote by J. Krishnamurti, and Indian philosopher and spiritual teacher, who offered up his secret for contentment. He stated simply this: “I don’t mind what happens.” How powerful that statement is. When you don’t mind what happens, when you let it wash over you and accept it for what it is, when you remove your emotion from it, there is stillness and peace and the room to let it go. It certainly is not easy achieve, but it’s worth the effort to keep it in mind.

I wish I could impart to those people in my life who can’t let go of the past the beauty of not minding what happens. Of acknowledging it, accepting it, and not owning it as anything more than another event in a hopefully long life. When I was a child, my mother and father owned The Beatles’ Let It Be album. I played that record (yes…record) until I thought I would wear it out. The lyrics from the title track have stuck with me. And when my children were infants and I would rock them in the middle of the night when they could not sleep and needed comfort, those are the words I would sing because they brought me peace in that moment when I was exhausted and too was seeking rest. So, as you go through the remainder of this week, my hope is that at least once you will stop reacting when something unexpected and unwelcome is happening and let it wash over you and see what peace comes from letting it be and not minding what happens. I promise to try it if you will too.

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Life In My Turtle Shell

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.”              ~Siddhartha Gautama

I don’t understand people. I really don’t. For a while, trying to puzzle them out was a source of some amusement for my overactive mind. But, the more I started to figure them out, the more cynical I became about them and the less interesting they became to me. Nowadays, I go out of my way not to become involved with trying to understand them or wondering about them at all. I prefer to remain ignorant because the truth about them is, more often than not, more than I can bear. True story.

A friend asked me tonight about our HOA. The vast majority of homes in Denver are in neighborhoods controlled by Homeowner’s Associations. While I understand the purpose of them and why they can be helpful, I also know they can be an incredibly expensive nuisance. We have a Facebook page for our HOA, and I’m able to access conversations between folks in our neighborhood. I used to receive updates when people posted there, but I had to opt of that because I was getting depressed reading the commentary. The pettiness, whining, and finger pointing, while perhaps amusing to some, became abhorrent to me. I swear I lost IQ points reading some of the conversations there.

I had to go back onto our HOA page tonight to look up something for a friend, and I was immediately reminded of why I stopped visiting that page. I used to volunteer in our neighborhood. Yes. Volunteer. As in work for free. I did this on both the Communications Committee (ie…newsletter) and the Social Committee (think Easter Egg Hunt for the kiddos). After three years of volunteering and working for free for my neighbors, I finally reached my tolerance level and quit. The people drove me crazy.

Perhaps that is partially the reason I’ve become something of an isolationist. I prefer to live in my own little world. I hardly watch the news (preferring, instead, to read it from different sources) because I can’t stand the sensationalism. I stopped following politics because it seemed to be the same story with different faces. And, now I’ve stopped paying attention within the confines of our neighborhood because I despise the conversations. In my case, ignorance truly is bliss. I’m a much happier person when I don’t think about the things that I see are wrong with the world. If I focus instead on myself and my family and making our small space better, my attitude improves greatly.

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty for unplugging and for not being more involved with things around me. I’m a smart woman, and it’s honestly sad that I would prefer to remain ignorant to maintain a positive attitude and a sense of peace about my surroundings. Still, part of finding zen is understanding which things to let go and which things never to take on in the first place. If peace comes from within, then I might be on the right track.

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Twisted Panty Censorship

Nothing like Daffy Duck on a big screen at Red Rocks.

So, we’re on our way home after seeing Iron Man at Film on the Rocks as part of Joe’s 11th birthday celebration. It’s 11:10 p.m. and it occurs to me I have not written anything today. Although we live only 20 minutes from Red Rocks, the traffic cops have closed off our quick route home. It’s times like these that I am infinitely grateful for my trusty iPhone with its Word Press app so I can blog on the fly. It’s an amazing gift to be able to write without restriction.

Last night, I spent time crafting a blog about something my crazy 9 year old said. As usual, I posted it just before my self-imposed midnight deadline and linked it to my Facebook page. This morning when I logged onto Facebook, however, my blog was not there. Curious, I thought. But then I reasoned that perhaps in my exhaustion last night I only thought I had posted it to my page, but it hadn’t gone through. I tried again and received a Facebook pop-up message stating that this link was inaccessible because it was being investigated for being “spammy or unsafe.” What? That made no sense so, determined fool I am, I tried once again to post it. Same message. Bizarre.

I tried to figure out what I had written yesterday that would make someone suggest that my blog was unsafe. Then it hit me that it might be that I used one small swear word. Could that be it? No. Surely “jackass” was not the straw that convinced someone to report my post? Honestly, though, I can think of nothing else in what I said that would warrant flagging as “unsafe.” Luckily, the security reviewers at Facebook saw my post as it was intended to be seen, as a lighthearted, innocuous tale about my two boys, and reposted it to my page once they got it all sorted out.

Maybe we’ve all become a bit too uptight and overly sensitive? I write for myself and publish only as a way to keep myself accountable. If you’re reading along and realize I’ve shared some unsavory language that upsets you, I am sorry. I do not intend to offend. I know we all have different sensitivities. But, if something I write gets your panties in a twist, please do me a favor…simply stop reading. While you may be bothered by what I write, someone else might enjoy it. Reading what shows up in your news feed is a voluntary act. Don’t be a post Nazi and report things merely because you don’t like or agree with them. Tell you what. If you dislike my blog, block my news feed updates or unfriend me all together. I promise I won’t care.

Posted on by Me 2

It Registered At Idiot On the Moron Scale

Luke picking up the pieces while Joe tries to look contrite.

A while back, the boys and I were in the car and they started discussing terms for people who are lacking in intelligence. The conversation went something like this.

“Mom…Luke called me an idiot.”

“Luke, please don’t call your brother an idiot.”

“But, he was acting like one,” Luke argued.

“Still,” I replied, “it’s really not nice to call your brother an idiot.”

“Well, what can I call him then? Can I call him stupid?” Luke asked.

“Stupid is somewhat better than idiot, but it’s still not nice.”

“Dumb, then?” Luke continued.

“Okay. If you’re really looking for clarification,” I responded, “here’s what I think. I would say that dumb is probably the least harmful. Stupid is a bit worse. Idiot is truly unkind. I’d prefer you not call each other idiot, even if the other one is acting like one.”

“There’s another word, Mom,” Joe added. “I hear you say it in the car sometimes. It starts with a J.”

Caught. I do utter the word “jackass” while driving. It’s the only swear word that my kids hear me say. I try to refrain from swearing too much in front of them, although it is difficult because when they’re not around I can keep up with a sailor.

“Okay, then. Put the J-word after idiot in terms of being bad. So, if you hear me telling another driver they’re a jackass, then they’ve escalated right to the top of the moron scale.” And, that’s how the moron scale was born.

Today, my boys were playing Legos together. Luke is the Lego King. He is (and always has been) amazing with Legos. Joe? Not so much. It’s not only difficult for Joe to build Legos, but it seems to be difficult for him to keep them in tact. He has many times been punished for messing with Luke’s built Lego sets and destroying them, presumably by accident. At any rate, Joe was struggling to put two pieces together today, and Luke was waiting on him. Luke could not understand what Joe’s problem was because, by his mind, this was an easy task. Then, I heard the tattletale call from the living room.

“Mom…Luke called me stupid. And then he called me an idiot.”

The I-word is grounds for trouble in our house, so I called Luke in to talk to me.

“Luke…I’ve told you before. Do not call your brother an idiot.”

“Well, he was being an idiot. He couldn’t get these two Lego pieces together. It’s so easy!”

“Hey, Luke,” I told him, “Legos are more difficult for Joe. You need to cut him some slack. If you call him an idiot again today there will be a consequence and you will likely be cut-off from Lego You Tube videos for at least a day.”

“Okay. Okay,” Luke whined.

As he was walking back to meet his brother in the living room, I heard a big crash. I rounded the corner to see Joe standing there with what was left of a Lego plane Luke had built earlier this morning. Half the ship was in his hands. The other half was in pieces on the floor. Without missing a beat, Luke turned around and looked at me with a see-what-I-mean expression.

“Now can I call him an idiot?” was all he said.

I love my boys. They don’t always get along, but their predictability is amusing.

Posted on by Me 1

The Hitch

My sister did not want me posting any wedding photos to my Facebook page, so you get to settle for a photo of their wedding rings instead.

My sister, Kathy, became Mrs. Smith today. This morning we were all rushing around before the ceremony and Kathy, being a typical nervous bride, was stressing over every last detail. Were the place cards set out? Were they playing music for the guests? Were the favors for the guests at each place setting? Frankly, she was starting to stress me out with all the minute instructions, worries, and questions.

Hubby and I will celebrate our seventeenth wedding anniversary in about two months. It’s hard to fathom that we’ve been married that long because it has truly gone by in a blink. One thing that nearly seventeen years has taught us, though, is that while it’s pretty much second nature to get bunged up by little things, it’s not worth the energy. This is not to say that we don’t occasionally sweat the small stuff (because we do) but we’re much better about letting things go more quickly than we used to. Maybe it’s because we’ve figured out that in the end things usually seem to work themselves out, leaving behind a slightly more interesting story than we had planned on having. Maybe it’s because marriage has taught us that life is messy when multiple people are involved. Or, maybe it’s because seventeen years have passed and now we’re too old and tired to summon the energy to stress.

This morning, as Kathy was worrying about the fine details, I reminded her that the purpose of a wedding day is to end the day married. So, if at the end of the day she found herself married to Chris, then everything would be just as it should be. It doesn’t matter if the chocolate wedding favors melted in the 95 degree heat or if the sand ceremony was nearly thwarted by a broken glass container. Vows were spoken, rings were exchanged, and a husband and wife pronouncement was made. Kathy and Chris are married. I have a new brother-in-law, the kids have a new uncle, and Steve finally has another man in the family to help balance out the abundance of estrogen. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good. The day went off with only one real hitch, and it was the one we all showed up for in the first place.

 

 

 

 

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Don’t Answer That…A Lesson For Every Penis-Packing Person

The photo in question

This afternoon my boys and I were sitting on the couch watching a documentary film in air-conditioned comfort while the temps soared above 90 degrees outside. As we were watching frigate birds in the Galapagos, a new message popped into my email inbox on my laptop. It was a photo hubby had taken of my sisters and I at Kathy’s wedding rehearsal lunch today. I downloaded the photo onto my laptop and examined it. We look pretty good for a few old ladies, I thought. (Only one of us is under 40…and that one will be 40 in less than a year.)

Then, I got curious about something. I paused the movie, turned my computer so the boys could see it, and asked them a question.

“Who is the prettiest?” I inquired, showing them the photo.

They looked at me like I was crazy and said nothing. They were not interested in playing my reindeer game. I looked at Joe who is by far the more honest, less polished child.

“This isn’t a trick question. I promise,” I said.

He scanned my face but his expression said it all. He had no intention of touching my question with a 15 foot pole. He uttered not a single word. So, I turned to Luke. He smiled at me.

“What do YOU think?” I asked, staring into his cute little face.

With the ease of a future politician, he answered, “You’re all pretty.”

“Uh huh,” came my reply. I could see right through him, so I pressed a little harder. “You think we’re all equally pretty?”

“Yes,” he asserted, sounding 100% convinced. I had to give it to him. The kid is slick. I gave up on him and focused again on Joe. I was certain Joe would crack under the scrutiny. His honesty would betray him. I knew it.

“I promise I won’t get mad if you say it’s not me,” I pressed. “Really. I’m just curious what you think.”

He continued to look at me, saying nothing. He was glancing over my shoulder at Luke. I spun around quickly to see Luke pointing at me. He was prompting his brother, lest Joe should offer up what they assumed would be an incorrect response. I rolled my eyes and gave up. They clearly did not believe me when I said I was merely curious and that there would be no repercussions for admitting that I was not the prettiest girl in the photo.

And, you know what? Good for them. Although I truly wasn’t testing them and was simply curious about their opinions of their old mom and their aunts, had I been testing them they would have passed with flying colors. I was impressed by their ability to spot a potential land mine of feminine wiles and avoid all pitfalls. Joe is smart enough to keep his mouth shut when cornered. He’s definitely learned that it’s better not to say anything when you’re not sure. And Luke, with his textbook, female-friendly answers, will be very popular with the girls someday. Every once in a while I get the rare opportunity to see how staying home with my boys and talking openly and honestly with them, especially about how to deal with women, has influenced what kind of young men they are becoming. Today was one of those days, and today I got an A. Yay, me! Now, if I could just get them to put the toilet seat down, I’d finally earn that A+.

Posted on by Me 3

Bat Crap Crazy Beats Boring Any Day

Oh…how I despise hosting garage sales.

My sister is getting married on Saturday. I am so excited for her. We’ve been talking about this wedding since last August and now here we are, down to her last few days as a single gal. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. my three boys and I will report to the wedding location for a rehearsal before heading out with Kathy and her soon-t0-be husband and his family to lunch. This entire week has been spent tying up last minute details for the wedding. Today I hemmed the boys’ khaki pants for the ceremony and reception. Tomorrow afternoon after the rehearsal I will help my mom put some finishing touches on my bridesmaid’s dress. Then, I get to try to figure out an appropriate, meaningful, and fun toast for my sister and Chris on their wedding day because I am serving as the matron of honor. So much to do, so little time left to do it in because the wedding is at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday.

So you’ll never guess what, in the midst of all this last-minute, wedding craziness, I decided to do. I thought we might be able to squeak in a few hours at the crack of roosters tomorrow morning selling some things during our Community Garage Sale (that only happens once a year) before quickly showering and making it to the 11 a.m. wedding rehearsal. I made this brilliant decision, I suppose, because I just didn’t think I had enough going on right now. I thrive on chaos and eat stress cookies for lunch. Clearly, I am certifiable, genuine, bat-crap crazy. Plus…we really need to unload some stuff so I can funnel more money into my savings account for the trip to Hawaii I’ve been planning while hubby has been dreaming of appropriating the savings for new camera equipment.

Tonight, when I should have been pressing the boys’ outfits and working on my wedding toast, hubby and I were in the basement sorting through miscellaneous items in our storage room, which is inundated with things we once “had” to have. These items taunt us. They are a reminder of the truth: we could have been to Hawaii twice by now if we hadn’t bought some of this junk. Seriously. As Steve attempted to free his once oft-used Bowflex machine from the back of the space, he handed me the Celestron telescope we bought for stargazing, used once, and then gave up on after realizing we really would have to read the instructions to work it properly. We tripped over outgrown children’s toys, from Lincoln Logs to Chutes and Ladders, simply trying to liberate some larger items from what had become their permanent home in our basement. Our need to purge overwhelmed our need to prepare for the wedding.

As we hauled stuff up to the garage and I stuck prices on larger items with blue painter’s tape, it occurred to me how absolutely insane I am for deciding to participate in a garage sale on the same morning as my sister’s wedding rehearsal. I’m nuts. That’s all there is to it. Why would anyone do this to themselves? Now I will get six hours’ worth of sleep in the hopes of jettisoning some of our baggage and maybe, just maybe, making a few extra bucks in the process. It’s probably not even remotely worth the effort. Truth is, though, that you can’t stop crazy. It takes over. If I could control it, it would be sanity. But, let’s face it. Sane people are dull with their lists and their timeliness and their level heads. I prefer to think that all my irrational behavior merely makes me more interesting. Yeah. That’s it. Please promise you’ll remember me fondly when they haul me off to a room where I cannot hurt myself or hold garage sales.

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Stormy Weather Ain’t All Bad….Except For The Hail And That Kind Of Sucks

Best kind of light show

Went to dinner with my buddy, Heather, tonight in honor of her birthday tomorrow. She’ll be 25ish. Anyway, as we were sitting at dinner we were discussing how summer in Colorado is the greatest thing ever. It really is. I know other people think their locale has the best summers, but they’re wrong. Colorado is incredibly beautiful year round but during our summers, which are normally warm and dry, we get the most amazing storms.

As if on command, the Universe summoned for our separate drives home an astounding light display. It was non-stop cloud lightning with the occasional cloud-t0-ground strike. Unbelievable. It was so constant that despite the darkness after 10 p.m. I was able to get several photos with my iPhone.

All I can think when I see storms like this is how awesome life is on this planet. The good. The bad. The ugly. All of it. Life on this planet is powerful and interesting. I feel badly for the people who miss that truth, who don’t take the time to stop and appreciate and marvel at it. Life is a gift. Any amount of time we’re allowed to exist here is a blessing. When you feel like things in your life are too much, sit and watch a storm and remember how small you are. And, instead of being depressed by that knowledge, revel in it because it’s freeing. No matter how big your troubles seem, they are insignificant in the grand scheme of life on earth. Just like the storm, they will pass.

Posted on by Me 1