Rocking It Old School

Party favors for 14 classmates and one chocoholic brother.

Our youngest son will be turning 9 next week. It’s crazy. What’s crazier still is that late last week I decided we should host a surprise birthday party for him. Luke has been talking to us for five months about what type of birthday party he would like this year. Luke loves any sort of party, but a party where he gets to be the center of attention is the best kind of celebration on earth as far as he’s concerned. He offered us ideas about where we could host it, whom he would like to invite, and what type of food we should serve. He’s coached us on what type of gifts he would welcome (Legos, Legos, and more Legos) and what type of gifts would be eschewed (clothing, especially socks or underwear). His frenzied birthday party planning was heading toward a crescendo last week. I decided I could take it no longer. I told him that his father and I had decided that we simply could not spend money on a big birthday party for him or his brother this year. End of story. Being the resilient and optimistic child he is, with visions of a Lego avalanche persisting in his mind he simply replied, “But, I’ll still get a family birthday party, right?”

The longer I thought about it, the more I realized that denying Luke a party is tantamount to canceling Christmas. He’s been on honor roll all year at school. Last month, he was awarded Student of the Month, and we still haven’t celebrated that distinction yet. And, he’d been such an exceedingly good sport when I’d told him he couldn’t have a party. Honestly, the kid has earned a party, just not the kind of party he had envisioned. The pool Luke wanted to have his party at would charge us $185 for 15 kids to swim and for us to have use of a party room for one hour. Add to that, invitations, pizza, cake, soda, and paper goods and we’d easily surpass $250. Then there are the party favors. Don’t get me started on party favors. When did it become standard to give each party attendee a bag of treats? This blows my mind. We have to reward these children for getting free lunch and cake at a party? Still, it’s a common gesture now, so you have to add that to the party cost. Insanity.

Certainly a birthday party for a 9 year old doesn’t need to bring us to a second mortgage situation, I reasoned. So, I planned to do this surprise party in a way commensurate with the kind of party my parents would have thrown for me, back in the old days when people used to host parties at home with a cake mom made. I whipped up 15 invitations on the computer and mailed them with stamps we already had on hand. Then I ran to Target and bought the ingredients for cupcakes, got a couple plastic table cloths, some two-liters of soda, a few cans of Silly String, and plain, white paper plates and napkins. My spree at Target cost about $50. I then tackled the notion of gift bags. For that ridiculous overture I bought some recycled pencils and Hershey bars and packaged them together using curling ribbon I had on hand. We are going to splurge and order pizza for 15 kids, completely justifiable cost by my estimation because I have no desire to cook. When it’s all said and done, I expect this party to cost us approximately half what we might have spent otherwise, and we’ll still get the same result…an exceedingly happy birthday boy. Imagining Luke’s glee when he sees his friends gathered here for him when he least expected it makes it all well worth the reduced price tag. I’m not going to tell him that, though. I’m really good at keeping secrets. 😉

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Looking For A Pay Raise Now

Luke in his self-imposed cleaning exile.

Being a parent is work. It’s work every day. Some days the work is difficult, and you need a drink before 5 p.m. Other days the work is less stressful, and it feels more like play. In either case, parenting is a job that you can’t escape. From the minute that child comes into your life, things are different. You are different.

Today, my little Luke came home from school with summer break fever and without his homework folders. The math homework he was supposed to be working on tonight was apparently left on his desk instead of making its way into his backpack for the ride home. Luke hasn’t forgotten his homework once all year. His oversight hit him hard.

“I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I forgot it,” he said repeatedly.

“It’s okay, Luke. It happens. You’ll just have twice as much to do tomorrow, but it will all be fine,” I reassured him.

“I can still work on some other stuff,” he said, reaching for the memory verse he needed to work on. He took it in the living room and started practicing it. A few minutes later, he returned. I could tell he was still angry at himself. He’s a lot like his mother, proud and stubborn, but I want him to be better than his mother so I tried reasoning with him.

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Luke. You haven’t forgotten anything all year. It happens sometimes. It will be fine. No worries.”

He went upstairs, and I lost track of him while I started Joe on his book report, a game board about the historical fiction work he’d recently finished reading. (Have I mentioned how much I hate grade school book reports?) When I found a good stopping point to escape from the dreaded game board, I went in search of Luke. I found him in the basement. He was sitting in the middle of a big pile of Legos, cleaning up.

“Luke…what are you up to?” I inquired.

“Cleaning. Since I forgot my math homework I thought I should try to do something else good.” My little guy was punishing himself for his oversight.

“You realize, sweetie, that I’m not angry at you for forgetting your work. It’s the end of the school year and you’re excited. Sometimes people forget things. It’s not the end of the world,” I told him.

“I know,” he replied. “I still can’t believe I forgot it, though.” He was taking this much harder than I thought.

Damn. He is my kid. Poor thing.

Now, I’d like to say that I immediately stopped him from cleaning the basement because I didn’t want him torturing himself any further, but I can’t. He is me. I can completely relate to his need to be angry at himself a little bit longer for his error and to try to make up for his mistake in some small fashion. Not wanting to interrupt his process, I let him keep right on cleaning. Besides, a clean basement is a clean basement however you come by it, right?

Parenting is work. It’s a lot of work for something you volunteered to do and will never be paid for. But, there are days like today, when I look at my sons and truly understand that the investment of time I’m making in them right now is worthwhile. Yes. They’re learning some bad things from me (like how to be hypercritical of their mistakes, apparently), but they’re also learning some good things from me too, like how to take responsibility for their actions and how to turn a negative into something positive. Today I received the first positive performance review I’ve had in a while. It felt good too. Now, if I could just find the person who could give me a pay raise, I’d be all set.

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Life On The Edge

The perfect ride I could have missed.

I’ve never been much of a risk taker, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve begun to be a bit less cautious. I don’t know if that’s because with experience I’ve learned that I have often avoided things that turned out to be no big deal or if it’s because I’m older and figure I’m going to die anyway so what the heck? Either way, I definitely throw caution to the wind more often than I used to. Most of the time it pays off.

Take today, for example. It was a perfect day for a bike ride. I mean, picture perfect. Clear, deep blue sky. 65 degree temps. Light breeze. Amazing. It would have been criminal to ride indoors. My road bike desperately needs new tires after 700 miles on the trainer this spring, so I had to pull my mountain bike out of the garage. Years ago, hubby and I took the knobby tires off it and replaced them with touring tires so I could more easily pull the kids in the bike trailer with it. Still, I figured the tires should be able to hold up to some light mountain biking on dirt roads, right? Before leaving the house, I desperately tried to locate all the necessary tire changing materials (including a tube that would fit the touring tires) just in case. No luck. I decided to go anyway. The day was too nice to waste. I would take the risk, figuring that the worst that could happen is that I could end up having to walk home with a flat.

I rode out of our neighborhood and down into the state park across the street and hopped onto a dirt trail that leads to a nearby Audubon Society nature area. From there, I rode about two-tenths of a mile to the dirt road that runs up Waterton Canyon where I have hiked with my boys for years. The road travels about 6.5 miles up before you reach Strontia Springs Dam and a hop-on point for the Colorado Trail. It’s 5 miles from our house to the entrance to Waterton Canyon. I figured I’d ride up a couple miles only and that way if I ended up with a flat it would be just a short walk back to the entrance of the canyon where hopefully some nice fellow biker with a vehicle in the parking lot would be able to offer me a four mile ride back to the entrance to our neighborhood. But, damn, if the day wasn’t just too nice to stop two miles up. I was feeling great, so I kept riding. I rode 5 miles up. Then it occurred to me that if something happened at that point, it would be a 10-mile walk home. I decided a 20-mile round trip ride was good enough and I headed back down the canyon. Why push my luck, right? Of course, nothing bad happened. I got in a ride on a flawless day and was so glad I hadn’t sweat the small stuff and given up before I’d started on the off chance that something could possibly go wrong.

I used to plan my life based on things that might happen. I missed out on a lot of incredible opportunities before it occurred to me that I wasted too much time imagining disasters that never unfolded. Things usually manage to work themselves out. And, even when they don’t, the world doesn’t end. If I’d gotten a flat 5 miles up Waterton, it would have been unpleasant. It would have taken me a long time to get home. I probably would have been fairly cranky, but I would have gotten there and the world would have kept right on revolving. Years from now I’d have nothing left but a faint memory of the difficulty and a funny story to share. Too often we hold ourselves back from things to save ourselves possible trouble or heartache. But, what potential joy have we abandoned by living too cautiously? Yes. Sometimes things go wrong. But, then again, sometimes they don’t. Those are the times when you know with your whole heart how truly amazing life is.

 

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Mother’s Day Mayhem

Stagecoach ride at Whispering Elk Guest Ranch

Let me throw aside all sappy sentiment and be honest for a minute. Mother’s Day confuses me. When I was young, I had my mom and Mother’s Day was all about her. Easy enough. Then, I got married, and Mother’s Day was multiplied because now I had to think about my own mother, as well as my husband’s mother. Whose mom got to take precedence? Was I now supposed to try to fit both moms into the one day? To make matters even more confusing, I then became a mother. What exactly is the protocol at that point?

Ever since I became a mom this day has been a mixed blessing for me. The pull to make sure I was not enjoying this day while neglecting my own mom and mother-in-law was overpowering and, quite honestly, aggravating. As selfish as it is, I want this to be my day now that I’m a mom actively engaged in the raising of children. Certainly that isn’t too much to ask. Or is it?

Most mothers have ridiculously high expectations as to what would constitute an ideal Mother’s Day, though, and no one will be able to meet them, not even for one day each year. Realistically, it’s best to take your Mother’s Day visions, write them off as delusions, and soldier on. Take my Mother’s Day today, for example. We were up in the mountains staying in a nice log cabin, and I was still awakened at 6:30 a.m. by the ruckus of my sons barging into my bedroom to tell me they were awake. Thanks for the heads up, sweeties. It’s not as if I wouldn’t have figured that out on my own in two minutes when you began arguing with each other while “quietly” playing Battleship. Eventually, their father got home from his morning job taking photos and cleared them out of the house so I could get a bit more sleep. That was pleasant.

Until, at 8:15, the boys bust into my room again and declared, “Mom…you gotta get up. The stagecoach is leaving and you’re going to miss it.” No. Seriously. We were going on a stagecoach ride and in their attempt to let me sleep in they’d put me in a position whereby I would now mess up the whole endeavor for everyone with my ill-preparedness. Crap. I jumped out of bed, started rooting around through clothes like a coati looking for insects, grabbed something to wear, threw it on, and tried to figure out how I was supposed to function without a Starbucks run. I spent a few minutes chewing out hubby, who happened into the room during my “hurry-up-and-get-out-so-you-don’t-miss-the-damn-stagecoach-experience” fit. Then, I emerged and got myself to where I needed to be for my relaxing morning ride.

In retrospect, the day ended well enough. I did get to travel via stagecoach through the beautiful Whistling Elk ranch. I also got to ride a horse, something I hadn’t done in 25 years. My boys took me out for Thai food for dinner, which was nice too. And when I got home I greatly enjoyed the gifts my sons had made for me at school, one of which was wrapped in a white paper bag with a drawing of Luke as a ninja on it. Can’t beat that.

I guess Mother’s Day all comes down to expectations. As the years have gone on, Mother’s Day has become less and less disappointing for me because I have come to expect less and less from it. I know that sounds negative, but it truly isn’t. Mother’s Day isn’t merely about me, as much as the name might imply. Every mom knows that once you bring children into the world your life will never be the same. It’s never about you anymore. You gave up that right when you allowed that little being grow inside your body and then push its way out. Mother’s Day isn’t so much about being appreciated as it is about being important. And, nothing reminds you how important you are more than having your child rush into your room at 6:30 a.m. just to let you know they are indeed awake, alive, and ready to go.

 

 

 

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I’ve Discovered Blogger’s Hell

My husband is a part-time photographer. He’s been taking photos for 25 years. It’s his creative outlet. Our home is littered with cameras, both functional and antique. What I love best about my husband’s hobby is that he will photograph anyone or anything because he enjoys his craft that much. He’ll take wedding photos, landscape and nature photos, senior class portraits, cityscapes, wildlife and pet photos, as well as commercial photos. His photos are as open minded and easy going as he is. Right now, the whole family is with him on a photo shoot at a wilderness ranch that is under new management and is revamping their marketing strategy.

We’re up in stunning and peaceful North Park, Colorado, on a 4500 acre parcel of land, staying in a beautiful log cabin with two master suites, satellite television, and a hot tub. It’s gorgeous. It’s restful. It’s private. That’s why people come here. They come for the horseback rides through aspen forests dotted with elk and moose. They come for trophy fishing in isolated, fully stocked trout ponds. They come to give their children a taste of nature while sleeping out in teepees under a sky so dark you can clearly see the spiral arms of the Milky Way galaxy. The ranch offers an old west stagecoach ride experience in the summer and cross-country skiing and snowshoeing opportunities in the winter. The wind through the pines whispers, “Relax,” while the yips of the coyotes encourage, “Let go.” It’s a step closer to heaven here.

I can think of only one person who could find flaw with this place. That person is an Internet blogger who realized with chagrin when she arrived that this idyllic place has neither phone service nor Wifi. That person nearly stroked out when she acknowledged she would have to tap out a 500+ word blog post on her iPhone and then drive 30 miles to tiny Walden, Colorado and pray she would either find 3G or a private, unsecured Wifi connection somewhere in town to publish on this cool, breezy Saturday. That person would be more disturbed by the idea of not publishing her 159th consecutive post than she would be by noticing the large, muddy bear paw print on the French door she when she arrived at the lodge. That person, of course, would be me.

It’s not that I can’t rough it. I can. I’ve backpacked and tent camped. I’ve gone days without running water, heat, and showers. I’ve gone to sleep on the hard, cold ground, damp and dirty, and slept soundly after hours of hiking only to awake with pine needles stuck to my face. Born with thick, dry hair, I can go days without a shower and still look mostly presentable. Unlike many women, I’ll neatly pee in the woods without complaint and be proud of it. Come to find out, though, that if you take my Internet away I become a big, thumb-sucking baby.

It’s only because I blog now that this lack of Wifi is tantamount to torture. If I gave up blogging, I could go back to roughing it. No problem. But for now I’m a writer, and this average person’s heaven is my blogger’s hell.

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Edward Scissorhands Meet Mommy iPhonehands

Keeping in touch with my son while I was away last weekend

I have a gazillion things to be doing right now. We’re leaving in 4 hours to head to the mountains for the weekend. I need to pack, figure out what food to bring to the cabin, finish two blogs, do a load of wash, and take a shower. Those are the A-list priorities. There are B-list priorities too. So, what am I doing? Watching video I just found of my boys when they were 2 and 4. The video is so old it’s actually on a camcorder that uses tapes. Seriously. Tapes. So, I am watching the videos on the camera while tearing the house apart looking for the one infernal USB cord out of the millions that we have that will allow me to transfer these precious memories to my MacBook. It’s maddening. I’m a woman obsessed.

Yesterday I read a blog article about how we’re tuning out our families in favor of games, texts, and other diversions on our mobile devices. I’m far more guilty of that transgression that I would care to admit, but anyone who knows me and sees me on a regular basis knows the dirty truth. I agreed with the article completely, noting that I do often sit with my boys but play Words With Friends rather than fully engaging with them. It’s not right. I’m sending them the wrong message. They clearly deserve more from me than to have me check out on them in person in favor of getting a good score in my tw0 minutes of game time on my Scramble app.

In light of this struggle I am having with this ancient camcorder from 2003, though, I was thinking today that while our mobile devices can be a distraction they can also keep us in touch with what’s important. I am helpless without my iPhone. It’s always within 10 feet of me. Is that sick? Probably. But, now I have a camera and video recorder with me at all times. I no longer record solely birthday parties and then miss the moment when we are at the park and Joe negotiates the monkey bars successfully for the first time because I didn’t have a camcorder on hand. Because of my iPhone, I can watch video of my kids while I’m sitting on a beach on vacation with my hubby. I use the Notes app to write down funny things they say that might have otherwise been lost in time. My sons and I FaceTime when I’m away and can’t be there in person to say their “angel prayers” at night. I use my phone to time them as they do their math facts, to track their appointments, and to answer their questions in a timely manner…like when we’re at the zoo and they ask me what places tapirs can be found other than South America.

I suppose, as with most things in life, it all comes down to moderation. I don’t want to go back to the days when I would realize my camera didn’t have film or that I forgot to bring the video recorder. I guess I won’t toss out my mobile phone just yet. But, I will make sure to put it down more often so my boys don’t grow up remembering me with one human hand and one iPhone hand.

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Excuses, Excuses

What was that you said I couldn’t do?

 

“If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way. If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.”       ~Jim Rohn

My friend Lisa posted this quote on her Facebook wall the other day. I’ve seen it before but never given it much thought, probably because I’ve never thought of myself as an excuse gal. I like to believe that, as a rule, I make things that I want come to fruition. I am determined by nature. Tell me I can’t do something. I’d love to prove you wrong.

In high school, our marching band was going to a competition in Florida over Spring Break. I wanted to go to Florida. I didn’t play a musical instrument, though. Problem, right? Wrong. The band needed a cymbal player. I could play cymbals. I mean, how hard could it be? Well, I don’t read music of any sort, including percussion music. Problem, right? Wrong. I simply got a recording of the songs we were going to play and memorized where the cymbal crashes occurred. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, so marching in formation while banging some cymbals together would be no problem for me. I was golden. So, I went to Florida with the band. I marched. I splashed in the Gulf of Mexico. I got a ridiculously painful sunburn. I went on a Journey Into Imagination at Epcot Center. It was awesome, and well worth the very early morning band practices on a cold, frost-covered field in Castle Rock.

Thinking back to the quote, though, if I’m honest with myself I must admit there have been a few times when I made excuses about things I should have attempted to achieve. I choose not to acknowledge those times, however, because I don’t consider them to be traditional excuses. I know this sounds like semantics, but it’s not. Here’s why. Sometimes an unconscious lack of confidence in my abilities convinces me that I cannot reach a particular goal. Because I inherently know I can achieve anything I want, my brain simply chooses not to want things I’m convinced I could never achieve. It lets me off the hook. I don’t have to find a way to do something if I convince myself I never wanted to do it in the first place. It’s an incredibly brilliant rationalization, but a rationalization all the same.

The reason I bring this up is because of my recent decision to brave my fears and attempt to write something other than a blog. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve always wanted to be published…and not just by myself on a page I slapped up onto the Internet or via a bound copy of my master’s thesis housed in the library at Illinois State University. I’ve always wanted it. I’ve just never believed I was capable of it.

When I started this blog back in January and committed to writing every single day without fail, I thought I was doing it to get back into writing, something I’d given up when my oldest son was born almost 11 years ago. What I didn’t imagine, however, was that by practicing writing I would find some measure of confidence in myself. By writing every day, I was able to overcome my self-imposed road block. I realize now that the only current difference between me and published authors is that they tried and I did not. I may not write the next classic American novel. I may not become the next J.K. Rowling or Suzanne Collins. But, I will never know for sure what I might be if I refuse to allow myself the opportunity to find a way to do the thing I have forever longed to do. I look at it differently now. That is all that has changed. If I try, I might fail. But, if I don’t try, I will have sold myself short. That, I now believe, is a far worse fate than failure.

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Because Virginia Woolf Said So

Halfway through clean up

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”                 ~Virginia Woolf

Years ago when we moved from the city to this bigger house in the suburbs, I appropriated one room for myself. It was to be an office space, although I had no idea what I needed an office for because I didn’t have a paying job. Over the nearly ten years we’ve been at this address, my office has moved locations three times. It has been situated for the last six or so years down the hall from our bedroom in the smallest room in the house. It’s located over the garage. It’s freezing in the winter (like “use a space heater or wear mittens” freezing) and ungodly hot in the summer. But, it has a cute little window seat that I made a cushion for, a full-size closet I can cram all sorts of stuff in, and eastern exposure sunlight, which makes it bright and cheerful in the morning.

The first thing I did when I moved my crafting supplies into that space was to have hubby install a keyed doorknob. I planned to keep the boys from pouring permanent ink onto the floor, super gluing themselves to something, or ending up in the emergency room after messing with one of my sharp, paper-cutting implements. There was something so awesome about having a space I could lock up and keep private too. It was my own little oasis. That was the plan, anyway. Instead, what happened is that my private room became a catch-all for the kids’ school artwork, printed photos, birthday and holiday gifts that needed to be stored and then wrapped, and packing/shipping supplies. During the holidays, the room gets trashed by my whirling dervish behavior. Between the holiday cards, the gift wrapping, the treats for neighbors and teachers, and the scrapbooks I give as gifts, I find I can no longer even walk in there by December 25th.

So, I lock the door and ignore it…for about four months. Sometime in April, I cautiously peer in there to remind myself what I’m up against. Then, I quickly close the door and lock it again. Sometime in May I remember I am soon going to need a hiding place when school lets out for summer, and I begin the dreaded clean up process I’ve been avoiding. Today, though, as I began the cleanliness assault on my space, I was honestly excited about it because I’m not just cleaning up my crafting mess. I’m setting up my writing space too. I’m giving myself a room of my own, just like Virginia Woolf told me to, so I can write this work of fiction that is bubbling in my brain.

My office always had two desks. One was to be for crafting and the other was to house my laptop. I’ve never actually used the space that way, though, because the writing desk has been perpetually littered with, well…for lack of a better word…crap. Not anymore. Today I am turning over a new leaf. My writing desk will be for writing. I’m setting up files for my research and notes. I’m putting up my favorite inspirational quotes. I’ve dusted off my hardcover dictionary and thesaurus. I’ve hung my college diplomas to remind myself that I’m plenty capable of this. I’m ready to kick some creative ass. I’ve got a little money. I’ve got a room of my own. I’ve got some inspiration. What else could I possibly need?

I’m thinking wine fridge. I bet there has been some research done that shows that wine helps the creative process. And, chocolate too. It might be a good idea to toss a little chocolate in my wine fridge. I’m certain those two things will improve my creativity. I think I’m finally going to get a handle on the perfect office for me. And, I’d bet cash money that Virginia would approve.

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Goslings I Love

Luke and a gaggle of goslings

I adore Ryan Gosling. In fact, I have serious Ryan Gosling issues. Ever since watching him in one of my favorite films, Lars and the Real Girl, I’ve been a fan. Okay. He is a bit easy on the eyes, but he’s also a legitimately good actor. So what if he’s roughly the age of a kid I would have babysat? Age only matters if you are a wine or a cheese anyway, right? Did you see him in Crazy, Stupid Love? There are exceptions that can be made in these type situations. I’m sure of it.

Today, the kids and I had a gosling sighting of another kind. As we were pulling into the neighborhood after I picked them up from school, we saw several Canada Geese with their flocks of young goslings. While I’m not a huge fan of the geese who permeate this neighborhood (trust me…they permeate…their poop is everywhere), their little goslings, all yellow and fuzzy every spring, are a delight.

So, we ran home, the boys did a bit of homework, and then we grabbed a couple half loaves of white bread that have been sitting on the counter too long to make it sandwich worthy and headed down to the lake in our park. When we got there, the geese did not seem to be anywhere nearby. I did see two adult geese without goslings, so I began to feed them while the boys stood at the dock waiting to see the babies. One of the geese I was feeding was limping terribly. When I got close enough to him, I noticed that his right foot was tangled in discarded fishing line. It was swollen to nearly twice the size of the other foot. I tried to get close enough to help free him but he was clearly in pain and did not understand that I meant to help him. I fed him some bread to ease my mind a bit, perturbed by human carelessness and wishing that geese had opposable thumbs so this one could free himself from his human entrapment.

Then I heard shouts from the dock. The boys had seen the baby geese. I rushed over to where they were. There were at least 17 of the little goslings, and the boys were beside themselves with glee. I’m grateful that my nearly 9 and 11 year old sons still find joy in little things like feeding geese and are not already cynical and disinterested like other boys their age. We spent at least a half an hour feeding those birds, sharing an occasional piece of bread with a couple toddlers who showed up too. It was 30 minutes of pure, in-the-moment happiness. Well worth the cost of a loaf of Wonder bread.

I like to think that when I take time to do little things like this with my boys I am making a difference in who they will become some day. I help them with their homework, I chauffeur them to and from tutoring and other lessons, and I make their lunches. All that is well and good. But, if something were to happen to me to take me from my sons, I kind of like thinking that what they would remember about me is that I could tell a merganser from a cormorant and that I did awesome voices for the characters in books I read aloud to them. I like to imagine that they might not remember that I barked at them too often and that they would instead remember that I would jump on their trampoline and get in spitball wars with them.

Lately I’ve been paying attention to how much the little things are the big things in life. A few minutes spent with those little geese today made a big difference to my boys. They talked about it all night long. When it comes to raising children, the little things we share with them are every bit as important as the big things we do to mold them. Keeping that in mind, I hope I always remember to make time for all goslings, not just the tall ones named Ryan.

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Stranger Things

The reason I now have an excuse to stay home and write.

“It’s not who you are that holds you back but who you think you are not. Judging yourself is not the same as being honest with yourself. You are capable of great things.”

A friend posted this quote on her page today. I can’t stop thinking about it. Oh, how guilty I am of this transgression against myself. I all too often judge myself harshly in the name of being honest with myself. I am a person who learned early on that it’s better to prepare for the worst so you’re not disappointed than to hope for the best and fall flat. It’s such a sick, self-defeating attitude, one I’m sure that has kept me from stretching outside my comfort zone and achieving more for myself on occasion.

I had a conversation with a friend recently that bothered me. We’ve known each other a long time and, as with most long-term friendships, we’ve both changed over the years. I realized as we were talking that my friend was somewhat disappointed in me because I have made choices that have kept me from becoming what I had sworn when I was younger I would become. In his mind, I’ve settled and am not living up to my full potential. (Sorry. I sounded like an episode of Lego Ninjago, there.) I first felt insulted, then angry at him for judging me, and then sad because there is a definite part of me that knows on some level he is right.

I have spent many years selling myself short. When people would ask me what I do I would tell them I’m a stay-at-home mom. I would say it apologetically, convinced that my position made me unworthy of interest. When they then reacted according to my own boredom with my situation, I’d become indignant and hurt that they were not interested in me. But, honestly, how could they be interested in my life when even I wasn’t? I was judging myself for my own perceived failure to achieve a successful career, and then I was projecting my frustration onto them. They were simply following my lead. Staying at home with my sons was a choice, a choice I would make again because I like knowing that I am their go-to person. I don’t think I could have handed them over to anyone else. I don’t think it’s in my nature. I am where I am because I chose this path. So, why do I expend so much energy feeling bad about what I am not and what I have not achieved in terms of a career?

Instead of feeling bad about not having a paying career right now, I need to look at things differently. I have the freedom to stay home and work on the book I always hoped I would write someday. “Someday” just became today. And, instead of depressing myself with the enormity of the task of writing and publishing a book, I’m going to put on my best Tony Robbins and imagine myself on a book tour, signing copies of my story. Why not? Stranger things have happened. Hell… my husband, who has had infinite faith in me from the very beginning, has already started discussing what we should do when the royalties start coming in. Now, that’s the kind of positivity I should get behind. 😉

 

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