The Problem With Bucket Lists

A couple of years ago, a close friend of mine lost her good friend.  While on the phone with her and listening to her process everything and grieve, she told me her friend's death made her realize that every day is a gift, and that any day you are not doing, that you are not accomplishing, that you are not living to your fullest, is a day wasted- a day that you're not appreciating the great gift of life.  Something about what she was saying struck me as wrong at that time, but since she needed an empathetic ear right then and not a philosophical debate, I didn't pursue my train of thoughts.  In fact, I didn't really think about it again until this past February and March.  I revisited it because in this past February and March, I thought I was dying.

No joke.   I had been having serious radiating pains in the upper right quadrant of my entire shoulder/chest area, which was made even more looming and scary by the discovery of a lump in my breast.  A trip to the doctor confirmed it, which was disappointing, because to be very honest, I was hoping that she would just confirm the alternative suspicion that I had come up with, which was that I had finally gone off the deep end and was imagining things.   So when she nodded and said "Oh yes, I feel that." my heart sank.  Then she ordered blood work and a mammogram, and I was sent home, where I would sit and do battle with the abundance of crazy that lives in my head.

So then the blood work came back "funky" (quote from my doc).  Apparently I had too many red cells and not enough white.  Or maybe it was too many white and not enough red.  I don't remember- I couldn't focus above the buzzing that was sounding in my ears.  So she ordered more blood work while I sat home and continued to practice the art of "positive thinking".

(I don't know how positive thinking works for other people, but for me, when I'm scared, positive thinking just annoys the shit out of me.)

All this was made even more fun by the fact that either my doctor's office or the breast health clinic lost the referral for the mammogram, thus delaying the whole process by 2 and a half weeks.  (By the way, this happens all too often when I'm waiting for a referral.  I really do think there should be some kind of system in place where victims of such stupidity can exchange the mental torture they're enduring by inflicting some kind of physical torture on careless office staff.  At the very least this would improve the statistics of lost referrals, no?)

Anyway, during those two weeks I tried to just focus on the normal and go about my schedule.  I didn't really tell anyone about it, other than one or two friends.  And what I did tell them, I limited.  I didn't tell them how I was remembering that my aunt, who died of breast cancer 8 years ago, was diagnosed at my exact same age-37.  I also didn't tell them about the weird nightmares I was having, one in which I had a demon adhered to my back directly behind the spot where most of my pain was radiating from.  I dreamt that I tried to shake it off, but couldn't.  When I looked in the mirror to try to see it's face, I saw that it was dressed as a witch in a pointy hat, striped stockings, the works- and while it's face was blurred out, it was still clearly evil.  (It's okay if you want to laugh at that.... I'm pretty sure I'm the only person in the world whose subconscious will costume a symbolic fear of cancer in an outfit that looks like it came out of the MGM wardrobe department, circa 1939)

Don't worry, I'm not announcing that I have any kind of cancer in this post.  When I finally got the mammogram it showed that I have cysts, no tumors.  I'll need to get mammograms every year to monitor their growth.  The pain actually turns out to be from a sprained scapula.  I can live with it or treat it with massages.  (I've let Mr. C know, but so far he hasn't volunteered any services).  And the weird blood work turned out to be because I'm anemic, which is nothing that iron pills won't fix.

So hallelujah!  I'm not going to die.  But during all that, I thought a lot about the conversation between me and my friend from a few years ago, and I was struck with what it was exactly that had bothered me. It's the idea that we should all be do, do, doing, plan,plan, planning, live, live, living every second of our life in order to enjoy it fully.   I found this paragraph from this site, and I think it illustrates the frame of mind to which I'm objecting to:

"If you don't live your days by personal goals and plans, chances are you spend most of your time caught up in a flurry of day to day activities.  Ever feel your days passing by without any tangible output to speak of?  What were your accomplishments in the last 3 months?  Look at the things you did and the things you're planning on doing next.  Do they mean anything to you if you are to die today?  Having a bucket list reminds you of what really is important so that you can act on them."

You know what?  In those few weeks that I was waiting for news from the doctor, I did some pretty good living.  I didn't go anywhere different.  I didn't take my longed for trip to Italy.  I didn't raise a million dollars for charity.  I didn't participate in a flash mob.  I just appreciated.  I enjoyed my children more.  I enjoyed my husband more.   I resented the housework a little less (not much, I've got a ways to go in that department).  The half hour that I spent sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee every morning became a blessed ritual.  I went out of my way more often for people.  I don't feel that living well should be defined necessarily by what you do, I think it should be defined by how you feel about your life.  I think sometimes people get caught up in the plan, plan, planning and do, do, doing without stopping to appreciate what's around them in the present.  Aren't you missing the point of making every second count if you are caught up in constantly planning what you're going to next check off your list?

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying to stay stagnant.  Planning and goal setting is important, but I don't think anyone should feel that they're somehow living less fully if they're not constantly striving towards a goal.   Sometimes just being is enough.  In fact, I'd argue that most of the time it is.

Someday I'll get to Italy.  And maybe someday something that I've written will get published (like a real writer!).  Maybe someday I'll even kung fu karate chop a random person in public, just for fun.  But if I died tomorrow without doing any of those things, I'm okay.  Despite what the author of the paragraph from the Excellence in Living page says, I don't need a bucket list to remind me of what is important.  I already know.  For me it's my people (that includes my family, friends, and you), and my relationship with God.  If I could add in a few extras in there, I'd include my books, my food, and my bed, in that order.

Ya'll thought I was going to say kettle chips, didn't you?  They're included in the food category, along with the wine.  So there.

You all have a good night.

*While I was writing this, I came across a blog called "Avery's Bucket List".  It's about a 5 month old with a rare disorder called SMA, or Spinal Muscular Atrophy.  Her parents are raising awareness of her disease while also gifting Avery with as many life experiences as they can in her short life.  My favorite thing about the blog is looking at the pictures- I love to see the joy on everyones face when they pose with her.  It's such a beautiful reminder that in heartbreak there's still so much goodness and learning to be had. 
Anyway, after reading it, I wasn't going to publish this post because I questioned whether my point would hold true for a family who is going to loose their baby to a mean disease.  I hope that I'm right in my decision to go ahead and publish this because in the end, I think we're both talking about the same thing- appreciating every moment and remembering what's important.  I'd encourage all of you to go ahead and read her story- there's sadness, but there's even more love.  And yes, tissues will likely be necessary. 

Lesson of the Easter Parade, Resurrected

Last week, J's Kindergarten class had their Easter Parade.  If you've been around a while, you'll remember that two years ago I wrote about PG's Kindergarten Easter Parade in this post here.  I wrote about how her teachers had sent home a plain white paper plate with the instructions to "take this plate and turn it into the most beautiful Easter bonnet you can imagine!" and how this had completely stressed me out because I knew I couldn't contend on the same level of craftiness as the other parents (something that no longer bothers me because looking back I can tell that some people just needed to illchay on the ompetitioncay, k-o-kay?)

I also whined a little about it being unfair that the boys had only to color a tie.

Well.

Easter 2012 was going to be my time to shine, because a) I have a son, b)he's in Kindergarten, which should've meant that c) when the Easter Tie came home all I would have to do is plop down the box of crayons and let the boy go to town and be done with it.

But no.  The craft gods laughed in my face once again because this year when the tie came home, I saw to my horror that they had changed the directions.  The new directions said "Boys!  Take this tie and turn into a tie like no other!  Cover it with fabric, glue, glitter.... be as creative as you can be!  Just make sure it's one of a kind and unique!"

Well crap on that, K teachers!  Crap. On. That.  


So I sat down with J. We talked.  We discussed.  We diagrammed.  He decided that he wanted to color the top portion of the tie and, at the bottom, depict an Easter Bunny hatching out of a colorful Easter Egg.  (I assure you, he came up with it on his own.  I merely nodded and took notes.)

Then Mr. C came home and it was time for me to leave for tutoring.  I asked Mr. C if he wanted to continue the project with J, or leave it for me to finish with him in the a.m.  He said he would finish it out.  So I explained our idea.  I showed him the diagram.  I explained the materials needed.  Then I came home and found this:

No, Mr. C.  Just no.

First of all, where's the colorful construction paper Easter Eggs we were going to design?  And how are we supposed to tell if that's two broken halves of an egg or a couple of tulips sitting there?  And... what?  Is the Easter bunny sitting in a nest of black pubic hair?  What about black yarn says 'nest' to you?  Where's the cotton ball that we were going to glue onto the bunny's backside? Come on!  These are Kindergartners here.  They have no filters.  They will judge, and they will mock.  Oh yes, they will mock.

Just a side note for those of you who think I'm exaggerating the whole Kindy judging thing:  at the beginning of the year I went into J's classroom to be a mommy helper.  I chose a table to sit and help at when this little girl says to me "Excuse me?" and I said "Yes, sweetheart?" and she said "I don't want you.  I want that mommy to help me."  And then she points across the room to a younger, much prettier mommy helper who had obviously just come from the gym based on the fact that she was wearing super tight yoga pants and showing off her fabulously flat abs.  So I laughed it off, and was all "Oh, well.  What are you going to do?"  But you know what?  Every week I go in to help now, I spend at least 15 extra minutes on my hair and makeup.  All because of that little twerp.  Of course, the whole time I'm blow drying, I'm always thinking about that little girl and how I wish she'd choke on a fruit roll up or at least have hairy toes as an adult, but still.  Kindergartners deal low blows, man.  They know how to get what they want.

Anyway, back to my story.

Mr. C defended the tie by making the valid point that it was 100% J's work, which I did not have an argument for other than the fact that I knew how to make it J's work and make it more fabulous too.  So we dropped it and when he left for work the next morning, I undid the tie so that J and I could start fresh.  This is what we came up with:

You're probably thinking that it doesn't look like much, and you'd be mostly right. We did however, just dress it up a little.  We put some Easter grass on the bottom to make the nest.  We created a decorative egg out of construction paper.  J painted his Easter Bunny yellow with black spots, which really made it look like an Easter Cheetah, but whatever.  It's his work right?  I held my tongue.

We get to the Easter Parade. J has his fancy tie on. The girls, just as they did 2 years ago, are all trying to magnificently outdo each other in their fancy hats. And the boys? Most of them have simply colored their tie.

No glue.

No glitter.

No fabric.

No fuss.

I can't win. Not only that, but I realized had come right back around to re-learn the lesson I had thought I learned with PG.  That comment I made earlier about not caring for the competition factor?  Big steamily pile of doo, that statement apparently was.  For PG, it was about the fun of making the bonnet and being in the parade.  For J, it was about the fun of making the tie and being in the parade. For me, it was about worrying that my children would suffer public humiliation because of their mother's limited artistic vision and ability.  The kids were right.  It's about the fun, and once again this mama was a big, giant, fun sucker.  

Let's hope by the time Roo hits Kinder, the lesson will stick.  Third time's a charm.

Happy Easter, everyone!  Am I the only one who thinks that whoever came up with the idea of celebrating Jesus' sacrifice with chocolate bunnies and Peeps was a genius?  Seriously.  Thank you, Jesus.  And thank you Easter Bunny.


Bawk, Bawk!





  

This Would Be Called Denial

You know what just occurred to me?  This is the first time that I've had a 3 year old without having an infant to care for too.  I've always had another baby coming up behind, and now for the first time, I don't.

This lack of a younger sibling has been very hard on Roo.  It explains a lot of her negative behavior lately.  Like, why she won't let me walk around with her on my hip anymore.

Or why she won't let me feed her.

She's insisting on picking out her own outfits and putting on her own shoes.  Can you believe that?

She even has her own opinions about when it's okay for me to land a squishy kiss against her cheeks.

Really, I am just about at my wit's end.

To make things worse, I am pretty sure that we took this picture yesterday:

And then today, she had the nerve to show up looking like this: 

What in the world is going on? I think she's playing mind tricks on me, and I don't find it funny.  

Not one bit.  

Someone?  Anyone?  Help me, please.  I'm in foreign territory here; at a complete loss.  Tell me:

What's a mother to do without a baby to baby?  

*By the way, if you were going to tell me to have another one, save your breath.  Factory is closed, though it's too bad. That factory did put out some pretty cute products.  

Why A Cave Would Be Good Idea Right Now

Well, here's the other reason why I hate my white tile floors.

See that?  That is in the middle of my kitchen/dining area.  If I had taken a picture of it yesterday, you would've seen that the tiles had popped up off the glue and buckled- causing a kind of little "tile tent" in the middle of my floor.  Here's the really stupid thing:  This is the 3rd? 4th? time that this has happened since our house was built in 2004.  Each time, we called the builder who brought out the tile guy, who redid his work.  Each time the builder and the tile guy acted baffled by what was going on and hinted that it was somehow our fault (WHAT?) that the tile was popping off the concrete.  However, they always agreed to just redo the work free of cost- out of the goodness of their own hearts.

Bless them.  (If you didn't read that with a sarcastic tone, then go back and reread it accordingly.  Because that's how I meant it- sarcastically.)

So this story gets stupider.  After talking to our neighbors, we found that there were not one, not two, not three, but FOUR other homeowners on our block with our model that have had the same problem.

Hmmmmmmmm.

Needless to say, the tile company and the private builder are both out of business and nowhere to be found.  Home warranty was only good for a year after move in date (How stupid and naive we were when we bought this house).  Homeowner insurance doesn't cover this.  Our neighbors who did begin litigation got their floor redone, but they ended up paying more out of pocket to lawyers.

So.

I started calling around and thankfully got some good recommendations from friends.  After talking with two different tilers yesterday to get estimates, we found out that the guy not only used cheap glue, but he didn't use proper proportions when mixing the grout.   What's more (and this is the root of the entire problem) is that we learned that he tiled directly onto the expansion joints in our floor.  Someone who knew what he was doing would've known to put down an "uncoupling mat" between the joints and the tile, which would have absorbed the energy and movement from the earth, instead of just letting the pressure build up in the tiles until they popped.

Good to know.

The silver lining in all this mess is that this happened at a time of year when we have our tax refund handy to help with the expenses.  I've been trying to focus on that, instead of just complaining and whining about the situation.  However, sometimes I let myself slide into that nice, dark, place deep down where rolling around in the negative muck of it all gratifies.  (Why does the dark side feel so gratifying?  And why does being all Pollyanna about this feel so irritating?  These are things I wish I knew the answer to.)

While I was down there I started thinking about gas prices.  Then I started thinking about what a friend of mine said when I was complaining about the current cost of living.  She said "Well, you shouldn't have had so many kids.", which really, was the most unhelpful stupid statement ever.

(By the way, YOU. You who said that to me- I'm reconsidering our friendship, okay?  You suck.)

Then I started thinking about how, last I checked this was a free country and why should I have to feel  bad about having 4 kids and a floor to fix?

Then I went out to the gas station and was cut off by a Snowbird (not an actual bird, I'm referring to the  retirees who live part time  in our desert during the winter months) from Washington and I especially hate Washingtonians right now because the last time Mr. C went to Costco, one yelled at him for not returning the shopping cart to the proper place.  Way to crap on someone's day, Washiontonian dude.  Mr. C usually does return the shopping carts, but he had a car full of kids waiting and really WHO CARES? 

Then it occurred to me that I may just be the tiniest bit hormonal.  So I decided to just vent it all out on this post and spend the rest of the weekend holed up in my house with it's crappy floors until I can be nice again.  A glass or two of wine may help.  And yes, kettle chips.

Always the kettle chips.

LA-Z Boy And Other Fashion Disasters

Hi.

I just have a silly post to share with you tonight, which I kind of feel bad about because the last post I wrote brought a lot of feedback- not necessarily in the form of comments, but in phone calls, messages, and face-to-face conversations.  By the way, do you all know how much I love it when people want to talk to me about what I write?  I'm like Bette Midler in Beaches, "But enough about me.  Let's talk about you.  What do you think of me?" It's so completely narcissistic.  You should know, however, that I do try to negate the narcissism with the mere awareness of the narcissism.  Can a person really be a narcissist if they realize they're being narcissistic?

If a tree falls in an empty forest, does it really make a sound?

I don't know where I'm going with this.  But I do thank you for your feedback.  Even when it's not positive, I still love it (As long as it's not mean.  Please don't be mean.  I'm still not a big enough person to handle meanness in a mature manner.)

Anyway, another blogger once wrote that writing a post and not receiving any comments is like "throwing a party and watching at the window as everybody just drives by".  She nailed it exactly.  So thank you and please keep the comments coming!  

Anyway, blah, blah, blah.  Let me get back to my intro.  What I was saying is that I feel like I should write something a little more clever and thought provoking than what I'm about to write.  But I'm not.  I'm writing about something that has been bumping around in my head ever since I wrote Happy Pants.  This is a silly post about clothes.  Not just any clothes, I'm talking about those clothes.  You know... those clothes?  The clothing items that maybe, perhaps, are owned and loved by your spouse  that you secretly dream of burning and then taking the ashes to a field so a tractor can run over them and then a horse or two can crap on them before the whole mess decomposes into muddy soil?

You know?  Those clothes?

 I remember a fight that my parents had in the late 70's/early 80's that was caused by such an item of clothing.  It was a shirt my mom had.  In fact, she wore it almost every day as part of her "housewife" uniform.  It doesn't look that bad from the front.  In fact, I have a picture of it here*:

Shoot.  It's blurry.  What it says is "Okay America, Show Us Your......"

Those three little dots are like the modern day version of "Wait for it....." cuz on the back there was this:

In case you can't tell, that's the outline of a butt.  And my mom wore it proudly over her Jordache jeans, despite my dad's protests that it was a tacky shirt.  I think I remember her arguing back that she got it free because she bought some Hanes Her Way underwear.  I don't know.  

To be honest, as a kid, I didn't even realize it was supposed to be a butt.  Maybe I just thought it was a big W with the word "Underalls" in it.  I've always been on a little slow on the uptake. 

Anyway.  So then I grew up, got married, and learned that my own husband owned a shirt that was equally, if not more, tacky. 

Yup.  There it is. LA-Z Boy Furniture Gallery.  

He got that at the Goodwill, which, you know....(sigh)  I have nothing against the Good Will.  It's just that this shirt, with it's holes, and worn down, see thru material... it needs all the help it can get.  Knowing that someone else wore it long enough to the point where they decided it was Good Will material and that my husband then dropped his 75 cents and has been wearing it every weekend makes me feel like I need to follow him around with a can of Lysol.  

Sometimes I do, but only on the sly. 

Here's the other thing I hate about this shirt:  the fact that it says LA Z Boy.  Mr. C is not really lazy, but sometimes when he's laying on the couch, wearing that shirt, beer in hand, it's like the shirt is egging me on.   In my head I can almost hear the chanting: "Lazy boy!  Lazy boy!  You're married to a lazy boy!"  

So I get testy.  Do you blame me?  

Don't answer that.  

Anyway, that's it.  My silly little post.  Feel free to share any clothing stories that you may have.  I, personally, do not possess any  embarrassing clothing items...... ahem!....that are worn on the outside.  

(There is something to be said for elastic waistbands that reach over your belly button, but you didn't hear it from me.)

Have a good night!   

*Disclaimer- I know posting this picture is going to make my sister mad.  I'm doing it anyway because I'm a big sister and well, that's just what I do.  Can someone who knew us back in the day please help this situation by vouching that she was never really that chubby?  It's just a weird camera angle, I swear.

Jake On A Plane

Hi.

By any chance would you like to hear about my most despicable, hateful, stressful, abhorrent, absolute worst hour of parenting ever?  It happened in 2007.  I know that's an awfully long time to wait to complain about it (especially for a whiner like me), but I do have a reason for sharing this particular story now, tonight.  It'll all come together by the end of this post.

I'm hoping.

Okay.  In June, 2007, Mr. C had taken PG and 9 camping out in New Mexico.  The plan was that I would fly with J to meet up with them in Colorado Springs, CO to visit some friends.  At the time J was 10 months old, so I was a little leery of flying with him by myself.  I wisely took my mother along to help me.  The month prior I spent reading and researching the FAA rules and tips for flying with children, as well as gathering lots of advice from friends who'd traveled with their children.  I learned that a) I should be prepared for anything b) I needed to dress him in little slip-off sandals for security and c) that it was best to book a flight close to his naptime, if possible.

Done, done, and done.

The day of the flight, I entered the terminal with 1 collapsable stroller, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 helpful grandmother, 1 ten month old toddler who, by the way, had just learned to walk two weeks before, and a whole lot of false-bravado.

I had a plan.  Oh yes, I had a plan.  My plan was that I was going to let him run free in the terminal (with me following him around, of course), so that he would exhaust his energy.  Then, just before we boarded, I planned to give him a bottle (one of the 3 extra that I had packed), so that he would have a nice, full, sleepy tummy by the time we boarded.  Then I planned that he would snuggle quietly in my arms and sleep for the duration of the flight.

That was my plan.

Here's what happened:  Everything went great in the terminal.  I followed him while he tottered around, flirting with everyone and charming them with his big brown eyes and curly golden locks.  I gave him a bottle right before we boarded, while chatting with an elderly couple who had approached me to say what a sweet little boy he was.

Then we got on the plane and the plane.... well, for whatever inconvenient reason, it sat on the tarmac.

And it sat.  And it sat.

That was the least of my worries, because as it turned out, this boy of mine had no intention of going to sleep.  It had never occurred to me that airplanes with their rows of windows and people and lights and mysterious buttons everywhere could be so exciting to a toddler.  To distract him, I read all 5 of his favorite board books and ended up giving him the 2 extra emergency bottles, all before take off.  By the time we finally got in the air, the blond little cherub that had amused everyone in terminal had launched himself into a full blown Jack-Jack attack.  I was mortified horrified completely stressed out.  He screamed, he scratched, he kicked, then he screamed some more.  My mother and I tried singing, rocking, shh-ing- everything short of muffling him.  And believe me, I wanted to try muffling him (as did probably everyone else on the plane), but had just enough of my wits left  to know that that wouldn't end well.  

By the time the plane pulled into the Vegas airport an hour later for our layover, I was a stressed out mess.  Actually, that is a HUGE understatement.  Let me paint a better picture for you:

J, in his tantrum, had pulled his signature move of clawing at his skin- something he did all the time when he was an infant and his skin allergies were bugging him- so he had blood (BLOOD!) streaked across his cheeks.  As for me, besides having his tears and snot smeared all over my shirt, sweat stains down my back, and streaked mascara, I was fighting the ugly cry.

We all know that the only thing uglier than the ugly cry is the face that you make when you're trying to fight off the ugly cry.  We all know that, right?  It's true.

So, to end this story, J did finally snuggle up to me and sleep through the second leg of the flight (With the help of Benadryl, I am not ashamed to admit.  Go ahead, judge me.  I dare you.)  When we arrived in Colorado, I informed my husband that I would not EVER get on a plane with J again until he was at least 10 years old, and I have yet to change my mind about this.  We refer to the above described incident as "Jake on a Plane", and I hope that when he gets older and has kids of his own, that they are just as terrible and rotten on their first plane ride as he was on his.

I'm serious.  I'm holding on to this grudge.

So here's why I told you this story:  Today I read this article on the Today website about a couple who were kicked off a plane because their 2 year old was throwing a tantrum.
http://todaytravel.today.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2012/03/12/10651930-family-removed-from-plane-due-to-unruly-toddler-wanted-a-little-bit-of-humanity

Now look.  Maybe the airline was too aggressive in their actions against the family, or maybe the child really was posing a security threat with her tantrum.  Maybe that toddler was just having a bad moment, or maybe she's always a total brat- I don't know.  That's not here or there.  What I'm interested in pointing out is that while reading through the comments underneath the article, I really GOT for the first time, the level of prejudice that our society has against children.  

Before I get into this any deeper, let me explain to you the point of view I'm coming from.  I'm a parent with fairly high expectations of her own kids.  Basically, I feel like if my kids are not a pleasure for other adults to be around the majority of the time, then I am failing in some way.  I believe kids should be polite, and I definitely think they should be respectful- but I'm raising them this way because I feel  that's how adults should be as well.  One of my biggest parenting pet peeves is when people excuse poor behavior by saying "Oh, they're just being kids."  I always want to say, "Um, yes.... but it's our job to teach them when that kind of behavior is not okay!"  So I'm kind of a hard ass that way.  Yet, when I was reading through the comments on the above mentioned article, I was disturbed at the outright hatred being voiced towards children and their parents.  What's more, I began to feel angry at all the people who insist that parents should "control their children".

People.  You can control your cars.  You can control your bank account.  You can control your calorie intake (or maybe you can't).  But one thing I've learned as a parent, is that children can not be controlled.  They are independent beings.  They have their own minds, their own thoughts, their own mobility, and their own ability to speak, move about, cry, laugh, throw tantrums, tell jokes, laugh, be rowdy, or be calm.  You can influence them strongly by whatever means you choose, may that be modeling, threatening, bribing, rewarding, or cajoling.  You can prepare for or anticipate their reactions to a situation.  You can set limits, you can set boundaries, and you can set consequences.  In fact, if you're smart, that's what you'll do.  (Read that again if you didn't catch it the first time, because that's key.)  But no matter what, your kid has free will to chose how he's going to react to your expectations.   Think about it- try to recall a bad decision you made as a child.  Were your parents really in control of that decision, or did you make it independently?  

Furthermore, when we're talking about children 3 and under, the game is a little different.  These guys don't operate with the same set of logic that we do. It's one of those things that make them sweet and their perspectives funny- until they're on a plane and start throwing a fit.  Boundaries, limits, and consequences will do you no good in the middle of an airplane, or in the middle of a grocery store, or the bank, or library, or wherever you happen to be.  The best thing you can do in those situations is to leave and pray that there are understanding people around you.

Which brings me back to my point- prejudice against children in society.  I've had my fair share of judgmental looks from people in public.  I don't know a parent who hasn't.  What I don't get is society's expectation of children.  Someone with a gentler perspective in the article's comments brought up that we wouldn't ask an elderly person or a handicapped person to disembark a plane because of their limits, yet we expect babies and toddlers to have the same abilities as adults when it comes to handling their emotions?  And what's more, we're going to blame the parents when babies act like babies?

Listen, I know people don't like being around screaming children.  When I was on that plane with J, I felt terrible that everyone was subject to his tantrum.  That was where 100% of my stress was coming from.  If it had been only me and him on that plane by ourselves, I wouldn't have even broken a sweat, having had dealt with plenty of tantrums on our home turf.  However, I need to point out that children are part of our society.  We all need to get used to it.  People are so loud in their advocacy for tolerance of all kinds of sects of society- gay, the elderly, African Americans, physically disabled, mentally disabled, etc.  What about children?  Why is okay to voice intolerance against them?  

I know, especially having been a teacher, that often times children's behavior is a reflection of their parent's skills as parents.  I knew that when I had a kind, compassionate, intelligent student that the chances were he/she had great parents, and that when I had a belligerent disobedient kid, his parents probably weren't so good at the whole "rules and consequences" thing.  But that's overall.  All I'm saying here is that when you see a child misbehaving in public, you are likely not seeing overall.  You are seeing a sliver of their day.  You are witnessing the child making a bad choice, or a baby just being a baby.  So reserve your judgement and grow some tolerance, okay?

Sheesh.  

(Oh, I'm just kidding about the sheesh part.  I love you guys for reading- all 20 of you.  Really.  I appreciate it.  Thank you and have a good night!)

Davey Jones Sits In My Soul (It's News to Me, Too)

So, Davey Jones died.
I'm not even a Monkee's fan.  In fact, I prefer to think that I'm a little too young to be a Monkees fan.  However, Davey Jones' death made me sad.  At first it just made me sad because I had to actually explain to my kids that the news wasn't referring to the Davey Jones from Pirates of the Carribbean-  and once they understood that the pirate dude with the octopus beard was still alive and kicking, they lost interest. While they continued on in their quest to take over my entire household with legos, I watched them and sorrowfully shook my head at the knowledge that they would never know the hilarity of linking arms with their friends and doing that crazy side-stepping Monkee walk down a beach.

Hey hey, we're the Monkees!

Really, what kind of childhood can one have without that?

Then, as my day continued, I began to understand the second reason why I was feeling this loss.  It's because it's linked to one of my  favorite childhood magic memory moments.  You have any of those?  It's those memories where nothing significant is really occurring, but for some reason you've always remembered it.  Like, how I felt at the exact moment when I was 7 and I found a book in the library that contained a character with my weird name.  Or holding my dad's hand when I was 5 and leaping over cracks in the sidewalk.  Those kind of memories.  Do you know what I'm talking about?  They aren't life changing-memories, just defining ones.  They stay with you.

For me, I will always associate Davey Jones with my friend Aimee's living room.  I spent the night at her house a lot, especially in the summer.  And when we woke up in the morning, we watched reruns of the Monkees. (Then we would switch to Divorce Court, then Donahue, and then Days of our Lives.  Summertime was very busy for us.)

For some reason I remember sitting on her couch on those mornings in my pajamas.  I usually had a bowl of soggy, yet cherished, Life cereal in my lap. (My parents would only buy Grape Nuts, which means I basically ate a bowl of gravel every morning of my childhood.)  Her front door was usually open, and the sounds and smells of the morning came in through the screen.  Birds, cars going by, lawn mowers running, those kinds of things.

By the way, have you guys ever noticed how, when you were a kid,  the air smelled different in the summertime?  Especially in the mornings?  I find it strange that I don't really notice the way air smells at all anymore. Maybe that's just something you pay more attention to when you're a kid.  At any rate, I can remember exactly the way it felt, sitting there with our feet propped up on the coffee table, eating our cereal, and watching The Monkees.  I even remember the pattern of shadows the sun made on the living room floor.  Isn't that weird that I can remember that?

But I do.

It's such a simple memory, but it's one I'm glad I have.  It's one of those that kind of just sit in the middle of my soul. And some how I know that if that memory didn't exist for me, I'd be a touch of a different person.  So thank you, my friend Aimee.  Thank you, pajamas.  Thank you, bowl of cereal.  Thank you summer mornings.  And thank you, Davey Jones.