Winter Flooding

Since moving back north nearly 15 years ago I have appreciated and more recently learned to enjoy winter. After all, after six years in Alabama it was my choice to move back to four seasons. I don’t particularly like the frigid temperatures, but most of what I don’t like is the long nights and the shortened hours of sunlight that comes with them. The past few winters in my old house were not good for my mental health. I sincerely began to think that I had S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder). I’ve found that running through winter helps, it warms me up and gets me closer to the sun’s rays. But it was during these past few winters that my desire to move into a different house took flight and drove me to convince my husband that the time to move into a different house had finally arrived.

This time last year I looked at the house I am living in now for the first time. I instantly noticed and fell in love with the flooding of sunshine that poured (and continues to) through the many windows and the skylight. After we moved in on January 31 I found myself staring into the snow-covered woods out my back door in awe of mother nature. 

Between the few short weeks that have past since turning our clocks back an hour I instantly fell back into my dread of the approaching shortened days. Then last week it snowed! The ground was covered and the sun reflected off the beautiful white blanket that was laid on my yard and in the woods. MY house, the house I fell in love with 10 months ago opened itself up to the flood and I’ve found that this past week I’ve been breathing easier even on these cold winter days that have arrived much sooner than in the past. I can’t recall the last time I was this excited to see snow.

Who is Family?

Who is Family?

This entry includes my thoughts about what makes up a family that have jumbled and bounced around in my brain for years. I am writing with honesty and have no intentions to offend anyone. I’m not sure if when you are done reading this you will be confused, be able to relate to me, or just shake your head. Whatever you are feeling I thank you for reading this with an open mind and for not judging me based on the ramblings of this entry.

What makes someone a part of your family? Is it limited to those who you are blood related to? I think not. After all, those who are adopted or who adopt would strongly disagree. But adoptive families aside. If families are made up people whom you share memories with and love you for who you are, those who love you unconditionally, those who best understand you I would have to strongly disagree.

For me, I am fortunate to have some relatives who I would choose to be my family, those who I would choose to be friends with even if we didn’t meet through birth. There are also others who live their life and think so differently than me I am convinced that if we didn’t share DNA our paths would never cross.

Then there are loved ones we meet through marriage whose senses of humors, political views, and upbringings are so different than our own we wonder how their children grew up to be the perfect partner for us and parent to our children.

I have friends who have been promoted to the “better than family” status because we care about each other and love each other’s children as if they were “family”, but without the obligation, therefore choosing to be there for each other when we need help and support.

I have friends who are sisters and brothers, uncles and grandparents to my children. And I have known them no more than twelve of my thirty-six and a half years at best.

There are friends I can talk to about anything, who will listen with their heart and I have family who I can’t carry on a meaningful conversation with.

I have family whose kids I’ve never met or them mine. I have friends whose kids I only get to see once a year, but know they will be a part of my life because their moms are my “sisters”.

I have friends who send my children gifts and family who don’t even call on their birthdays.

I have family who keep secrets from each other and friends who I share nearly everything with.

I have family who are terrible listeners and friends who listen sincerely.

I have friends who I wish I could buy plane tickets for to come visit me, and family who I haven’t visited in years and have no plans to see.

I have family I choose to live several states away from and friends who I wish on a daily basis lived closer.

I have friends who I don’t talk with for months or over a year, but pick up right where we left off when we do speak or see each other. And family who I speak to regularly but have nothing to talk about.

I have family who I find no humor in and friends who I am guaranteed to laugh until I cry with during each and every visit, whether it’s weekly or yearly.

I have family who will never read this blog because it does not interest them, or they “don’t read” or maybe because they’re not interested in me and I have friends who “subscribe” to it.

I have a cousin who is more like a sister and a sister who is more like a distant cousin.

I am thankful for the people who are actively in my life and know that those who are not, my friends would say are missing out.

Most importantly, I own the fact that I choose between who is a part of my life and who is apart from my life. I am in awe of myself and the strength I have developed to make this decision, basing on my personal happiness, and my well-being, both emotionally and physically. I also know that in a relationship it takes both people to want to include each other. Surrounding myself with sincerely positive and respectful people who have similar lifestyles adds such peace to my life, I recommend it to everyone!

It is sometimes difficult to write with pure honesty not knowing exactly all who read my blog, but these thoughts have been screaming to get out of my head.

Cats and Blogging

Monday Comic

Was Martin Luther King Jr.’s Dream to Give Kids a Day Off of School?

"The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically... Intelligence plus character - that is the goal of true education.”

 - Martin Luther King, Jr.

As I sit here home with my two children I can’t help but think what Martin Luther King Jr. would have thought about having a teacher in-service today? Having not known the man personally and history not being my strong suit I can only speculate. I think he would have liked the idea of using his birthday to reenergize teachers about teaching students about equality and character education, but I doubt this is the topic being discussed throughout area school districts’ in-services today.

I find it ironic that that man that dreamed of his African-American children learning and playing alongside Caucasian children is having his birthday celebrated years after his death by giving them the day off of school. I’m not one of those moms that dreads when my kids are off of school, please realize this is not where my thoughts are stemming from.

Last year I wrote a blog entry about my surprise at the lack of community events commemorating MLK. First thing this morning I read a newspaper announcement of my local celebration that again begins at 7:00pm. Maybe next year if I don’t find myself employed, and attending an in-service I will plan a birthday party of sorts for MLK at my house. The only criteria for being invited will be that you have to be different than my children --- which of course we all are, each and every one of us.

“Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” -Martin Luther King Jr., 1963

Reflecting on New Year’s Eves Past

There are a few New Year’s Eves that I’ve celebrated in my lifetime that I remember, and I predict that last night will be added to this list many years from now.

Unlike some people who do the same thing from year to year or eat the same meal for dinner on New Year’s Day I have no traditions that lead me to know prior to December 30^th what I will be doing or eating. I’ve spent many New Year’s Eves watching Dick Clark, and frankly I find Ryan Seacrest to be a poor substitute, and another few watching the fireworks in my town from a snow pile, but there are a few others that stand out more.

My earliest recollection took place sometime between 4^th and 6^th grade. I spent the night at Paige’s house and I remember staying up with her parents, who always seemed young and cool in my eyes. I recall New Year’s headbands and champagne glasses, although I can’t recall if I was permitted or even wanted a sip of champagne.

A few years later I found myself in the loft of a ski house in Vermont playing Rummy 5000 with Heather and listening to the Top 100 songs of 199?.

One year during college I ended up in NYC with Carrie, only to be in a bar somewhere away from Times Square looking to meet up with a friend of hers. I remember thinking I couldn’t believe I was in NYC on December 31 (it was so easy), yet was nowhere near the action, even though I knew people who were.

In 1997 I was on an airplane destined for Sydney, Australia; missing the night’s celebrations, but creating one of my own.

I partied like it was 1999 in 1999 in Buffalo, with my now husband, standing in the cold waiting for the Buffalo ball to drop, thinking that it just wasn’t right to me to be in NY waiting for a ball to drop when I wasn’t in Times Square. For those who don’t realize it, New York is a BIG state.

A few years later we spent two hours waiting to get a table at Outback. Remember how earlier I didn’t spend much time planning my New Year’s, this was proof if there was no other. Afterward we made it to a friend’s house somewhere in the eleven o’clock hour and witnessed their marriage proposal.

In 2002, decked out in fleece lined pants we hiked up the bluff trails to watch the early (6:00) fireworks from the bluff, only a golf course separating us from the bluff the fireworks were being set off from. With the success of our night hike and the awe I felt while watching from our vantage point we said that the following year we’d hike up for the midnight fireworks show. ….. In 2003 our son was 8 days old, needless to say we stayed home in awe of another vantage point.

The year my son had just turned one we found ourselves at our good friends’ home, planning to spend the night and all, only to drive home after our baby threw up, and no he hadn’t been drinking.

Last night, just before midnight I won, for the first time ever a game of Monopoly.

Parenting Milestones

Sure there are the milestones all parents share with each other; rolling over, crawling, eating solid food and walking to name a few. But the parental milestone I recall the best was the day my son was able to recognize that he was going to throw up and therefore made it to the bathroom. I wanted to jump up and down and scream and shout for joy. It was the first time throwing up was not followed by scrubbing carpets or furniture or a mad dash to the washing machine while praying it was empty. (For those new parents out there I think it was around 4 years old.)

There’s also the milestone of no more diapers. I always thought it meant that as a parent I would no longer have to change a diaper, but what it really means is toilet paper is cheaper and a pack lasts longer than a pack of diapers.

I’m sure there are others, and if you can think of others please share them. In the meantime savor the moments that are happening now with your children, because one day they will “grow out of them and grow up”.

Catching Bugs

When I was running this morning a bug flew into my mouth. As I was coughing and spitting I thought, “I wonder how many bugs I have eaten in my life, or anyone has eaten for that matter?” Has any bug I ever swallowed gotten me sick? After all, we get sick when we “catch a bug”. So, have I ever really caught something from catching a bug? Thankfully this particular bug caught a phlegm rocket straight out of my throat, thanks, in part to another “sick” bug already taking up residency.

Comic Tributes to September 11th

Click the two links below to see how two of my favorite comics pay tribute today to 9/11.

Zits

Baby Blues

Comics say it so well

A timely For Better or For Worse comic

Tears? Not a One

My 4 year old started Preschool on Tuesday. In our school district preschool means that for two and a half hours a day she attends a district paid for program which is also known as 4-year old kindergarten. For three years my little love stayed home full-time with me. As I progressed in my graduate program she went to daycare for a year and a half (summer off) part-time while I fulfilled my practicum and internship requirements. When it came time for her to go to daycare we were both equally excited, she was so ready to start. I remember her saying she was ready to go to “school” because she wanted to learn.

 I didn’t cry so much as a tear.

Preschool was no different. She was disappointed that her older brother started school last Thursday but she had to wait until after Labor Day. First day excitement was flying high and boy was she ready. After dropping her off I didn’t cry so much as a tear.

My son, on the other hand, started daycare the day after he turned three months old. After being off of work for three months for maternity leave I was ready to go back to work. Most moms don’t admit that, but I am and was not afraid to be honest. When I dropped him off I didn’t cry so much as a tear.

I love my children, they are the center of my world. I would even describe myself as an emotional person. So why have I never shed so much as a tear at these big moments? It’s easy. At all of these times I knew my child was in a safe, caring environment. I trusted my child with these various adults because I trusted them. I do not easily give trust away when it comes to my children. I was confident that the daycare center was reputable; I visited several times, including the week before my son began as an infant. When he was one I was invited to be on the Board of Directors and jumped at the chance. My daughter and I “peeked” in on the preschool room one day to prepare her for the changes, albeit minor, that had occurred in the room since her brother was there. That’s right, the preschool is located in this very same daycare that I trust and love. The teachers are the same as when my son was there. They are the same teachers who worked there when he was an infant. They are an amazing threesome and I am so very appreciative and fortunate that my daughter gets to learn from them for two and a half hours a day. They each foster a love for learning, using their unique personalities and passion for teaching that reflects on my children.

At the time my son was born I had a job to do and I loved it; I was the sole children’s advocate at the domestic abuse shelter. Those kids NEEDED me. I knew and trusted that my child would be fine without me for a few hours. The shelter kids didn’t have enough safe adults in their life. Can any child ever really have enough?

So, here is a story of when I did shed a tear.

A three-year old Hispanic girl came into shelter with her mom. The girl spoke no English and had never been away from her mom. Due to the abuse the mom experienced from the dad she now had to get a job in order to financially support her children. I was the first person outside of her mom to watch her. I watched her while her mom filled out job applications, went on interviews, went to court, and attended a support group. My high school Spanish did nothing short of making her laugh and we bonded through building trust and nonverbal communication. Her mom got a job and she was enrolled in Head Start. Mom lacked a driver’s license and a car. Transportation to and from Head Start would be provided through the school bus company. Mom and daughter were equally frightened when the school bus pulled up that first day to take her away (to school). I was not yet a mom myself but I felt the sobbing tears of the daughter in my heart as mom put her, literally, on the bus. Walking back to the shelter mom let her tears fall as I comforted her. Upon entering shelter I bee lined for the seclusion of my office, where I closed the door and talked myself out of crying, but not before a few tears rolled down my cheek.

On the second day I dropped my three-month old son off at daycare another mom asked if I was going to cry again today. I said, “I didn’t cry yesterday.” Her response was, “I saw you wipe a tear.” “Oh, I must have had something in my contact because I didn’t cry,” I said. She may have thought I was defensive but all I could think about was that three-year old from my past. I knew my son was safe, I was confident and comfortable with my choice to enroll him at this center…all the things the mother at shelter was not. I couldn’t help but think that I had no reason to cry, even if I missed my baby all day.

So fast-forward seven years to this past Tuesday. I was asked if I cried when I dropped my daughter off at preschool. No, in fact I did a little happy dance in my mind. I was thrilled to have two hours (free) to myself for the first time in five years! My daughter knows how happy I am, but in the sense where I have praised her for being smart, polite and oh so ready to be in preschool.

I truly enjoy every phase and stage my children are in. I savor their breath, their hugs, their kisses, their words, and their being. I am grateful to be a “stay at a home” mom, even if seven years ago I ran back to work after my maternity leave. I really can believe that I have a second grader and a preschooler. For the most part I don’t feel like time has gone too fast. Because along the way I have stopped to smell the roses many, many times.

Tattoos

For the record I have no tattoos and have no intention on getting one, but I won’t say never, because who really knows what the future holds. For me, tattoos are too permanent.

When I see a tattoo on someone I can’t help but imagine that person at 80 years old. Regardless of their physical appearance I never picture them as a fit 80 year old. I do like to see the details of people’s tattoos and as with most things related to people I enjoy hearing the stories behind them.

I have a good friend who has her father’s initials tattooed on her lower back. I imagine it’s nothing she’ll ever regret, it’s what I would think of as a sentimental tattoo. Right for her, not for me. I’m pretty sure if I got my mother’s initials tattooed on me in her memory, she would come back and haunt me.

There are other tattoos that I’ve seen and admired, but there’s one in particular that I saw recently and really thought was cool. While lining up for the New Milford race I was looking down at people’s feet and legs when my eye caught an extremely fit male calf covered in a list of tattoos. There were about four tattoos, the details I remember are vague, but at least two were of the logo for Ironman races.  I thought it was cool that the body part that earned the “bragging rights” had the tattoos, almost as if the calf went to the tattoo shop without the rest of the body.

Hmm…if I ever become a swimmer and finish an Ironman/woman maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Until then I’ll remain on the piercing side of the fence.

Click here for some "bad paid for tattoos" from Ellen Degeneres

There’s no Winning Against a Train

I live near train tracks. Not so close I can wave to the conductor from my window, but close enough that there is only a road and a house separating us. The tracks follow the Mississippi River and as you can imagine are a main north-south corridor. Watching some of the 50 something (no exaggeration) 100 plus car length trains go by every day you learn a lot. Shortly after 9/11 we watched trains filled with tanks and other military equipment go south…then the President declared war on Afghanistan and the puzzle was solved. After Hurricane Katrina we watched as trains filled with lumber traveled south to New Orleans.

On the rare occasion that a train sounds its horn I get really nervous. My instantly reactive thoughts include, “Oh God, no there’s a car racing across the tracks, or Oh God, someone’s on the tracks. I hope they get off”

In early March there was a brief article in the newspaper stating that a woman was hit by a train around 8:30 pm just a few blocks from my house. No name or further details were ever given. I had an eerie feeling that I knew the person, or at least had seen the person before. There are a few wandering souls I see from time to time and for some reason I thought it may have been one of them. I yearned for more information but none was ever printed. Last night as I heard the train sound it’s horn around 9:00/9:30 pm I began wondering once again about that incident. I vowed to look for more information again this morning.

First thing this morning I read the paper online (talk about an oxymoron). There, brightly lit on my computer screen was the headline Women killed by train in south La Crosse. Wow, how freaky is that I thought, here are the details I’ve longed for. I clicked on the article and read further as a lump grew in my throat. This was a different incident, also, a block or so away from my house. This time there was a few more details, she was 32 years old and witnesses were reported as stating there was a woman sitting on the tracks just prior to being struck. The train struck her at 7:08 pm last night.

I read about these events and I get a graphic image of a person being thrown like a potato sack or being blown to smithereens. Where do all the “pieces” go and oh, please, don’t let any come close enough to my house for me to see them.

Prior to these two fatal accidents there were no similar incidences that I recall hearing in my 11½ years of living here. 

Random Thoughts of the Day

Saw a woman at the playground today with the oddest shoes. Picture a pair of black flip-flops and then add a boot to the back and ankle (no heel). Bazaar. I tried to find an image online, but am not even sure how to look for such a shoe.

If I could go back I would tell myself to live simpler and buy less. I am by no means a hoarder, but it is much too hard to get rid of “things” after random memories are attached them. I empty my closet and drawers on a somewhat regular basis, but I still have “TOO MUCH STUFF” (My favorite quote from Mama Bear from The Bearenstain Bears.

With all these “You know you grew up in (insert town) when…” pages being created on Facebook makes me feel torn between growing up in two towns or not growing up anywhere. It also makes me want my kids to live in the same town from K-12….maybe.

I think you should be able to look someone up online with just their name and birthday.

I often forget that time spent with “old” friends is irreplaceable.

Everyone should sign their first AND last name in yearbooks. So many years later my mind is being erased of memories I never thought I’d forget while I was living them. For those that aren’t in my yearbook I’m having difficulty remembering your FIRST name.

How appropriate and random that this was today's comic. I love Luann.

Livin’ the Life

Embracing the moments in life when all feels right. So often I think about what’s on my (sometimes hypothetical) to do list or what I should be doing during these moments.

Late this past spring I was enjoying a rare moment laying in my hammock. Instead of thinking about what I had to do I realized I was fully and completed immersed in the moment. So much so to anyone nearby it would have looked like I had been there for hours, or at the very least 30 minutes rather than the actual five.

So, when my daughter and I sat on the same hammock weeks later thoroughly enjoying the first sugar snap peas of the season I shared with her my new phrase and said, “We’re livin’ the life.” I love that she, too, has now embraced the phrase, sometimes saying it at times when I need to hear it the most.

So I hope you, too, can enjoy some “livin’ the life” moments this summer, fall, winter and spring.

Happy Father’s Day

When I first started this blog, I didn’t know who, if anyone, would read or care about my thoughts. I also wasn’t sure what I would get out of sending my thoughts off into cycberspace to be documented forever. 

In the beginning I honestly thought it would help me to not bombard my husband with my random thoughts as he walked through the door after a long day at work. I didn’t realize how time consuming it would be to write. Trust me when I say many reflections and random thoughts pass through my mind throughout the day. Each one I think will make it onto the blog and then life interrupts.

I’ve been “blogging” for 5 months now, and there is one person who drives me to write as often as possible, whose comments mean more to me than others, and that is my dad.

I sent the link to my dad in the beginning not really thinking he’d read it, as you’ll see by his first comment, there were too many words and not enough pictures. Then one day, to my surprise, he told me I had to write more because he keeps checking and there’s nothing new to read. I took those words of encouragement to heart and for him I write. When he reads something that concerns him he calls me to find out more.

There are many times that technology frustrates me, but for today, Father’s Day, I am so very thankful not only for my dad but for this blog that connects us and for the video chat we shared earlier tonight.

Thank you, Dad for caring enough to read all my words, I’m trying to post more comics for you. And to those of you who are not my dad, and are quietly reading this, I thank you and I still wonder who you are.