On Empty Nest Syndrome

Saturday morning, Jose came into the bedroom and lay down for another brief morning nap. If you’re not a morning person, then you are probably unfamiliar with the morning person sleep in. A morning person will still have to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to pee. No matter what. And once up, then you’re up for an hour or two. It’s a really nice time of the day. It’s the time that I use to watch whatever late night shows that I’ve DVR’d – the shows I can’t normally watch because I’m asleep or some cartoon network, star wars, sci-fi or dinosaur video is taking over the television. About the time that everyone else is beginning to stir (around 8:00 or 9:00) I’m ready for a nap. Which actually works better because then Jose (who is not a morning person) will get up and want to clean (something that is as bizarre a Saturday morning ritual as … well I can’t think of anything as bizarre as wanting to clean first thing on a Saturday). So while he cleans, I go hide in the room. My mother would tell you that this is not a new pattern for me.

Anyway, back to the story. Jose came into the room and laid down while I was reading. He was drifting in and out of sleep – as evidenced by the occasional snore and the slow motion of his foot back and forth. Suddenly, he asked if I wanted to go to eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel with the gift certificate that we had gotten. I said sure, let’s wake up the kids. And he responded, that he thought we’d just go together. “Like a date?” I asked. And then we spent a bout 10 minutes discussing how we felt guilty if we went out somewhere by ourselves. And it’s true. I don’t really want to go anywhere or do anything too fun unless the boys are with us. It seems unfair to not let them enjoy in the moment. Now, I have seen on television and read about those parents who will often leave their children and go to the movies, or go out to dinner, or go away for a weekend. And I just can’t quite get my head around such an occurrence. It seems to me that actually having children is not unlike signing a contract that says you will forgo the right to pee alone, bath alone, have a long meaningful conversation on the telephone for the next 20 years or so. At least that’s what I signed up for when I decided to have children.
And Jose, ever the pragmatic said “Well, they are just going to leave us anyway.” Which really isn’t anything to ever say to a mother. Sure, we realize that eventually they will leave – but we don’t think about it. And of course that’s why when they do leave, mothers are in tears and walk about lost for days, weeks and months on end. It is perhaps the only argument for teen age pregnancy – as those mothers who were afraid to lose their children to the real world, now have someone else who needs them. And really, after a few years of having to pee with an audience, it’s almost impossible to do so alone. In fact, I believe that when all three of my boys finally leave the house when they are 30, that I might have to start peeing on the front porch just so I’ll have the company of the passersby.

I realize that with a 3 year old, I have quite some time before I will have to worry about an empty nest. And with the economy and college, I’m sure that my boys will be living her for quite some time. Shoot with the Hispanic heritage thing going on, I might even end up living like the Waltons with everyone’s family. And you know, that’s not a bad idea. I can think of things that are a lot less appealing than living on a family compound so to speak. It sort of goes against the Broadbent/ Cameron frame of existence – but my dad and his brother live across the street from each other – though I don’t know how often they see each other or talk.

All I really know is that knowing that they will someday leave to live with some substandard woman who presumes that she knows everything – you wait, she’ll be just like that – makes me really focus on making each day, argument, whine, and giggle something to be cherished. I have long believed, said, postulated that life is about making memories – and I hope that we are creating some good ones.

On Entertaining

There are people in this world who love to have people come to their house. And when they have company, they have themed serving dishes, matching plates and dinnerware. They are capable of making their table look as if it could appear in a food magazine.

I am not one of those people. My idea of matching dinnerware is paper or Styrofoam plates (they do match and I have a full place setting for 100 guests), plastic cups, plastic silverware, and paper towel napkins. The only serving dish I have is a glass cake stand that can be flipped over to serve dip and veggies, chips or fruit (maybe cheese and crackers). Every meal that I have served in my house to company has been a serve yourself buffet type of meal – and as I have an eat in kitchen it’s really the way to go. I do not have a formal dining room. I don’t even have one of those look but don’t touch rooms. As every piece of furniture in my room was free or cost less than $100 (which was what we spent on a used 3 piece living room suit that someone was just going to donate to good will), then I have no qualms about messes, spills, or eating in the living room. I defend this style by saying it really is a matter of personality. It’s easy, there is little clean up, and it gives everyone a chance to visit in comfort – no pressure about table manners at my house.

The problem is that deep inside of me resides my Aunt Martha – or probably My Aunt Martha’s mama (whom my mother called Big Mama). And that part of me feels like such a casual approach to a dinner party is entirely inappropriate. Guests should not be sitting on a couch, hovering over the coffee table. I should purchase a small card table (2 or 3 if necessary) and allow them to eat at a table like civilized folks. I should have nice dinnerware, glassware, and silverware that lets the guests know that I am honored to have them in my home. And in my defense with this issue, I have purchased plastic plates and glasses that match from the Dollar Store when I’ve had some guests over for a summer BBQ (on clearance, each plate was 25 cents – a bargain I thought, so I got 12). There should be linen tablecloths and napkins. Place cards are really not necessary but would be a nice touch. If a buffet style was called for, then all food items should be placed on the side board, not on the kitchen counter. And the kitchen should be closed off, if possible from company view so as not to display the cooking mess that was the result of the feast that has been prepared. If it is not possible to hide the kitchen area, then all dishes must be cleaned after they have been spooned artfully into serving dishes – that also match the dinnerware, or have a holiday theme.

That is the demon that I face when people come to my house. And though I never succumb to the feeding said demon, I am forever more wondering if those who come to my house are somehow judging – and then letting it go as “she doesn’t care about those things.” And I do care, just not enough to do anything about it. Fine dinnerware and serving dishes falls into that category of – not going to spend my money on it – frivolous. Because nothing will ruin my appetite more than thinking that the bowl that the mashed potatoes are in cost $60 – for a bowl – that looks like the bowl I saw at Fred’s for $1.50. Why do you spend $60 on a bowl? And a gravy boat – really –

In the end, if my Aunt Martha was going to infect me with the desire to have proper dinner parties (proper by southern lady definition) then perhaps she should have also infected me with the belief that spending large amounts of money on such items was worthwhile. Though, I’m sure her answer to that was that you buy quality and take care of it. But really, I’d rather go to the movies, or do something that would create a memory. And my self talk argument to that is those proper dinner parties at Christmas, in which my brother, sister and I were relegated to the basement to play ping pong until dinner was served and we had to sit in the kitchen at the little table forever as we were the youngest in the family – created a tradition and an expectation that is with me to this day – thus the blog in the first place I guess. I’m just not grown up enough yet to have those parties and those things and to care about it. And to be truthful, I’m not sure if I ever want to be.

On Secret Santa

We’ve been doing secret santa at school since Thanksgiving. I’ve been very lucky in that I drew the name of a woman whom I think is “good people.” I can’t say that I know her very well, but since August, I have not seen her upset, grumpy, or looking worn out in anyway. That may be due, in part, that I strongly suspect that she may just be passed her PMS days which are the days that I invariably feel upset, grumpy and worn out. But that is really neither here nor there.

Now, I have been approaching this secret Santa thing a little differently. Instead of just leaving gifts, I’ve been leaving little stories, or copies of one of my blogs. I’ve been taking this opportunity to share something of myself, more than just a few gifts. But on the off chance that she didn’t appreciate my humor or gift for gab, I’ve left most stories with a small gift of some type. I left her the story about my grandma’s house with a canister of ribbon candy.

Anyway, I told another coworker that I feel like the whole secret Santa thing is a bit like flirting, in a weird way; perhaps because my idea of flirting closely resembles stalking – see my story about meeting Jose early in the blog history. It’s leaving these little gifts that you think will just make them happy if only for a second. It’s like those little gifts that your boyfriend, lover, or husband leaves you unexpectedly on your pillow, or brings home at the end of the day. It’s the surprise of it and the thoughtfulness – perhaps not the oh it was just what I wanted, but more the you thought of me in the middle of your day – when I wasn’t with you – that seems to envelop me.

I also suppose that it is the giving of gifts that I enjoy so much. I have not been nearly excited to receive gifts from my secret Santa. Though I do look at my mailbox with a bit of longing each day as I walk past the office. There is a moment of joy when you see that little gift just sitting there. It’s an uplifting experience. But I have really enjoyed trying to figure out what type of gifts to give to my secret Santa. To create a theme of sorts and find ways to share it with this stranger – and allowing the anonymity of it all to be an excuse to lay it out on the table – to share more of myself than I would have perhaps normally have done.

It is, at 38, a recapturing of my late teens and early 20’s when you’d meet someone new and spend all night at a coffee shop talking and getting to know each other – without any of the life that has collected and clung in the interim. A chance to be me: not mother, not wife, not teacher . . . just me. And there is joy there.

Christmas 2007

Just a short video of photos from our visit with Santa

On Handicapped Spaces

I don’t know how many of you shop at Walmart – it’s my version of the Mall. But Walmart, especially the new and improved SUPER Wal-marts have lots and lots of handicapped parking places.

Now the Western Student in my often approaches parking at Walmart like I used to approach finding a parking place on campus. Sure there’s a dozen spots on the back of Diddle lot, but really, who wants to carry all their crap out that far. And Amy doesn’t make second trips for anything – it’s waste of time. So, I used to spend a fair amount of time trolling the parking lot waiting for the best space. Later, when I started to go to the gym, I would have to actively fight the urge to find a close space and instead approach the walk as free exercise. I mean if I’m going to pay a monthly fee to exercise, then I might as well park in the back half of the lot at Walmart, that’s at least ½ a mile right there. And when I had children, my idea of an ideal spot is the one next to the buggy return. That way, I don’t have to carry any children into the store and no one will be able to steal my precious babies from my car as I return the cart to the cart return like they do on television to all those nice white trash ladies who usually end up in jail later.

What’s the point – where are we going with this? Well, it has occurred to me, on more than one occasion that our moral code about not parking in handicapped spots at Walmart have some carry over in the most unusual places. Or perhaps, I’m the only one. I don’t park in a handicapped spot. I know that it only says tow-away zone – and those of you who know me, know that a $60 towing fine is more than punishment enough to keep me from using the prime parking space. But somewhere down the line in the development of my moral compass, I have it in my mind that parking in a handicapped parking place is against the law. I mean, go to jail, pay a stiff fine, do not pass go, do not collect $200 – AGAINST THE LAW. I don’t know for sure that is or isn’t. I’m sure it may be some sort of traffic violation. But that’s really neither here nor there right now.

The strange thing is that I have, for a very long time, felt the same way about the handicapped stall in the restrooms. I don’t know if they have handicapped stalls in men’ restrooms – I imagine they must though I can’t really get my head around that one – but in women’s restrooms, the handicapped stalls are the largest stalls. They are also the ones that always have the baby changing station. And if it weren’t for that combo, I would never have begun to use the handicapped stall on a regular basis. Until Elijah as born, I believed that the handicapped stalls were against the law for someone who wasn’t handicapped to use. I don’t think it was a conscious sort of belief, but it still lay there and was an integral part of how I chose a bathroom stall. But I don’t think I’m the only one. I was at a professional conference on Friday and the handicapped stalls were the ones that were the last to be taken each time. Which worked well for me as it meant no waiting. But that’s when it occurred to me – other people don’t think they are supposed to use the handicapped stall either. And that was quickly followed by the thought – well, who says someone in a wheelchair doesn’t have to wait in line just like the rest of us. Though to be perfectly honest with you and myself, that last thought was more like preparing an argument should someone confront me with my use of said handicapped stall. It’s always good to walk into confrontational situations a bit prepared.

And really, it shouldn’t be any big deal. The handicapped stalls are much nicer than the other stalls. They are bigger with room to maneuver. They are definitely more convenient when you have guests in the bathroom with you. Trying to pee with two children in the stall with you is really the newest form of American torture. (in fact, I’m quite convinced that if I could record the sound of my children whining, it could be played to political prisoners for a remarkably short time and they would be spilling their guts just to get a reprieve – already, I have no secrets). But despite the larger space and the convenience of almost always being free, I feel a bit defiant every time I walk into the stall. I tense up like someone is going to say, hey where’s your handicapped card that lets you pee in that stall!!! What is that – exactly? Ultimately, it’s just a good thing that I have learned through my life long speed peeing competition with Jason to get in and out quick - because should someone ever confront me, I’ll be doomed to the tiny stalls once more.

Grandma Walker's CandyLand

When I was a young girl, Christmas time was a magical time. It’s always a bit more magical when you’re children than when you are an adult – or at least you don’t have to work as hard at finding the magic. But perhaps one of the most special times of Christmas was going to Grandma Walker’s house. What else would you expect of the epitome of grandmotherhood than the perfect place to have Christmas. Grandma’s house wasn’t big, but seemed to have an endless supply of nooks and crannies. And every one of them held some sort of treasure. Perhaps it was the little shelf in the kitchen that held the small iron stove and cookery that would keep me entertained for hours. Maybe it was Grandaddy’s closet that smelled like cologne, hay, and cigars and the hidden ladder to the attic that was strictly forbidden to one and all. There was the little room, just off the kitchen, where games and old toys could be found in the closet, and old clothes and knickknacks were stored in the dresser that no one had used in years. I think that I learned to snoop from visiting with my grandmother, because she just had so much stuff tucked away. Almost every item had some story – whether it was a yard sale item from someone who she had known since she was young, or perhaps it was something that had belonged to her mother, or my dad. And everything, but everything, was saved because it might have some purpose later. I think I also inherited that collecting gene from her as well – it seems that throwing anything away is really more sin than a matter of practicality.

One thing that I most remember about Grandma’s at Christmas time is the food. When I was younger, Grandma did most of the cooking. At least, I don’t ever remember arriving with dishes in hand, only gifts. The small table would be spread with mashed potatoes, chicken and stuffing, something we call porkstuff (I don’t really know what it is except that pork was involved somehow). There might have been beans of some type; for sure there were deviled eggs. But the good stuff was always kept in the sewing room or the back bedroom.

My grandmother’s house doesn’t have central heat and air. She had a wall heater in the kitchen and the bathroom and a space heater in the living room. So, in the winter months the other rooms in the house were always cold. Not quite see your breath cold, but really chilly. And after we walked in and stored our presents under the three, I would begin to work my way through these rooms looking for Grandma’s Christmas candy. In the large oblong Tupperware dish she would have chocolate covered peanut butter balls. And it was so easy to snag one or two without being seen or even making a dent in the final amount. Other dishes contained a myriad of confections. She would usually make divinity – with and without nuts – but it always tasted like stale marshmallows to me so those were safe. There would always be something peanutbuttery (cornflake candy, or perhaps candy made from crunchy lo mein noodles), sometimes peanut butter brittle. You could find fried apple pies. And if it was a really good year, there would be container after container of GOBS. Gobs were my grandmother’s home meade version of cupcakes. They were round chocolate cake that had been split and filled with homemade creamed icing. They were light and fluffy and you could eat about 12 without really feeling like you’d eaten anything at all. Wonderfuly gooey things that to this day make my entire family salivate.

And if you weren’t into home made confections, my grandma and granddaddy also had other sweet treats about. My granddaddy had a corner and a chair in the living room. It was his spot and only for rent when he was at work or out on the farm somewhere. My grandmother had made some little pockets to hang on the side of the chair and that’s where granddaddy kept his special treats. Spillover treats found their way to a variety of jars and dishes on his little side table. My granddaddy had simple tastes when it came to candy. He loved the keebler chocolate wafers and would keep a package of them beside his chair at all times. There would often be salted peanuts. He liked to put some in his Dr. Pepper – which I never really understood and thought was a little gross, but to each his own. He would have circus peanuts, chocolate covered coconut drops (which was not the name he gave them, he called them nigger-toes which is not at all politically correct or appropriate but the name that first pops into my head when I see them). And on the coffee table, or perhaps the end table, there would be a dish. No leaded crystal, but a fancy beveled glass my grandmother would keep some ribbon candy. This candy would invariably have melted together sometime in the past and become more one giant clump than individual pieces of candy. And the candy was always, but always, a last resort choice. If nothing better could be found in the house, the ribbon candy would sort of satisfy the need for sweets cravings that seemed to roar to life as soon as I stepped foot into my grandmother’s house. Grandma always kept a little something made up, and almost always had something on the stove. Her house was the house that everyone came to for every holiday. Her house was the house where everyone came for breakfast, lunch and dinner – she was always ready and happy to feed who ever came knocking.

My grandma doesn’t keep that dish out in the living room anymore. She usually keeps something sweet on the kitchen table, though that dish is now brown and pretty large. And like most things the vivid richness of the treats have faded and dulled. I know that logically it’s because she no longer has the home where everyone pops in. But the memory is still there and welcomes me when I walk in the door. The feel of her house is still there and clings to me, tugs at my inner child and reminds me that this house and this woman created magic for me, my brother and sister. And she is creating some of those memories for my children – for them she’s the cinnamon toast woman. Though she often apologizes that she can’t do like she used to, she will happily make him an entire loaf of cinnamon toast when we come down. So now, my children also have that come to graze mentality that hits everyone at Grandma Walker’s house. It’s not the same amount of magic that I was able to feel, but it’s something. More importantly, it’s enough. It’s enough that my children are able to partake in my grandma’s ability to cook love into every dish.

The Classic Sleepover

Instead of a birthday party this year, Elijah had some friends from school sleepover. Now, I admit that this wasn’t a suggestion that Elijah came up with on his own… I suggested it because I just didn’t have the wherewithal to plan a big birthday extravaganza like I have for the past 3 years – especially when only 4 kids every show up anyway.

There are a few basic rules that I think should be followed for any sleepover.

Rule 1: Always have an even number of kids – especially if it’s a party for girls. Kids tend to pair off. And if you have only 3 kids, or any odd number really, you will have one child who feels left out and unhappy. Sometimes that ends up being your kid – which no one wants as he can’t call his parents to come and get him early – he’s stuck there. So it’s best to have even numbers. The groups of two tend to change as the evening progresses, but everyone is generally happier.

Rule 2: Find some activity for the first evening that will make the children tired (preferably exhausted) before bedtime. We went to Chuck E. Cheese (with coupon for double tokens) and then McDonald’s indoor playground. We spent roughly 3 hours (total) in both places. The kids got to play all the games they wanted (no one came and asked for more tokens). They played long enough to be hungry when it was time to go. And they had enough tokens so that everyone had about 100 tickets and got two or three things from the prize boxes. At McDonalds, everyone played long enough that they had worked up a sweat and they all began to have that I’m getting a little tired look in their eyes.

Rule 3: Have good music that you can listen to loud in the car. I have found, especially for short car trips, having good music with a lot of kids in the car makes a difference. Without music they will begin to search in the crevices of the seat, the floor board and their pockets for objects that make quality projectiles. Said projectiles never hit the intended target who is sitting right next to them, but rather will hit the toddler in the car seat three rows over, the back of your head, or the windshield. I can only assume this isn’t the intended target because when confronted with angry mommy voice, the assailant will invariably claim that it was an accident. And being a strong believer in the inherent good in all, I will believe them – if they can make the claim with sincere voice and facial expression.

Rule 4: Keep them up late. In a further quest to make your evening go smoothly, when you return home, have some simple activities for the kids to do. We used playdoh and playstation. The evening isn’t the time for Jedi attack and running through the house – as you are going to be on the verge of grumpy and don’t want children returning to their home saying something like – Elijah’s mom shouts a lot!!!! Let every child know that they have until a specific time (I picked 845 – which was already past all bed times but Elijah’s) to play games. When the nerdy kid informs you that his bedtime is at 7:30 – make a big deal about being able to break all the rules at a sleep over. Of course, this only works with small children. Never suggest to a 10 year old that he can break all the rules – as he will not be content with the bed time hour rule alone.

Rule 5: Be prepared for the wind-down. Having kept the children up for at least an hour past their bed time it’s time for the wind down. The wind down is what I think is really the best part of any sleep over. It’s the part that most everyone remembers the most. It’s that time when everyone is in the bed and the giggling begins. This is the time when the parents have to go in repeatedly and say, boys keep it down. It could escalate until you get to “Don’t make me come in there!!” but if you’ve followed the previous steps well enough, then it shouldn’t be necessary.

Rule 6: The morning after. It never fails that, despite being up late the night before, the children will arise, en mass, not that hour of 9:30 as you had hoped, but exactly 30 minutes before you normally arise for work on any other day. Typically, this is not a gradual slow awakening where they are content to sit in bed, snuggle under the covers and watch television. Really, it’s much more as if the pause button has finally shut off and they are going to resume activities from the night before. It is almost always the two who were up the latest who will wake up the earliest – which is nice because then you know exactly who to blame for your own irritability the next day.

Rule 7: Serve a heavy breakfast. As you stumble about the house trying to function on a mere 2 hours of sleep – a nap really, your quest for today is to make the children as slow moving as possible so that you can survive the morning until parents begin to pick up their children. To facilitate this, you want to feed them a big, heavy breakfast. If the food itself doesn’t slow them down, the sheer weight of the meal should make them at least 10 lbs heavier so they are not as mobile as they once were. It also might result in extended visits to the restroom.

Rule 8: Kick them outside! After feeding them a meal that would harden even the cleanest arteries, send those children outside to play. If you time it well, then the parents don’t even have to come into the house (which will be trashed – mostly because you didn’t bother to clean it for kids – and they didn’t bother to clean whatever they played with the night before).

Rule 9: Force your child to admit through direct questioning that he did indeed have the best evening ever and pat yourself on the back.

Halloween

Well, another Halloween has come and passed. The good news is that we've found a really good neighborhood to trick or treat in. The houses are pretty close and they give out good candy - lots of chocolate - not a lot of penny / hard candy!

It was, again, Isaiah's halloween. He is so small - and Elijah's costume choice for him was absolutely perfect - so he got lots of accolades. I'm pretty sure that Isaiah would have been happy to go on for another hour or so. As it was, we spent an hour and a half, got enough candy to last until easter (not the chocolate of course, franklin, isaiah and I will work through it pretty quickly) and have officially left dinosaur world for outer space.

Hope you enjoy the video. -- though the music cuts out to early and the last title is missing - i'm tired of fighting my computer -- sigh...

On Honeysuckle

FAVORITE SMELLS?
Freshly cut grass, coffee brewing, bacon frying, honeysuckle

I recently received, answered and forwarded a survey via email. One of those cheesy getting to know you things that you ignore at will and complete in a state of utter boredom. My friend, Steven, gave the above answer to the favorite smells statement. My own favorite smell was something about breast fed baby smell – it’s a nice smell – a bit unispiring. But Steven mentioned honeysuckle – to which I felt that I must respond.

I have just returned from trick or treating with my children. And was checking my email when I saw Steven’s answer, and I was immediately transported to summer. Imagine if you will (and if you’ve lived in the country, you can with no difficulty), a sultry summer night – mid to late June, driving in the country late at night with the windows down. The air temperature shifting from sticky warm at the top of each hill and cooling as you move down into the hollows where the steam turns almost instantly to dew on your flesh. Get there, and just inhale the sweet smell of freshly mown hay laying in the fields, the slightest hint of sweetness as you pass a patch of honeysuckle on the side of the road. The sound of the whippoorwill or the bobwhite calling out from the brush begging you to let out the day, breath in the night and look up at the night sky. To take the time to absorb and celebrate the greatness of the world in which you live.

Or perhaps, it’s not driving down the road, but in Grandma’s yard just at dusk. Your chilren, your cousins, you – running around the yard trying to catch fireflies to turn into captive night time lighting. Laughter, sporadically emerging from behind trees, bushes, and in the tall grass while you’re playing hide and go seek. The faintest scent of the grill – someone’s having steak – you’re having hotdogs and marshmallows roasted over the fire later – only slightly burnt.

What a lot of images to come from honeysuckle – the quintessential scent of summer. Honeysuckle is the innocent childhood evening romp, the carefree teenaged night time adventure, and the reminiscent adulthood quiet joy of life. What a wonderful thing is honeysuckle.

Paper Money Society

I’m sure all of you have seen the debit card or visa check card commercials where everyone is happily parading about purchasing and dancing and purchasing and dancing. But then, one poor sod comes up with cash and the world stops, the cashier looks at the guy as if he has the plague and everyone else rolls their eyes at the stupidity of that man / woman. A cute, relatively innocent scenario – you’d think. But there is dark underbelly to purchasing in this country (or rather in Bowling Green and Nashville) and it’s paying with change.

Because we are not rich people, the boys and I actively save for vacation / recreation by collecting change and putting it in the piggy bank. Sometimes we add a few bills, but mostly it’s change. And when it’s time to go on vacation, we roll the change and that’s our free spending money. Usually, I take the money to the bank and exchange it for cash. But this weekend – as we began our expedition to see the live dinosaurs in Nashville, I didn’t have time to get it to the bank – so I had roughly $30 in change (the equivalent of 50 lbs). Our first stop was Russellville for gasoline. So I sent Jose in with the change and $20. The gas station refused to accept the rolled coins as payment. I couldn’t believe it. Although secretly, when Jose came back and told me, I thought that perhaps it was a prejudicial thing.

That evening, we stopped by a drive through at McDonald’s. And I again tried to pay with change (a roll of dimes – the last I checked it still equaled five dollars). The little man walked away, came back and said, I’m sorry it’s only $3.50 in change – it’s short. Thus effectively accusing me of lying and trying to steal. I calmly looked at him and said it is in no way short, it was $5 and then proceeded to count out the fifty dimes one by one to pay for my meal. The entire time ( as I was quietly fuming) he was huffing behind is little glass.

Now, upon introspection, I realize that I have my own prejudices about people who pay with vast amounts of change. I always think that people who pay with change instead of cash (if they are older than 10) are poor. To be fair, I know that I’m poor and am often counting my pennies and nickels to save up for one thing or another. I feel wealthier when I can pay with cash, and like to pretend that my debit card is an actual credit card (which I don’t allow myself to have because I abuse them – which is a vicious hole that I can’t get out of and don’t want to revisit). And as I’m rolling my coins, I am often tempted to just put in 38 or 39 quarters. But really, to short someone 15 out of 40 dimes. Does the fat woman in the mini van with an old woman and 3 children look like the one who’s going to be running a scam for $1.50?

So, the trip is over. I still have about $15 in rolled change, which I’ll save for Chuck E. Cheese instead I guess.

Perspectives on the Rites of Passage

About 3 years ago, my nephew Lanny purchased about $200 in pay per view porn from DirectTv. When I heard about it, I laughed out loud. Not at the money spent, but at the stupidity of it—thinking that he was not going to get caught. This week in my house, we had a similar incident. Apparently Franklin, my step-son, had been using his cell phone to access naked girlie pictures (only about 7 hours and 24 minutes worth of browsing). And if you know me, you will know that I do not have a cell phone plan in which we have free internet browsing included – so there was a $60 charge (split over two months). And of course, his phone kept a list of the his internet searches: hot girls, hot naked girls, video porn.

Ironically, Jose’s first response closely mirrored my own. Essentially, it was why is he looking on his phone, he can get a magazine (jose) or he could use the internet for free (mine). And for goodness sake, who in their right mind wants to peruse porn on a screen that is 1.5 x 2 inches in length – really. My only thought was that perhaps he wanted some privacy when he was looking (to which Jose in our chat suggested that maybe he use one of the magazines that comes here) – I was impressed that he had 7 hours worth of stamina – though is suppose it could have been 700 one minute sessions – though ultimately, I’m don’t really want to think about it.

Now, as we all know our first instinct, when confronted with our own wrong doing is to lie. Or perhaps you’re a really good person, but my first instinct is to lie. And Franklin was no different. Last month, when the first $30 appeared, I asked Franklin, and he said that he accidentally accessed the internet. I told him not to do it again and he agreed. When the second $30 appeared on this month bill (their billing cycle actually splits months with the land line – long story) – I was more than a little irritated. That parental irritation was quickly replaced by big sister glee that someone was getting in trouble – and I caught him. That glee is probably one of the reasons I became a teacher – a way to be in charge – ha ha ha I’m in charge and you can’t stop me – na na na boo boo. Anyway. I told Jose – who was not only irritated with Franklin but also mad because I didn’t mention the incident to him last month. So we had our little chat. Franklin lost the phone for a month, and has to perform slave labor until Jose feels he’s worked $60 worth – which is going to be punishment enough because Jose operates on Latin American pay scale so Franklin will probably be working for a very long time.

And then a miracle happened. Jose came to me and uttered the following phrase. “One good thing is that now Franklin is a man!” My husband finally took a step back and found the silver lining. I was awfully excited that such a feat could even occur. Franklin is a bit reserved. I don’t think I would say shy. But Jose was beginning to worry that he may be hitting for the other team – though my gay-dar didn’t go off (it is rusty – but not that rusty I don’t think). So, Franklin is a heterosexual teenage male who will be performing slave labor for quite some time – woo hoo!!!

Unfinished Business

O.K. I promise that eventually I'll let go of this reunion thing. But it seems that after angonizing about it for weeks and weeks, I'm doomed to think about it for a few days at least. I think that ultimately, there wasn't enough time to have the conversations that I wanted to have. I got to spend quite a bit of time with David Thomas. We had several enjoyable chats - or one long one -it doesn't really matter how that goes. But I enjoyed talking to him and felt that all that needed to be said, was said -- including acknowledgement of the night of chess tension that had me bookin' it out the door quicker than snot on a cold day. I wish that I could have had a nice sit down with Steven - and that didn't happen. And me being me - I wrote him a letter because I didn't get to talk - and then second guessed the letter - and am now trying to let it all go one way or the other. And Jim Jim had called and I wanted to talk to him more, couldn't because of the other conversations going on in the room and the phone being yanked from my hand. So I called and left a message - but he hasn't returned my call. And here I am again - back in my area of ineptitude - Trying to avoid my stalking behavior (no matter that it was successful with Jose - I still deeply feel that had he been aware of stalking legislation we most likely would not be married and I'd be someone's bitch in the big house - I can only hope that she'd have been cute). I wish I had one extra day and I would have talked to Andrea, Christina, Shannon, Karina, Janet and Becky a bit more - or gone to lunch somewhere and laughed and hee hawed over chinese buffet - or whatever was handy.

Does anyone else ever feel that way. Like you were having a great moment and then boom it was over and you weren't ready for it to be finished yet? And you want to somehow go back and grab a hold of it - let it last a little while longer. I think that's where I am - really. Just wanting for the night to not have ended - to say everything that I wanted and hear / learn new things. And it's gone - that moment - it's passed -- and the controlling, stubborn part of me wants to be stubborn and control it. And the rational - trying to be a grown up - part of me is trying to let it be and see where the cards fall. Which is so totally against my natural inclination it isn't funny.

If you want to know what is going to happen - I can make a prediction. Oh, I'll call and then I'll feel foolish and stupid - because like a true cancer (and you can check this out) we are pedastle people - you are wonderful, and perfect, and ideal, and can do no wrong -- we must worship you - hero worship and containers are our speciality - and then when humanity emerges it destroys the image and our hopes and dreams - it's a lot of pressure for someone really - though I suppose the upside is that we don't tell you that we are doing it - so you don't know when you have fallen off the pedastle upon which we've placed you.

It is my hope that by writing this down - that perhaps I've be able to overcome the demons / desires and have the patience to wait and see - but there's really no telling is there. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

On Vacations:

I’m sure you’ve all either heard or said “you need a vacation when you come back from your vacation.” It doesn’t matter if you’re out of town for a month, a week, or just a few days; by the time you return, you need at least 48 hours in which to recover.

This past week, I spent 3 days in Cadiz. Thursday afternoon, Friday, Saturday, and returned home early Sunday morning. I didn’t do too much any of those days – I did stay out late two nights – but really, the days were lazily spent to say the least. By the time I returned home Sunday I was exhausted. Two late nights, and primary supervision of 2 children under the age of 7 can really wear you out. So most of Sunday, I spent sleeping. Almost all of Sunday, I spent in my pajamas in bed. And just to make sure that I didn’t wake up too early, Sunday night, I capped off the day with a benedryl – hard drugs in my old age. And when I startled myself awake (I had forgotten to set my alarm but my internal clock awakened me at 5:45 a.m), I was no more prepared to get up and function as I was the day before. I seriously contemplated calling in sick.

It seems to me to be an odd phenomena, really. The recovery time needed for the break that you take from your every day life. Travelling is just a tiring experience, unless you are going somewhere. When you’re going to Florida, you can get up and on the road at 3:00 a.m., drive for 12 hours and be ready to have a party when you arrive. But when you’re coming home . . . you struggle to get into your car by check out time at 10:00, stop every 2 hours to pee, get something to drink, stretch your legs, let your heathen children run free so that you don’t intentionally wreck the car and put yourself out of their misery. And when you come back, you feel like what I would imagine I would feel like after running a marathon – o.k. 2 miles – who are we kidding, I’d never be able to run a marathon as I’d most likely stroke out around 2 ½ miles – and again – belly fat flapping in the breeze is one of the most annoying sounds in the world – and no one wants to run holding their stomach with both hands to prevent it. You get the drift.

The only really good thing about getting back from vacation is that your children, when they return, are oh so happy to back among the familiar. They like having their toys, games, rooms around them. And they can be counted on to play for at least 6 hours without bickering. My husband squanders that time with unpacking, starting laundry, cleaning up. It’s sad that he wastes the time that way. I, prepared person that I am, have already separated dirty laundry from clean (I will wash clothes when I’m at my families so that I don’t have to wash it when I get home – I don’t like the downstairs laundry room). So I dump the dirty laundry, change into my pajamas, and hop into bed with the clicker – find an episode of CSI or some such, and immediately fall asleep. And though it has taken some 9 years and numerous arguments -- and if I’m honest – hissy fits – my family is now adhering to the rule that if someone is asleep, we don’t wake them unless it’s time for work or an emergency. I only trained them in the rule so that eventually I could sleep uninterrupted. It’s finally paid off. Though, I had to add the emergency / work clause because Elijah woke up Isaiah the other day (Isaiah had fallen asleep early around 6:00 p.m. but would have slept the night if he wasn’t awakened) – and when I got mad at him, he told me that I woke him every day and he didn’t want to be awakened at all, and that wasn’t fair. Which was a good point, and thus the clause.

So anyway, for all intents and purposes, I made it through the day, was only slightly tired, and not really grumpy at all. I was, however, so glad that I taught resource room and didn’t have to have to come up with really fancy lesson plans with the intent of keeping 20 kids on task. But the vacation recovery does make you come into work on your first day back and immediately count the days until your next day off. Mine comes in 16 days (12 if you don’t count weekends).

Regrets and Influences

In my last post, I discussed the question "what was the thing that you most wished that you could have changed about your high school expierence?" and "What high school experience has had the longest lasting effect on your life there after?"

I spent a while this weekend pondering this question for myself. I prefer to live my life in such a way that I am satisfied with each day and wouldn't change a thing. To be fair, I wasn't quite at such a level of development at the ages of 14 - 17 when I was in high school. So, I have allowed myself to think of one thing that I would have changed. Ironically, it is the one thing that I couldn't change without totally altering my entire life.

I have decdided that the one thing that I would have changed in my life is that I wouldn't have waited for an invitation; or rather, shouldn't have. If you have ever watched the nature chanel shows about meerkeets, you may know that they are very much tribal animals. There is a leader a hierarchy. And new arrivals have to court and woo in order to be included. They can not, if they wish to survive, merely sit along the fringe of the group and wait for someone to come over and say - hey do you want something to eat, somewhere to sleep, pick a do you want. And at this moment, putting it into that perspective, I realize that I never could have done it. Then and now, I have never had the energy or desire to actively seek the approval of someone else (if you exclude my tendencies to stalk boys that I have hopeless crushes on -- which is a whole other blog). And at 38, I know that about myself. And perhaps at 17, I knew that as well because I never actively pursued inclusion into the group. Although, I must also admit - actively seeking entrance is also actively seeking rejection - and who really wants to go there? God knows there is little worse than giving your best effort and being shot down. It's really not unlike those at-risk kids in the classroom who no longer make an effort to learn or participate because every effort to do so has met with rejection and failure. Much better, much easier, much safer to just say forget it, I don't care. And 20 years later, I was no different. Those same girls who I thought were the models of humanity might have shared a platitude or two but for the most part, I kept to my corner. And ultimately I'm so glad that I did, because I was able to share wonderful conversation with my friend David, tidbits with Steven, and thoroughly enjoy the wit and humor of Becky and Janet. And all the while I felt these tuggings in my mind - I know that I had spoken to them before in high school. I remember liking them. And I can't for the life of me, now, understand why I didn't be who I was and hang with them - because I'm pretty sure that I have much more in common with them than I would ever have had with the rest. But I also know that I have spent much of my life with rigid boxes - compartmentalizing people in my life. I didn't have many classes with Janet or Becky or Christina -- and school was the extent of my social life - so if I didn't see you at school, well I didn't see you. And that was definitely a missed opportunity because I don't know if you've been privy to a conversation between Janet and Becky - but it's very very funny.

The answer to the second question is the same as the first. I had to have all those issues - those feelings of not being included or not fitting in to be able to evolve into who I am today - it's all wings of a butterfly causing hurricanes in Japan sort of stuff. My high school experience left me wide open for experiences during Junior Scholars and my freshman year at college. That summer that I was in Junior Scholars was the first time that I honestly realized that people could / would / wanted to like me. I try not to think about the fact that perhaps some of those people were also nerdy unliked at their school - so I won't. I prefer to think of them as creme de la creme of their school. But it didn't matter, really, because people my age thought i was interesting, funny and worthwhile. And that made a difference. And I spent much time thereafter trying to be the best person that I could be - and letting go of what other people thought of me. Those were the first steps on the journey toward I am who I am, and I like that.
I spent a lot of time thinking about who that person was this weekend. Who am I - what are my goals / aspirations, what are my beliefs, who do I want to be today and tomorrow.

I learned this weekend that I have not yet conquered the tendency to make sexual oriented comments when i'm nervous or uncomfortable. I talked about penises more this weekend than I have in 18 years -- The comments just kept coming out of my mouth and there was nothing that I can do.

I accepted this weekend that my idea of a good time at a party is sit with one or two people and chat and watch everyone else as they mingle in. And there is little that is more entertaining to watch than people who haven't seen each other in 20 years. I don't think that many people understand my enjoyment in that - and that's o.k. to each his own - and that's mine.

I realized that grown up parties are better than high school parties because when you know that no one is going to get drunk and make out - on the couch next to you, well you can relax and not worry about the uncomfortable everyone has a partner but me feeling that is one of the worst ever.

I learned that for the most part, I am still not a girlie girl. There are some girls / women that I enjoy talking to - and as I get older that number is increasing. But girlie girls and me - never the twain shall meet - really. I just don't get them.

I discovered this weekend that I apparently postively influenced several people's mathematical abilities. It's wierd that I don't remember that, except for Kris McGill. I remember helping her study all the time our senior year (advanced math). But Judy Lancaster said she remembered me helping her in math - and I didn't remember that - but was flattered that she remembered. Tommy Cassidy just remembered cutting up in class with me -- Apparently I was just a hit in math class -- it's wierd how selective memory can be.

and since i've adequately moved off topic entirely - I shall end here.

High School Reunions

There are several things that I know that I want to talk about here - and I can't decide if I want to do it all at once or make several - so we'll just begin and see what happens.

I decided to attend my 20 year high school reunion at Trigg County. And it was an eye opening experience in many different levels. I suppose there were really 2 that mattered most to me.
The first was that Steven Sanders, upon seeing my arrival, took the time out to tell me that he was the person that he most wished would attend. I was totally and utterly shocked and overwhelmingly flattered. About 15 years ago, Steven, Jim and I had all returned to Cadiz with a bit of a hang-dog, tail between our legs oh my god what are we going to do with our lives sort of mentality. And somehow the fates transpired that the three of us ended up at Steven's house having one of those magical coffee house moments. Those moments when you meet someone new and explore the secrets of the universe on every level that you can imagine. I remember the conversation - and believe that I asked Jim and Steven then the same questions that I asked this weekend (fondest memory, the thing you would change about your high school experience, what aspect of your high school experience most influenced your life after) and from what I remember (though memories fade and alter through time) his answers remained much the same - and aren't really mine to disclose. I can share with you my own - My fondest memory is being back stage during Wizard of Oz - with Lean on Me music blaring in the library - it was perhaps one, if not the only, moment in high school that I felt at the time that I needed to remember forever - and I have. The other answers will be another blog - Anyway, I was so grateful and relieved that Steven (anyone) was there to say they were happy to see me. That meant a lot.

The second moment occurred not to long after and lays at the feet at Andrea Caylor, Christina Baker and Janet Harper. They made a point to tell me that they had read part of my blog and couldn't believe that I had felt that I didn't fit in when I was in so many clubs. And I had to take a step back from my self perception -- because for the past 20 years, my high school perception had been as self centered and black / white as i thought life was in high school. I spent my entire school career really moving on the fringes but not jumping in. I was in clubs and organizations for two reason: I enjoyed them, and I was building a college admissions resume. I started with Speech and Drama really was a natural step from there - standing and performing is standing and performing. And really, the people in those clubs were always a little nerdy / odd and I had things in common with them. It quite simply took me aback that in someone else's reality, I was part of a crowd or somebody. And such a realization is somewhat bitter sweet. What changes in my life would have occurred if I had known that 23 years ago? But it's also water under the bridge because I wouldn't change the past and sacrifice my present for anything in the world.

But to those people - (Shannon Simmons and Karina Phillips who echoed the sentiments at the runion the next day) - I thank you for the life lesson that you shared with me. There is little doubt in my mind that it was because of you and that comment that I was supposed to be there - that was the lesson that I needed to learn and the words that I needed to hear. I had thought that perhaps the reason that I was going was that this was a final chance - the last chance, the next chance - to fit in - to be the person that I wanted to be - or rather to be the person openly fawned over and adored by all and sundry. Which is an insane wish in and of itself - because I am not that person. I don't like to be the center of attention - I don't like to socialize or flit from place to place - of fill my schedule / calendar with a never ending list of gatherings. I'd much rather have a few good friends come over, have a nice meal, and sit and talk and laugh and create memories and links. So, any or each of you, please feel free to stop by - we'll chat.

And to Steven, thank you again for giving me the courage and the inspiration to attend both evenings. I had a really good time (in my sit in a corner and watch the world), learned so much.

38 going on 17

Thursday afternoon, as I was driving through the placid landscape of Western Kentucky heading for Cadiz - presumably to attend part of my school reunion with Ham Festival as a fall back plan - I was overwhelmed by anxiety. I mean, really wanted to cry anxiety. All I could think of was that I was going to a party with people from high school and what if they didn't like me - still, after all these years. That's not to say that I was unpopular, but rather to say that I was non-existance - in my mind anyway.

In the midst of my anxiety I called my friend Terri. I would have called Jose - but any man who responds to the news that your father has had a stroke with "well at least he didn't die." Isn't a person who is really great at comforting the anxious soul (but we're working on it).

It was so strange to feel such anxiety and insecurity wash over me again. I hadn't felt such since I was in my twenties - when i finally learned to let go of any perception of myself but my own. and to know that all this stuff had laid hidden down in the deepest recesses of my mind. Who was going to be there, what would I say, why was I going? over and over again the mantra repeated itself in my head - i don't want to go, I have to go, i don't want to go, i have to go. such drama - i swear. But in the car, I was no longer professional, capable, married mother of 2 - I was Amy Walker - you know Jason's sister, Jodi's sister, Wayn'e daughter. Amy Walker, smart girl - wierd girl - I think she's the one who's in all the plays at school. Amy Walker girl that I thought I had dealt with, conquered and retrained - but she was still there - and she for sure didn't have it all together by any stretch of the imagination. And me say, that I wasn't too happy to have her resurface.

Let me simply say that I am more than happy that I am no longer that young and dealing with that crap - because life it too short, time too precious to worry about - well much of anything - what is ... is. And what you can't change or fix, then let it go -

On Old Friends

There is something almost magical about getting together with an old friend. Not the friend that you speak to every day, but the one who has touched base with your life for several years. The old friends that I have are akin to brothers and sisters. I see them almost as often as I see my own brothers and sisters, and I have much the same level of affection. For me, good friends are family (though for some reason step children – not my own--don’t really count – don’t ask me why) –

Anyway, this entry, not unlike several of the past, is inspired by my 20 year high school reunion. You know, it really is quite amazing how the past clings to you in all sorts of weird ways. Anyway, the upside of the reunion is that I’ve been able to get back in touch with the person that I call my only friend from high school – David Thomas. David sat in front of me for three years of Mrs. Robert’s math classes (geometry, algebra 2, advanced math). And the last year we spent much of that time playing connect four on the chalk board – and were good enough in class that Mrs. Roberts just let us keep the board up so we didn’t have to redraw and asked that we at least be quiet so that we didn’t disturb the rest of the class. I went over to his house once and played chess. During our freshman year of college, David was the only person who wrote to me (once on popcicle sticks – that I remember – I wrote once on a balloon) and I remember vaguely that his roommate was someone named Trent – Ricks I think – and he would do weird things like put his penis on someone’s table while they were trying to do homework – that may be urban legend but from what I even more vaguely remember about Trent, it could have happened. A few years after that, David showed up at Kinko’s. We had lunch at subway and I went over to his apartment – that he shared with Jason Majors and his girlfriend. I had some of that cough syrup tasting booze – bleck – that was about 10 years ago. And he’d just attended the 10 year reunion. I didn’t go – I was working at Kinko’s with nothing to show. I was still in college, working at Kinkos. His response was that at least I was married (and to be fair, for me, that was a pretty big accomplishment – not to be self-depreciating – but really – I’m nothing to look at, opinionated, and controlling (in a side stepping manipulative type of way that works well for me and leaves most others unsuspecting). He was working at radio shack and attending Hillvue Heights church – we discussed tithing – I was a bit amazed that he was so devout – but it may have been during a newly baptized phase of his life – I however have lived much of my life in contact with someone who is stuck in the newly baptized phase of religion and am not so easily swayed (do you think that if my father had known that his faith would have stymied my own, he’d have practiced reverse psychology?).

Anyway, enough about the life and times of David Thomas. You, hopefully, get the point. There is history there. I know that when he was in the 5th grade he told people that he read the encyclopedia for enjoyment (though later claimed that he was lying – I still prefer to believe him). I know that when he was in middle school and lived in the big brick house on my bus route he almost drowned in his in ground pool and was saved by his aunt (and remember mostly thinking how lucky he was to have an in ground pool). I know that he also liked the A-Team in middle school and I know this because we would all sit in the back 2 rows on the bus (Bubba Grant, Brent, David and I) and we’d sing/ hum the theme song and talk about last night’s episode. He would also pretend to talk when the bus went over the gravel road (to pick up Eric Vickory – who was odd then and the last time I saw him) – and when the bus stopped turn his voice on as if it were on the whole time. I know that in high school he and his friends were into dungeons and dragons and came up with a fake bomb and that is why Trigg County had it’s first bomb threat notation in the student handbook.

Anyway, though I didn’t intend for this entry to the ode to David Thomas, you get the point. There is a history there. Something that doesn’t have to be explained. Stories that we don’t visit that often but laugh about when we do. My friends Terri and Sandy are the same. I see them once a year, maybe twice. They are on my mailing lists for videos and school sales. I will call and chat occasionally – I don’t have to see them every day or talk to them every day but they are there a part of my family. I know that if I were having surgery and frightened out of my mind I could call them and they would come. I hadn’t spoken to them for almost 10 years and found them during one of my nostalgic summer searches and not 3 months later they were throwing me a baby shower with people they didn’t even know.

There is a magic in having those kinds of friends. In part because every moment you spend with them is full of love and laughter. When you don’t see anyone that often, then every moment is special and a memory. You aren’t there long enough to get hurt, angry, upset, bored, disgusted. It is why some long distance relationships work so well (though with friendships there’s no assumption of faithfulness – really it’s ok for them to have other friends, I don’t mind – and that helps too). The other part of the magic is that you remember these friends better than they actually are – in my mind they are always perfect. To some degree they are almost like imaginary friends. This blog is a part of that. It is my imaginary conversation with my friends that I don’t get to see that often – and what lovely conversations they often are. I hear Terri’s voice – always saying, “well, you know Aim…” and either agreeing or disagreeing (which would mean we’re talking about politics).

They don’t really make commercials about these types of friendships. Or rather, I’ve never seen one. It seems the ideal is the sex in the city friendships where the girls get together every week and talk about life and what not – or go shopping together, or to movies, or out, or whatever. And there is this part of me that feels like that because I don’t have that type of friendship then somehow I’ve failed as a person. I mean, I still classify my relationships into family and friends (those friends who should be family) and people at work that I like (but don’t want to hang out with – makes work messy), parents of elijah’s friends that I like and can have a decent play date with, people I don’t care about, and people that I wish would have bad things happen to (this is a very small list and I try to forget them most of the time). Pretty much those are the groups. And when I have a social event – well I keep it divided about like that – though you should add a group for Jose’s family – so we have events in triplicate because I don’t mingle groups well. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, someone might move from one group to another. Jenny and Vicki moved from people I work with to people I consider family. Who knows . . . I’m a bit off track from the original topic here – that’s what happens when you start to ramble at the end of the day – but there it is. And it all brought on again by that damn high school reunion – that I’m just going to have to attend. Unlike prom my junior or senior year, I think I might actually regret not attending this – and I don’t believe in doing anything that I might regret. The worse that could happen is that no one talks to me – and well – been there done that – scratch that the worse thing is that Michele could show up drunk, embarrass me – someone will say isn’t that your sister? No? I always thought you were sisters? So your Jodi and Angie’s sister? Jodi and Jason’s. I though Jason and Angie were brother and sister. Well hmmm… at which point, I have keys, own a car, and won’t be too far from Dad’s house. I’ll let you know how it goes – and just so you know –I’m not dressing up – and not going to the formal dinner – who eats at 8:00 – people with maids and nanny’s I guess.

Steps Toward Conservatism?

I have this theory that no matter how liberal you are in your youth – in political beliefs, practices, whatever – as you get older, you begin to get more conservative. And how conservative you are, well then, the older you may be. I’ve had a couple of incidents that week that have really pushed this point home for me.

The first incident occurred in Junior Foods. Elijah and I were sitting in line, and all of the sudden, the guy behind us began to talk to his friend. Now usually, I find that thoroughly enjoy eaves dropping on a good conversation. I will often spend time trying to listen to other people instead of talking to someone sitting at the table with me. It’s probably the same gene that makes me enjoy the real world, road rules, and the hills on mtv – fly-on-the-wallitis. Anyway, the guy behind me was obviously having some problems with his dog, because he began to go into a lengthy discussion that was absolutely littered with profanity. My f-ing dog is getting on my last f-ing nerve. The S—thole dog is digging up my f-ing yard. I’m going to f-ing slit his mother f-ing throat. That was basically the opening sentence. And all I could think of was Elijah standing right there and hearing every bit of it. Now, I will admit that there is a bit of a double standard because Elijah will watch movies that have a fair amount of profanity. And I have dealt with that – and am living blissfully in a place where just because they say it in the movies doesn’t mean that real people talk that way. And as I sat in the line that had suddenly crawled to a stop, I found myself wanting to turn around and ask the man to please not use that language around my son. And thus the internal debate began… it’s his first amendment right to say what he wants to say – freedom of speech. When did I decide that I needed to infringe on another’s inherent American right? Of course, Elijah didn’t hear any of it at all. So it was essentially a moot point. There was a point in my life that I probably wouldn’t even have heard the profanity spewing from this man’s mouth. But that point has passed – perhaps everyone moves 4 degrees to the right as a child passes from their body – who knows.


The second incident was at a birthday party that my son attended. Now, not having ever had great successes with birthday parties myself, I try to attend all the parties that Elijah is invited to. And being competitive, I try to see if the parties that I have planned for him are better or worse than the ones he attends. Anyway, the family who was throwing this party seemed to have a nice bit of funding. New home, looked pretty big (despite the added size illusion added by a garage), in ground pool in the back yard, pool house, blah blah blah. It was a bit crowded as apparently all the wives forced their husbands to attend, as I did mine. There was some nice adult chips and dip (I’d never thought of that as I’m usually having a party for the kids and the parents are just transportation) – and they had a wet bar. A wet bar, with mixed drinks served in plastic pirate cups at a 6 year olds birthday party. They also had hired a DJ – which most everyone ignored – felt a little sorry for him, but well I’m sure he got paid handsomely for the time he spent there. And so, in yet another fashion, I show my age because I just can’t be convinced that it’s appropriate to serve alcohol at a child’s birthday party – Such a belief didn’t stop Jose from getting two drinks though. He wanted me to go get him a refill and I told him that I would not – because I was an elementary school teacher at the school where these kids and their parents went to school – and I did not want someone who thought that alcohol was inappropriate at a birthday party to see me lining up at the bar to get a drink – and then not see me pass it off to Jose (who, as always, was the only non-Caucasian in attendance) – which is an entirely different issue.

So despite these two minor conservative issues – please know that I still consider myself a liberal democrat. You’re never going to get me to say that abortion should be illegal, or that everyone should have a gun, or that it wouldn’t be a good thing to have healthcare reform so that everyone can have insurance without having to sell everything they own to pay for it. I still believe that every person can change and be a better person (though I’m less inclined than I used to be to give t hose who in any way shape or form hurt small children a chance to be reformed), I don’t think the death penalty works – not really (but I care less about that in my old age). I believe that anyone who wants to have a legal ceremony to say they love each other should have one . And I know for a fact that a gay parent can be a good parent who raises well adjusted children – or at least as well adjusted as any other kid. All in all, I think that my passion for political issues has faded as I concern myself with finding money for gasoline to get to and from work, soccer, and the grocery store – or making sure that my children are happy. I’m quite sure that as my children age, I might move back into that realm of political concerns. For now, I’ll just let Jon Stewart take all my pot shots.

Nightmares

I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately. Most likely because I’ve been taking benedryl every night to fight off allergies enough to help me rest so that I can make it into school the next day. Many of those dreams have been related to the 20th high school reunion that I have coming up. That I sort of want to go to, but don’t really want to attend. The last one was about the party at Kim and Stan’s house (which in my dream was some sort of mansion) – and we rode a school bus to get there. JR Body (sp) was a doctor. And that’s about all I remember there. Those haven’t been bad dreams. Usually my nightmares aren’t even really tat bad. My nightmares are usually about tornadoes. They say that if you dream about tornadoes that you are actually dreaming about changes that are occurring in your life. I dream about tornadoes a lot -0 always have. Ell let me qualify that. I have since I was 23 or 25 – which is a long time ago now. Usually they aren’t really bad dreams, though they almost always wake me up. Usually the dreams have me in someone’s house (mine, grandmas, where ever) and there are always a lot of really small tornadoes. But I can always see them coming. I look out the window, and see these tiny little tornadoes coming down and I always have time to get everyone to safety. Tonight I didn’t have that sort of tornado dream.
It was in my living room, though my furniture arrangement was different, and the basement door was not in the kitchen but off the living room (sort of like Kay and Larry’s house in Morgantown – I know none of you know that that looks like, but I do). And my friend David was there. It was on the Friday night of my 20 year high school reunion. I didn’t go, but was in Cadiz. And David had stopped by. Jose wasn’t there. And I didn’t see Elijah or Isaiah there either. I was talking about why Jodi was upset – and sitting here, I don’t really remember why that was, something about rumors going around about mom and Lesa. Anyway, the wind started to blow. And I commented that the game was probably going to be rained out, and all of the sudden it wasn’t just a little hard wind, it was a tornado, a big one, that had snuck up on us. And Mom, David, Lesa and I rand downstairs – and it was only then that I remembered Isaiah and Elijah. Which was of course when I work up, and had to spend the next several minutes wracking my break trying to find them in my dream somewhere. Where they in the house but sleeping? Sleeping on the couch. Why were they sleeping so early, they never go to sleep. Quick-- go back to sleep and try to re-dream the ending so that it’s different. So that I know they are safe. But there was no doing it – and so I’m here trying to exorcise some sleep demons by writing them down . And will most likely travel from the keyboard to the benadryl which has unsuccessfully been trying to tackle the allergic funk that has settled in the back of my throat and chest, and a cheesy romance novel until my eyes can no longer remain open.
I don’t often have nightmares like this where I wake up and can’t go back to sleep. But there have been periods in my life that I’ve been plagued by bad dreams. When we first moved back to Cadiz in the 4th grade, I used to dream that the electric monster who appeared in the opening sequence of spiderman and friends (with fire starter girl and iceman – they were x-men) was chasing me and some others through the forest. And like a good Star Trek episode, the new person to the dream was always the one who got it before we reached the safety of the barn. I often dream, still even today, that I’m trying to cross the road, but somehow am unable to do so. I either fall down, or my legs quit working. Something always keeps me in the danger of the road with the knowledge that a car is coming and I’m going to get hit if I don’t find a way to get across. That one usually wakes me up. Added to that dream was the real experience that I had last summer when I was crossing the road to get the mail and tripped and fell. And I actually had a very real fear that my dream was going to come true and I wasn’t going to be able to get up in time to get across the road to safety. I don’t think I’ve had that dream much since then.
At the ripe old age of 37, oops 38, usually the dreams that wake me up are the ones that involve the safety of my children. And t hose are the ones that keep me up long after the dream has passed. Those are the ones that really suck. Even now, I am wracked with guilt that in my dream, I ran downstairs and didn’t even think of Isaiah and Elijah until I was already under the stairs and couldn’t go back up. It’s those sorts of dreams that make you go to Walmart and purchase a cooler to make a disaster kit though.
Anyway, I’m not going to try to analyze the dream – I’m not su re that I want to know what this one means - We’re just going to let it stand, and fade into the background and hope that Dylan, the ½ breed cowboy who’s set his sights on Hannah will help me forget it all.

20 year class reunion

O.K. It's not really so difficult to admit that I've been out of high school for 20 years. I don't have any problem with being 38 years old - or with the passage of time. But it does seem to have gone by rather quickly. I got the invitation for my high school class reunion in the mail yesterday. Felt a bit excited because Steven Sanders had actually hand written the address. I mean a little giddy because Steven Sanders was sort of the poo back in the day. And here it is 4:15 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I'm up blogging at the computer because I had a dream about the reunion and couldn't get back to sleep.

Now, there is a big part of me that wants to go the reunion with a vengeful spirit. Small as it is, I suppose I want someone who had everything in high school (or seemed to) to have had a really difficult life. Which doesn't seem like a very good reason to go to a reunion. The other reason would be to see old friends from high school. But I didn't really have any friends in high school. I had people that I had all my classes with. But there was no social interaction. I was never invited to a party. No one asked to hang out with me after school. David Thomas, who I have long called my only friend from high school, was the only person from high school who wrote or kept in contact - and none of that in the past 12 years or so. And Kris Michele McGill and I hung out a bit our senior year -- Pebbles Herndon my junior year. But after high school that was it - nada, finito. And I admit to having no small amount of curiousity about the people who I saw daily and thought had everything - thought perfect. The logical part of my mind realizes that they weren't perfect. I realize now, though it's hard to say it, that probably Caroline and Shelly weren't innocent virgins when they graduated from high school. But 20 years ago, I was sure that they were - mostly because people who were exemplars of the human race (as only those who are in the top clique of a school can be perceived to be) must be good and perfect. Of course, in recent years, I've spent some time indulging in watching reality mtv shows and enjoyed Laguna Beach and The Hills. I have often wondered if those girls and boys that I knew were similar to those on the screen. There's a lot of drama and meanness there - and I never got a feel for that sitting on the sidelines, looking in, that there was -- but it seems to me that if you ever get more than 3 girls together, drama will insue.

So, I can't really decide if I want to go to the reunion. In my dream, Jose, the boys, and I were eating supper at the lodge, but of course not in the reserved section for the reunion (who eats at 8:00 p.m?) And a whole parade of people began to walk by. Jim Jim Wallace (though I know he hates to be called Jim Jim now) was very tall, sporting a nice sweater and blazer. Reggie Thomas and Kenneth Wharton. I haven't thought about Kenneth Wharton since I graduated from high school - though every so often I try to find Reggie without success. Steven Sanders stopped for a hello. Michelle Guinn (who was the first person at Trigg County that I ever met) was there - but her family for some reason looked like circus clowns - literally in make-up. And the next thing I knew I was fighting back tears. Here were all these people who I didn't really have anything to say to -- didn't really have any common high school experiences -- unless you counted Beta convention or classes. And all the faces were familiar and I knew the people - but I still didn't fit in or belong -- I graduated in 1987, but was never really a member of the CLASS of 87. Although, I hold desperately to a conversation that Jim and I had the year that we were both back in Cadiz. He had come to my house (which was surreal in and of itself) and we watched Hairspray. And he told me that he always felt that I didn't need to be a part of the whole social scene at school. Which made me feel better. It made me feel like I wasn't excluded because no one liked me, but for other reasons - whatever they were. I have no idea how people remember me, or what they thought of me when I was in high school. And it's a scary proposition to go back into a group of people whose approval and attention you craved when you were younger but never got (no one was ever mean or hateful, just not opening any arms either). That's an awful lot of hurt that I don't know if I want to face or revisit (more so than I am doing right now anyway). I suppose in the long run, I have to decide if it's a thing that I'll wish I had done, if I don't. Ironically, it's probably all a moot point anyway with Franklin's soccer team. But you know me, I like to be prepared.

Free Kittens

I really just posted this so I'd have a link for a pet classifieds page. But if anyone here wants a free kitten and lives near bowling green, kentucky - please let me know.

Getting Past High School

Well it would appear that my former employer has found my blog and felt compelled to respond or to comment -- (see new endeavor if you'd like -- it's a bit mean). And a couple of things occurred to me --
1. It's not always so easy to turn the other cheek. To shake off comments that are meant to be snide and hurtful. And, in all honesty, my first impulse was to send the darling lady an email, and tell her what I thought of her. But to be fair, she'd only need to read a few of these to know my thoughts and opinions of her work ethics and abilities. And I suppose that is she wants to take the time to read the statements and opinions presented here, then she's free to do so, it is after all, a free country.

2. The second thing that occurred to me that she must really, really not like me. Because it has been a very long time since I've hated someone enough to want to search the internet and read their online diary, their personal diary, or waste any time and energy on a person who is relatively insignificant in my life. I haven't been there and done that since I was in high school -- well let's be fair, probably a freshman in college. We fat girls develop social lives a little later than the rest of you. This is me taking the opportunity to live the line that I gave my kids - and know that my choices are made independently of someone's feelings about me. Why waste your time being angry or hating when you can just let it go. I've lived long enough to know that I enjoy my life too much to want it to be a dark, miserable, place. And I don't let myself hate people. There's no point. I spend some time not liking them, wishing they would be different, trying to find something of value. And if it's not there, then I just let that go and try to control what I can -- which is my own happiness and responses to the world around me. It's ultimately what helped me to survive my last year at 11th Street -- because I wasn't going to allow another to affect the positive relationships that I had established with my kids -or to undermine my level of professionalism -- because those were things that I could and did control.

So for all those who are reading - and that means you too oh exalted leader of 11th Street - I wish every success for those who remain at that school. It is a valuable program that I believe in and wishing that anyone there would fail would mean to wish harm on those kids who I spent a quarter of my life trying to help.

A Rite of Passage

I don't know of many of you had pets when you were growing up, but the Walker children always had some animal or the other. My mom, when she was going through her hippy, mother earth phases, fancied herself a farmer -- though maybe more a gentleman farmer than a real famer. So as we were growing up, we had doberman pinchers, goats, geese, chickens, horses, cows, and cats. I dont' remember them all, but I remember several.

Red - a large red doberman. He was really really big. Once he bit my neck - though in retrospect, I believe that he barked and my neck was in the way. When we lived in California, we used to let Red pull us around on our skateboard.

Mandy - she had a floppy ear, also a doberman. And what I remember most about her is that whenever someone called her, I thought they were calling me.

The White Rooster -- evil creature, I believe I've posted about it before -- if not, let me know and I will - it's a horror story.

The Geese - who seemed to get their joy from hissing and chasing us given any chance.

Harley - the boy goat who would pee on himself - apparently it's some sort of cologne for goats and oh so appealing let me tell you.

Camille - If I remember correctly this is the goat that would stand up on the root cellar and rear up so that she appeared 20 feet tall and ready for action.

Nothing - this was one of our cats - she once had kittens that Jodi and I helped deliver - Jodi made me a book about her when we lived in california and used her thumbprint to make the cat - it was pretty cool and I think i still have it somewhere.

Poopee -- a white furry dog - would ride on the back of mom's motorcycle -

Pooh - a poodle that we got, she'd jump up into your arms

Pooh 2 - the not quite as good as the first replacement

Tigger - my poodle - 3rd and last.

Seymore - 1/2 siamese 1/2 persian - cat with attitude - she lived for ever.

We've had so many more animals than this - and have had more animals than I have finger and toes get killed or run away or disappear. but they've always been there, marking the moments of my life.

Jesse, the stray cat that we got from Eleventh Street, has had 4 kittens. And Elijah and Isaiah have been entranced. Isaiah more because he thinks they are pretty cool toys - and has to be constantly watched because his favorite thing is to sit on a kitten or lay on it - i think he thinks that the meow is like a squeaker. But he will come up to the box and look at me and say his equivalent of "mine, mine, mine?" And Elijah, has also fallen in love, and I dread the battle that will occur between him and Jose when it comes time to give the kittens away. Elijah wants to pretend that he's their father, or uncle, or big brother. And spends a lot of time with one or all of the kittens on his belly as he watches t.v. or plays video games. Although, I did catch him using the kittens as toys in one of his little documentary dramas (he was making them talk and growl back at each other like he does with his dinosaur toys). But this summer, for Elijah and Isaiah, will be the summer of the kittens, and that's something special. To see them from an hour of their birth until they get to that playful stage. It won't be much different from Grandma Walker's - who always had kittens every summer it seemed - and though it must have been a hassle for her - seemed like a gift that she gave us each summer as well.

New Endeavor

For those of you who know me, you know that I've had a rough year at Eleventh Street. Mostly because of our new director.

And even though many of you do know me - most of you didn't know that one of my professional goals was to be disney's teacher of the year some day -- Not that it will ever really happen, but it really signifies the type of teacher that I really want to be.

So next year, I'm going to be teaching special education at Alvaton Elementary School. I will be teaching preschoolers, kindergarteners, and first graders. And, I can't decide how happy I am about it. Part of me feels prepared because I've spent the better part of the last year coming up with activities for Isaiah in hopes that he'll succumb to a whim and begin talking. Which isn't happening - so now I'm hoping that he doesn't start talking until after he turns 3 so that I can get him in 1/2 day free preschool with county schools - which will cut down on daycare costs (which this year will be more than my house payment - there's something wrong with that). My second thought was - oh my god, how do i teach these little kids - they don't even know how to read?

But I'm confident that I'll figure it out. I'm hopeful that I'll do a good job. Because there is quite a bit more responsibility in teaching young children that at-risk teens. Here I am laying the foundation that they will build upon for the rest of their lives and that's a huge responsibility. At Eleventh Street, I was trying to get my kids to take ownership over their own lives and decisions and seeing that they have the power to become what they wish, not what others see. I'm sure that I'll let you guys now how it turns out --

A Day at the Beach

What is about getting older that turns us into water snobs? I remember when I was younger happily swimming in ponds and lakes and thinking nothing of it -- until I saw JAWS - at which point I was sure that any time spent in the water was going to result in a shark attack. In the summer, as a child, water was water was water and it didn't make any difference. But as I got older, my mindset toward what was acceptible swim water shifted. I didn't want to swim in brown water any longer -- oh no - I only want crystal clear, shiny blue water that tempts your senses with a slift wafting chorline scent - not unlike a gym loccer room. The only concession that I readily make is to swimin the ocean - which by the way isn't really swimming- it's more like a wade and squat. Move out until you are about waste deep, then squat down a bit and drift in the waves -- JAWS really lives in the ocean and I don't want him to think that he's found a beached narwhale off the shores of the Southern US - thank you very much.

Elijah, Isaiah and I all made the trek to Lake Barkley beach last week. My thought was that the kids would enjoy the sand if nothing else. And in case you have forgotten, sand is very very hot in the summer. Especially at lake beaches where the tide doesn't come in and shift that stuff around. So no one played in the sand. And of course, the snob in me begins to critique the people who are at the beach - invariably there is the one family, all in cut off jeans and tee-shirts, mom's got bleached blonde hair, smoking camels or basics, and walking into the water with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth, shouting at her kids to get the hell away from the bouy. And her kids, well they are reaching down to the lake bed and pulling up god only knows what and hurling it at each other - thinking it's such great fun. And I'm thinking, please don't hit my children with that nastiness, quickly followed by "please Elijah don't think they look like someone you'd want to play with -- they are a DJJ case in the making." Me - thinking such things. When did I turn into that person who wrinkles her nose and people who live like I used to? I used to be that kid hurling mud and sand at my brother or sister. Of course, I suppose the difference is that I never wanted to be the poor kid in class -- I wanted to independently weathy - still do -- but am not sure it's going to happen anytime soon.

Anyway, back to the water issue. Elijah and Isaiah - had a great time for the brief two hours that we stayed at the beach -- 2 hours is the limit with a 2 year old - mostly because I don't want to sit in 4 inches of water, roasting and sweating, to prevent him from swallowing the water, or eating something he finds in it. We'll most likely return -- because sand is such a nice thing for the kids - and well, they aren't water snobs like I am.

Big Foot and Potties

When I was little – before 4th grade I know for sure because we lived in Greenfield, Missouri, Jodi and I went to see a movie. I don’t remember if Jason was there or not. I don’t really remember if Mom and Robin were there either, but it seems as if they should be. But then again, it was the early 70’s, in small town Missouri – it’s entirely possible that she dropped us off at the theater and we went in alone. I’m pretty sure the name of the movie was the Legend of Boggy Creek. But, again, I’m not sure.
Let me tell you what I do remember. There was this big, scary, hairy monster, named big foot. And though I got the impression that really, he just wanted everyone to leave him alone, well, he had a bit of a mean streak. How do I know this? I know this because there were several scenes that I recall of Bigfoot mangling some poor schmuck who didn’t get out of the way quick enough. And this wasn’t a Jason or Freddy horror movie. Oh no! This was a documentary. It was real. Bigfoot was a true story. The part that I remember most vividly is that there was a some guy on the toilet. It must have been a trailer, but maybe not. But there was a small window right next to the toilet. And while man was sitting down and taking care of business, this big shaggy arm burst through the window and attacked him. I remember spending a lot of the rest of the movie under my coat refusing to watch any more. It’s a practice I continue to this day, refusing to watch scary movies. I mean really, who needs it, and who wants to pay for it.
The other thing I remember is that from that moment on, I have been acutely aware that almost every single bathroom in the world seems to have a window next to the toilet. It is perhaps one of my motivations to not lingering in the restroom like real girls. Never linger in the restroom with the window, because you just don’t know when or where Bigfoot will strike. And of course, when does Bigfoot attack – when it’s dark (see previous post). He probably uses those damn cats in the trash can as his look out.
At about the same time, there was a movie that came out on television about these trolls that lived under the house or in the ventilation system. And they would come out and grab people and pull them under the stairs. And what did I notice while I was trying to pee as quickly as possible. What was beneath that darkened window, that portal for Bigfoot – an air vent. Oh yes. Not only did I have to hunch over low so that Bigfoot would not be aware that there was anyone on the toilet – but now I had to keep my legs up off the floor so the little troll people wouldn’t come and get me.
And how does my family deal with my childish terrors. In a bizarrely rational fashion. Let me demonstrate.
In the late 1970’s the movie King Kong was released. The one that everyone hates with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lang – but I love it, thought it was a great movie. I cried at the end. Sobbed. Was heart broken. How could they kill King Kong, he didn’t do anything wrong. And my mother, she tells me that King Kong isn’t really dead. No, he was just acting. That wasn’t blood, she reassured me, but actually strawberry syrup. And after he was done pretending to be dead, they used that syrup for pancakes.
Not long after the Bigfoot thing, I had a nightmare one weekend while staying with my dad and his dreadful 2nd wife Gaye. The dream was, of course, about Bigfoot. And my father, he calms me. He tells me that if Bigfoot was to come to the house, well just open the door and ask him to come inside, have something to drink and we’d get him a toasted cheese sandwich. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he was probably so grumpy because he was just hungry.
No, think about this. Reread the passages if you must, and see if you can see the flaw here. Do you see it? Can you find it? Neither of my parents felt compelled to deny the existence of either creature. There was no – there are no monsters. There are no ghosts in the closet. Bigfoot doesn’t exist, it was all fake. King Kong, he’s just a big machine, not really a monkey at all. Oh no. Not my parents. They supported the illusion of reality. Of course King Kong is real – he’s just acting. He gets paid in bananas. And Bigfoot, that bathroom attacking monster, well he’s really just looking for Denny’s and was trying to get that poor man’s attention.
In retrospect, I don’t know which is better. Creating a definite line between reality or merely smudging it a bit. Perhaps they tried to tell me that said creatures didn’t exist and I didn’t believe them because I was still at the age when I believed that the television was powered by tiny people inside. I do know that as an adult, there’s a part me that sees a great deal of humor (smugness if you will) in the terrors of children. Elijah is scared of the dark, and the mean child in me sometimes wants to turn off the light and say boo! Just because I can. How cruel is that? I suppose ultimately, we create fictions for our children that they will most likely believe and hope for the best. And I think I prefer the fiction to the fact, as it makes for a much more interesting perspective on reality.