Pay no mind. It is just the sound of my rotors as I hover.
Those who rail against helicopter parents maybe just don't get it...
What normal 19 year old is savvy enough to stand up to a bureaucracy? Not too darn many. When most of them are told, "Oh, sorry. There's nothing we can do." or "I'll do it. I haven't taken care of it YET, but I WILL," they just walk away feeling used and disillusioned. And they wait. And wait. And wait.
The very idea of an adult in a position of power making a mistake and then leaving the 19 year old victim of that mistake to clean up the mess herself just seems to me to be a bad idea all round...
Yes, there is a time to step back and let your child stand on their own two feet. This was not one of them. I hope that Ms. Flippers has now learned that there is a time for patience and a time to kick problems to "the next level". I hope that if this ever happens in the future, she will now be able to take care of it herself and I can just stand back with my rotors at idle.
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Clean vs. Organized
So much for my abilities as a nag...
The conversation went something like this:
Me: "So why isn't your room clean?
Stubble: "It is."
Me: "No it isn't. There is crap all over the bed and stacks of CDs all over the place."
Stubble: "That is organization. I thought you said that you wanted it CLEAN."
Me "I DID!"
Stubble: "Then why didn't you say so."
Me: (mentally beating my forehead on the doorjab (repeatedly)) "Here is a tub for all of the CDs in your room. The bunch on the dresser fell on the cat."
The conversation went something like this:
Me: "So why isn't your room clean?
Stubble: "It is."
Me: "No it isn't. There is crap all over the bed and stacks of CDs all over the place."
Stubble: "That is organization. I thought you said that you wanted it CLEAN."
Me "I DID!"
Stubble: "Then why didn't you say so."
Me: (mentally beating my forehead on the doorjab (repeatedly)) "Here is a tub for all of the CDs in your room. The bunch on the dresser fell on the cat."
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Because It's What I Do Best (part 2)
Nagging.
I am really a champ at nagging. The National Superbowl of Nagging Champion, actually. Because I am, at heart, altruistic, I would like to take this opportunity to share all that I have learned over the years:
Nagging works best when used sparingly:
A neverending barrage just sets the compliance bar higher. It is like escalation in warfare - at a certain point nothing works but annihilation (and then who would you share holiday dinners with?).
Nagging works best when done quietly:
The shouted "How many times do I have to say this..." only causes the stereo (or TV or Xbox) to be turned up...and once you have expended all of that energy, you won't have it any in reserve for the long haul.
Nagging, done properly is better torture than fingernails on a chalkboard:
It is incessant. It is intermittent. (both excellent psychological concepts and not at all as contradictory as they may at first seem). Eventually making it stop and keeping it from starting again is all that matters.
The latest "topic" for the nagging is clean bedrooms. The Bearded One set one holiday task for Ms. Flippers and Stubble...
Get their bedrooms cleaned up so that the doors can be open and the cats can get in (without doing damage to their furry little selves or the bedroom contents). The way that The Bearded One accomplishes this is to fret about the issue for a few days while letting me know that he is fretting and exactly what he is fretting about. Then there comes a time when the volcano begins to spew...
"How many times do I have to say this...."
"Is it too much to ask..."
Once the initial eruption is over, if they wait long enough while doing nothing, it all blows over.
This vacation, I got involved. Witness a master in action...
Me: "If you get the room clean, I'll vaccuum."
1/2 hour later
Me: "I'm starting a load of wash, I need everything off the floor. If it is on the floor and isn't dirty, it needs to be in the dresser"
1/2 hour later
Me: "Can I vaccuum yet?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "How about now? Are you ready for me to vaccuum?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "I'm starting another load in the washer. Do I have everything?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "Can I run the vaccuum yet?"
Sooner or later (usually sooner) the clothes start arriving in the laundry room and I am told, "I can do the vaccuuming - you don't need to bother."
1/2 hour later
"Can I put the vaccuum away now?"
I am really a champ at nagging. The National Superbowl of Nagging Champion, actually. Because I am, at heart, altruistic, I would like to take this opportunity to share all that I have learned over the years:
Nagging works best when used sparingly:
A neverending barrage just sets the compliance bar higher. It is like escalation in warfare - at a certain point nothing works but annihilation (and then who would you share holiday dinners with?).
Nagging works best when done quietly:
The shouted "How many times do I have to say this..." only causes the stereo (or TV or Xbox) to be turned up...and once you have expended all of that energy, you won't have it any in reserve for the long haul.
Nagging, done properly is better torture than fingernails on a chalkboard:
It is incessant. It is intermittent. (both excellent psychological concepts and not at all as contradictory as they may at first seem). Eventually making it stop and keeping it from starting again is all that matters.
The latest "topic" for the nagging is clean bedrooms. The Bearded One set one holiday task for Ms. Flippers and Stubble...
Get their bedrooms cleaned up so that the doors can be open and the cats can get in (without doing damage to their furry little selves or the bedroom contents). The way that The Bearded One accomplishes this is to fret about the issue for a few days while letting me know that he is fretting and exactly what he is fretting about. Then there comes a time when the volcano begins to spew...
"How many times do I have to say this...."
"Is it too much to ask..."
Once the initial eruption is over, if they wait long enough while doing nothing, it all blows over.
This vacation, I got involved. Witness a master in action...
Me: "If you get the room clean, I'll vaccuum."
1/2 hour later
Me: "I'm starting a load of wash, I need everything off the floor. If it is on the floor and isn't dirty, it needs to be in the dresser"
1/2 hour later
Me: "Can I vaccuum yet?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "How about now? Are you ready for me to vaccuum?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "I'm starting another load in the washer. Do I have everything?"
1/2 hour later
Me: "Can I run the vaccuum yet?"
Sooner or later (usually sooner) the clothes start arriving in the laundry room and I am told, "I can do the vaccuuming - you don't need to bother."
1/2 hour later
"Can I put the vaccuum away now?"
Saturday, December 24, 2011
By The Chimney With Care...
I am currently making a black Christmas stocking. Yes, I said BLACK. A truly festive color. And perfectly right for Stubble. In our family, we have a tradition of fashioning personalized Christmas stockings; thus The Bearded One's stocking with boats and airplanes. Mine was made my a much loved Aunt and as she made it when I was but a wee child, it has snowmen and mittens and stars...but I love it enough that I won't allow it to be replaced.
Stubble's stocking has been a bit of a problem. If I had made it when he was 5 it would have been loaded with Pokemon (um, he is 20 now and not a big Pokemon fan). At 10 it would have been filled with soccer balls (he hasn't played soccer in years). At 16 it would have been covered with cars - but cars aren't really stocking material once you get your license and your first car. I have had to wait a very long time to personalize his stocking. Finally, he seems to have settled into computers.
I showed The Bearded One the felt that I had squirreled away for the stocking. Red. Blue. Green. The Bearded One's eyes immediately went to the piece of black felt that I keep for putting felt on the bottom of things that should be felt backed but aren't.
"Black," he said.
"Black?" I asked, thinking how AWFUL it would look.
"Yeah, Black," he replied. "Think about it."
And after thinking about it for a few minutes it made perfect sense. Stubble, from the time he could express preferences made his known for black. With accents of gold and silver.,..
So I am making a black Christmas stocking. With a tower and cable and ports and CPUs and a flash drive.....
And it is black and sparkly and gold and silver, and you can read Intel on the CPU...
Merry Christmas, Stubble.
If you look a little to the left you will also see a piece of the penguin stocking that I made for Ms. Flippers.
And to all a good night...
Stubble's stocking has been a bit of a problem. If I had made it when he was 5 it would have been loaded with Pokemon (um, he is 20 now and not a big Pokemon fan). At 10 it would have been filled with soccer balls (he hasn't played soccer in years). At 16 it would have been covered with cars - but cars aren't really stocking material once you get your license and your first car. I have had to wait a very long time to personalize his stocking. Finally, he seems to have settled into computers.
I showed The Bearded One the felt that I had squirreled away for the stocking. Red. Blue. Green. The Bearded One's eyes immediately went to the piece of black felt that I keep for putting felt on the bottom of things that should be felt backed but aren't.
"Black," he said.
"Black?" I asked, thinking how AWFUL it would look.
"Yeah, Black," he replied. "Think about it."
And after thinking about it for a few minutes it made perfect sense. Stubble, from the time he could express preferences made his known for black. With accents of gold and silver.,..
So I am making a black Christmas stocking. With a tower and cable and ports and CPUs and a flash drive.....
And it is black and sparkly and gold and silver, and you can read Intel on the CPU...
If you look a little to the left you will also see a piece of the penguin stocking that I made for Ms. Flippers.
And to all a good night...
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Rotten
It's those darn kids, you know. At about 13 they turn on you. The girls start wearing revealing clothes and savaging their friends behind their backs. And the boys! Those baggy jeans, and the skateboards. And the sullen, insolent stares! And when they grow up it isn't much better. They are a bunch of self absorbed do nothings...video games all day and leaching off of their parents!
I could see it running across her face as she stood in the produce section, waiting her turn to get a plastic bag in which to place her selections.
Stubble and Ms. Flippers were debating the relative merits of Honey Crisp vs. Granny Smith apples, standing in her way, apparently oblivious to a busy woman trying to do her chores and get home.
And then Stubble pulled off a bag, turned to her, and said, "Here you go."
A smile, at first timid and then sincere broke across her face as she said, "Thank you," and turned to select tomatoes.
I guess we did something right.
I could see it running across her face as she stood in the produce section, waiting her turn to get a plastic bag in which to place her selections.
Stubble and Ms. Flippers were debating the relative merits of Honey Crisp vs. Granny Smith apples, standing in her way, apparently oblivious to a busy woman trying to do her chores and get home.
And then Stubble pulled off a bag, turned to her, and said, "Here you go."
A smile, at first timid and then sincere broke across her face as she said, "Thank you," and turned to select tomatoes.
I guess we did something right.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Oh, Tannenbaum!
Last year we had a little problem with our cats, who were 3 months new to the house at the time. I put up the tree. They climbed it and crushed it. No one little cat could have done all of that damage. All three had to have been involved simultaneously. The big tree went back into its box and back into the attic. A HEAVY patio table entered the living room and a 4 foot tree was gaffer taped to it so as not to fall over should a kitten investigate...
Our first few Christmases together were as boyfriend and girlfriend and The Bearded One (yes, he was bearded, even then - if he wanted to leave without a trace, all he would need to do is to shave) was more than willing to indulge my Christmas silliness by driving to tree farms all over Southeast Michigan looking for a tree to cut. After our marriage and a neighbor's disastrous Christmas Tree related apartment fire, we went artificial. It didn't really feel right, but we were doing our bit to keep our neighbors safe during the holiday season.
Then we bought our first house (six years later). On our first Christmas in the house, I came home from an evening shift to find a gorgeous LARGE Christmas tree in the dining area of the living room. We had double high ceilings and the tree filled every inch of space allotted to it. It was absolutely lovely. The next year another tree appeared, this time a balsam that you could smell practically from the garage. When the holiday was over the balsam was stripped of it's lights and ornaments and lugged to the curb for collection. Leaving every single solitary needle in our white shag carpet (yes, we are that old).
Every time that we ran the vacuum that year, the scent of balsam permeated the entire house. It got so that we hated the smell. The following Thanksgiving, instead of travelling to visit family, we chose to stay home and paint the living room during the four day weekend. Every time that one or the other of us stepped off of a ladder, we received balsam needles in the sole of the foot. After the fourth or fifth time, The Bearded One firmly stated, "That does it, no move live, dead trees!" I was in total agreement.
We hied ourselves off to the nearest nursery and decoration shop where we picked the biggest, fullest artificial tree that we could find. It served us for many years. When we moved to California (20 years ago), it quickly became evident that the tall, full, gorgeous tree was WAY too big for our new living room. Off it went to charity and we found a "slim" tree that would better fit the available space. In the interval between huge tree #1 and slim tree #2, quality was way down and prices were way up. But it seemed that artificial was still the way to go as in Southern California, "fresh" trees were cut months ago and are dry as all heck. There really isn't anywhere close by where you can go and cut your own tree on a lot so that you actually know the date on which it parted from its stump. And even then, you don't know how much watering was done throughout the year. Many years and many trees later, each one lasting just a few years less than the one that came before and costing just a few dollars more than its predecessor, we have a tree that is partially crushed and with lights on top that will not come on. " Let's go buy a new tree," says The Bearded One. "Yeah, there was this really great one with pine cones and snow at Home Depot!" says Ms. Flippers. "Yeah, that one was awesome,!" says Stubble.
Except that tree is almost $300. And there is tuition to pay and books to buy and cars to repair.
I decide that we will get ONE more year out of the old tree. The Bearded One purchases a small string of 20 lights that we will use at the darkened top of the tree. And while I am just beginning to string the new lights, a miracle occurs...the lights at the top of the old tree come on again.
I have The Bearded One bend the crushed branches back into place. The tree is fluffed, decorated, and has one cat hiding under the tree skirt and another snoozing at the back of the tree, looking angelic with colored lights making patterns on the white parts of his fur. The tree is, I think, happy to serve us for another year. Or maybe two.
Our first few Christmases together were as boyfriend and girlfriend and The Bearded One (yes, he was bearded, even then - if he wanted to leave without a trace, all he would need to do is to shave) was more than willing to indulge my Christmas silliness by driving to tree farms all over Southeast Michigan looking for a tree to cut. After our marriage and a neighbor's disastrous Christmas Tree related apartment fire, we went artificial. It didn't really feel right, but we were doing our bit to keep our neighbors safe during the holiday season.
Then we bought our first house (six years later). On our first Christmas in the house, I came home from an evening shift to find a gorgeous LARGE Christmas tree in the dining area of the living room. We had double high ceilings and the tree filled every inch of space allotted to it. It was absolutely lovely. The next year another tree appeared, this time a balsam that you could smell practically from the garage. When the holiday was over the balsam was stripped of it's lights and ornaments and lugged to the curb for collection. Leaving every single solitary needle in our white shag carpet (yes, we are that old).
Every time that we ran the vacuum that year, the scent of balsam permeated the entire house. It got so that we hated the smell. The following Thanksgiving, instead of travelling to visit family, we chose to stay home and paint the living room during the four day weekend. Every time that one or the other of us stepped off of a ladder, we received balsam needles in the sole of the foot. After the fourth or fifth time, The Bearded One firmly stated, "That does it, no move live, dead trees!" I was in total agreement.
We hied ourselves off to the nearest nursery and decoration shop where we picked the biggest, fullest artificial tree that we could find. It served us for many years. When we moved to California (20 years ago), it quickly became evident that the tall, full, gorgeous tree was WAY too big for our new living room. Off it went to charity and we found a "slim" tree that would better fit the available space. In the interval between huge tree #1 and slim tree #2, quality was way down and prices were way up. But it seemed that artificial was still the way to go as in Southern California, "fresh" trees were cut months ago and are dry as all heck. There really isn't anywhere close by where you can go and cut your own tree on a lot so that you actually know the date on which it parted from its stump. And even then, you don't know how much watering was done throughout the year. Many years and many trees later, each one lasting just a few years less than the one that came before and costing just a few dollars more than its predecessor, we have a tree that is partially crushed and with lights on top that will not come on. " Let's go buy a new tree," says The Bearded One. "Yeah, there was this really great one with pine cones and snow at Home Depot!" says Ms. Flippers. "Yeah, that one was awesome,!" says Stubble.
Except that tree is almost $300. And there is tuition to pay and books to buy and cars to repair.
I decide that we will get ONE more year out of the old tree. The Bearded One purchases a small string of 20 lights that we will use at the darkened top of the tree. And while I am just beginning to string the new lights, a miracle occurs...the lights at the top of the old tree come on again.
I have The Bearded One bend the crushed branches back into place. The tree is fluffed, decorated, and has one cat hiding under the tree skirt and another snoozing at the back of the tree, looking angelic with colored lights making patterns on the white parts of his fur. The tree is, I think, happy to serve us for another year. Or maybe two.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Easy to be Hard
Parenting. The hardest job you'll ever do.
The sentiment is overused and trite. But like many oft used phrases; it is trite, but true.
When is it the hardest? When your 9 month old is running a fever and can't tell you where it hurts? When your 6 year old's beloved pet dies? The first breakup of a serious relationship?
The answer is that it gets harder as they get older. When the problem can't be solved with hugs and some motherly words of wisdom.
I used to make fun of my mother. The fact that I was over 40, living half-way across the country, and I still needed to "call in" so that she wouldn't worry. She would still weigh in on our decisions: major purchases, childrearing, vacation plans. I would laugh with The Bearded One on late Saturday afternoons as we left the harbor. "Time to call Mom. She'll be worrying." And yes, she was. She would be waiting for the call telling her we were safely off the water. I laughed. And now I am ashamed of it.
I'm sitting here, at 1:15 in the morning. Unable to sleep. Half watching Hoarders. Worrying. And it isn't a laughing matter anymore. It just hurts that I can't make it better. That Stubble has to find his own way. That there is nothing that I can do to make it easier.
So here I sit. Feeling sad. Feeling guilty. Feeling like a Mom.
The sentiment is overused and trite. But like many oft used phrases; it is trite, but true.
When is it the hardest? When your 9 month old is running a fever and can't tell you where it hurts? When your 6 year old's beloved pet dies? The first breakup of a serious relationship?
The answer is that it gets harder as they get older. When the problem can't be solved with hugs and some motherly words of wisdom.
I used to make fun of my mother. The fact that I was over 40, living half-way across the country, and I still needed to "call in" so that she wouldn't worry. She would still weigh in on our decisions: major purchases, childrearing, vacation plans. I would laugh with The Bearded One on late Saturday afternoons as we left the harbor. "Time to call Mom. She'll be worrying." And yes, she was. She would be waiting for the call telling her we were safely off the water. I laughed. And now I am ashamed of it.
I'm sitting here, at 1:15 in the morning. Unable to sleep. Half watching Hoarders. Worrying. And it isn't a laughing matter anymore. It just hurts that I can't make it better. That Stubble has to find his own way. That there is nothing that I can do to make it easier.
So here I sit. Feeling sad. Feeling guilty. Feeling like a Mom.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Little Things
Sometimes it is making sure that the two granola bars are supplemented with an apple and a bag of wheat thins - and a "Don't forget your snack!" as she heads off to her evening English class.
Sometimes it is staying up to watch the Miss Universe pageant with her even though it is past your way too early bedtime.
Sometimes it is cutting up a bowl of fruit to supplement the previous "snack" before you head off to bed.
It is doing these things instead of offering the hugs that you really want to supply.
Sometimes it is staying up to watch the Miss Universe pageant with her even though it is past your way too early bedtime.
Sometimes it is cutting up a bowl of fruit to supplement the previous "snack" before you head off to bed.
It is doing these things instead of offering the hugs that you really want to supply.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Signs and Portents
"You can't stay at Ms. Flippers house. There are boys there. I'm coming to get you NOW!"
Let me start by saying that we have acquired a daughter, Ms. Flippers. Along with that daughter, we have acquired her friends. One of those friends spent part of the weekend with us.
Now, just like Stubble, this daughter is all grown up, as are her friends. Who are very nice and polite and a great addition to our home and I say that without any sarcasm at all.
At about 10 PM on Friday night I was awakened (yes, we go to bed early; even on weekends) by sounds of voices in our driveway and the accompanying glow of the motion sensor lights...
Being a Mom, of COURSE I went to investigate:
"Why are you out here?" It is Stubble and my second son from across the street. They are sitting in the middle of the driveway watching the street.
"We're waiting for (nameless). He is coming to get "daughter's friend"." they reply.
"Um, nobody is leaving this house. Get back inside," I state in my best MOM voice. They comply and we enter the house to find daughter's friend in tears, packing a bag.
"He won't let me stay!" she sobs. "He doesn't trust me when there are boys in the house."
Well, these boys are my son and my second son of another mother. They live here. (the second son on weekends).
"Nameless is going to take me home." she sobs.
I am more than concerned now. "He isn't taking you anywhere. Your parents know you are here and here you stay." I state.
At this point I wake The Bearded One saying, "Bearded One, get dressed - we are about to have trouble."
"Huh? What?" was the sleepy answer. But when confronted with the fact that a boyfriend was coming to "retrieve" his "property" he is up like a shot.
By this time Nameless and his drunken father are back on the cell phone. They are in the neighborhood and demanding directions to our house.
The Bearded One takes the cell phone and intervenes, "We are not giving you directions. She stays here."
Then the threats begin. They will break The Bearded One's neck. They mean business. This is all on speaker phone now.
I call 911 and report the situation. The police arrive. Two squad cars with very concerned law officers who are taking the situation very seriously indeed.
We spend an eventful hour giving a police report, drying tears, and calling the young lady's parents.
They are also taking the situation very seriously indeed.
The police recommend restraining orders against both the son and the father.
Domestic violence threatens more than just young children and wives. It begins with the girlfriend at the very beginning of a relationship. You have to be alert to both the dangers and the clues.
I had a friend from High School. One of my "besties". She ignored the signs, married the guy, and left only when the violence began to involve their children.
There is NOTHING romantic about this kind of controlling behavoir. The possesiveness and threats will only escallate and we need to teach our children to recognise the warnings and get the hell out before it is too late.
Let me start by saying that we have acquired a daughter, Ms. Flippers. Along with that daughter, we have acquired her friends. One of those friends spent part of the weekend with us.
Now, just like Stubble, this daughter is all grown up, as are her friends. Who are very nice and polite and a great addition to our home and I say that without any sarcasm at all.
At about 10 PM on Friday night I was awakened (yes, we go to bed early; even on weekends) by sounds of voices in our driveway and the accompanying glow of the motion sensor lights...
Being a Mom, of COURSE I went to investigate:
"Why are you out here?" It is Stubble and my second son from across the street. They are sitting in the middle of the driveway watching the street.
"We're waiting for (nameless). He is coming to get "daughter's friend"." they reply.
"Um, nobody is leaving this house. Get back inside," I state in my best MOM voice. They comply and we enter the house to find daughter's friend in tears, packing a bag.
"He won't let me stay!" she sobs. "He doesn't trust me when there are boys in the house."
Well, these boys are my son and my second son of another mother. They live here. (the second son on weekends).
"Nameless is going to take me home." she sobs.
I am more than concerned now. "He isn't taking you anywhere. Your parents know you are here and here you stay." I state.
At this point I wake The Bearded One saying, "Bearded One, get dressed - we are about to have trouble."
"Huh? What?" was the sleepy answer. But when confronted with the fact that a boyfriend was coming to "retrieve" his "property" he is up like a shot.
By this time Nameless and his drunken father are back on the cell phone. They are in the neighborhood and demanding directions to our house.
The Bearded One takes the cell phone and intervenes, "We are not giving you directions. She stays here."
Then the threats begin. They will break The Bearded One's neck. They mean business. This is all on speaker phone now.
I call 911 and report the situation. The police arrive. Two squad cars with very concerned law officers who are taking the situation very seriously indeed.
We spend an eventful hour giving a police report, drying tears, and calling the young lady's parents.
They are also taking the situation very seriously indeed.
The police recommend restraining orders against both the son and the father.
Domestic violence threatens more than just young children and wives. It begins with the girlfriend at the very beginning of a relationship. You have to be alert to both the dangers and the clues.
I had a friend from High School. One of my "besties". She ignored the signs, married the guy, and left only when the violence began to involve their children.
There is NOTHING romantic about this kind of controlling behavoir. The possesiveness and threats will only escallate and we need to teach our children to recognise the warnings and get the hell out before it is too late.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Graduation
Well, it has been 3 months now since Stubble graduated from High School – and the monetary crassness of the entire experience of Senior Year still rankles so I guess I need to tell you all about it.
It begins with the class ring. Back in my day, we got a gold ring with the school name and our initials on it and our only choice was what color piece of glass you wanted in it. Ah, but these days you need your choice of metal, your choice of stones, your choice of symbols that tell the entire world that you played basketball or volleyball or marched in the band. By the time the choices are made (online by the student in question) the ring costs upwards of $600.
“Mom! Can I have your credit card?”
Once the ring is here it is time for Senior Portraits. One for the yearbook – because the school demands one “official” pose and background. But why compromise the entire year for your Senior by not allowing a full 2 hour photo session during which they get unlimited costume changes as they express their “unique personality”. There goes anywhere from $1200 to $2000 or more by the time that you have chosen your prints. And once those “special pictures” have been taken there is the special yearbook “individual page” that presents a montage of photos that your student wants his friends to remember him with. Another hand held out to collect your money– this time $250. And the yearbook is such a bargain at nearly $100 in the first place.
Then there are the graduation “supplies” to be ordered. The cap and gown (“would you like the deluxe souvenir tassel with that?”) and the announcements with their inserts and name cards and the deluxe gold lined envelopes – all of them coming a la carte. We could also get commemorative graduation picture frames, book covers, sweatshirts, and an entire collection of everything we need for the graduation party from invitations and decorations to thank you notes.
This is a racket.
Now comes Prom and the local tour ships, banquet halls, and any attraction that can claim to make Prom Night “special” get to take their cut. Stubble’s Prom was on a cruise ship. The year before it was on an observation deck overlooking a local ball park….and then there is the limo, the dinner, the tux, the flowers in addition to the prom tickets….
OK, that is all over now, all classes have been passed and it is time for the Big Night. But there is one more hand reaching out for your hard earned cash – the local florists for whom prom didn’t make enough profit. Your graduate will be heartbroken if you do not present him or her with one or more leis to let them know how proud you are of them. “Would you like yellow or white?” And when you pick up your diploma following the ceremony? Inside is an order form so that you can have your diploma mounted on wood, or professionally framed. “Would you like the deluxe package? Your Senior will want a permanent memento of his High School Journey.”
All I can say is, thank GOODNESS that the college doesn’t do a yearbook!
It begins with the class ring. Back in my day, we got a gold ring with the school name and our initials on it and our only choice was what color piece of glass you wanted in it. Ah, but these days you need your choice of metal, your choice of stones, your choice of symbols that tell the entire world that you played basketball or volleyball or marched in the band. By the time the choices are made (online by the student in question) the ring costs upwards of $600.
“Mom! Can I have your credit card?”
Once the ring is here it is time for Senior Portraits. One for the yearbook – because the school demands one “official” pose and background. But why compromise the entire year for your Senior by not allowing a full 2 hour photo session during which they get unlimited costume changes as they express their “unique personality”. There goes anywhere from $1200 to $2000 or more by the time that you have chosen your prints. And once those “special pictures” have been taken there is the special yearbook “individual page” that presents a montage of photos that your student wants his friends to remember him with. Another hand held out to collect your money– this time $250. And the yearbook is such a bargain at nearly $100 in the first place.
Then there are the graduation “supplies” to be ordered. The cap and gown (“would you like the deluxe souvenir tassel with that?”) and the announcements with their inserts and name cards and the deluxe gold lined envelopes – all of them coming a la carte. We could also get commemorative graduation picture frames, book covers, sweatshirts, and an entire collection of everything we need for the graduation party from invitations and decorations to thank you notes.
This is a racket.
Now comes Prom and the local tour ships, banquet halls, and any attraction that can claim to make Prom Night “special” get to take their cut. Stubble’s Prom was on a cruise ship. The year before it was on an observation deck overlooking a local ball park….and then there is the limo, the dinner, the tux, the flowers in addition to the prom tickets….
OK, that is all over now, all classes have been passed and it is time for the Big Night. But there is one more hand reaching out for your hard earned cash – the local florists for whom prom didn’t make enough profit. Your graduate will be heartbroken if you do not present him or her with one or more leis to let them know how proud you are of them. “Would you like yellow or white?” And when you pick up your diploma following the ceremony? Inside is an order form so that you can have your diploma mounted on wood, or professionally framed. “Would you like the deluxe package? Your Senior will want a permanent memento of his High School Journey.”
All I can say is, thank GOODNESS that the college doesn’t do a yearbook!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
It's In The Bag
Disclaimer: This is one that I wrote some time ago and then completely forgot about until I stumbled across it in a directory that it was not supposed to be in. It is only about 3 months old…
For those of you who may have missed the (good) news: Santa Clara County (California) has banned toys in high calorie Happy Meals. Read all about it in this LA Times article.
To the gentleman quoted as saying, “If you can’t control your 3 year old…”
I say, “HA!” If you are trying to get errands run on a Saturday, the last thing you need is a full blown tantrum from the car seat set. And being denied that Happy Meal can bring one on faster than a cat comes running at the sound of the can opener.
Stubble was a Happy Meal Expert. He knew from TV which toys were at which franchise and he always managed to be “Hungry Mom, Hungry,” right in the middle of the Operation Saturday.
At first we were unsuspecting, it was late and we still had to get to Target, Home Depot and the grocery store. Of COURSE we picked up something for him to eat. We quickly caught on to his ploy when he would take two bites of the hamburger, eat three fries and spend the rest of the time playing with whatever toy was in the bag.
Our first step was to withhold the toy until the food was finished or until we were home, whichever came first. He would wait and wait and wait. The burger would grow stale and cold and the fries soggy and limp and still he held out. On the way into the driveway it was, “Toy! Now!”
The day that The Bearded One bought just a burger and drink and fries but no meal complete with toy was not one I really care to remember; except that I do remember it - in excruciating detail.
So our little one didn’t get obese, but his room was filled with cheap plastic toys and he loved each and every one of them even when they were identical. You could not get rid of ANY of them for ANY reason. They were his and they were precious. They were in boxes and gallon zip lock bags. They were under his bed and under his pillow. They multiplied like rabbits. Finally when he was about 8, he allowed me to box them all up and take them to a charity thrift shop where they sold bags of the toys for 25 cents each.
And the real irony of the situation is this: Now that Stubble is all grown up, he can’t eat fast food burgers because of stomach issues.
For those of you who may have missed the (good) news: Santa Clara County (California) has banned toys in high calorie Happy Meals. Read all about it in this LA Times article.
To the gentleman quoted as saying, “If you can’t control your 3 year old…”
I say, “HA!” If you are trying to get errands run on a Saturday, the last thing you need is a full blown tantrum from the car seat set. And being denied that Happy Meal can bring one on faster than a cat comes running at the sound of the can opener.
Stubble was a Happy Meal Expert. He knew from TV which toys were at which franchise and he always managed to be “Hungry Mom, Hungry,” right in the middle of the Operation Saturday.
At first we were unsuspecting, it was late and we still had to get to Target, Home Depot and the grocery store. Of COURSE we picked up something for him to eat. We quickly caught on to his ploy when he would take two bites of the hamburger, eat three fries and spend the rest of the time playing with whatever toy was in the bag.
Our first step was to withhold the toy until the food was finished or until we were home, whichever came first. He would wait and wait and wait. The burger would grow stale and cold and the fries soggy and limp and still he held out. On the way into the driveway it was, “Toy! Now!”
The day that The Bearded One bought just a burger and drink and fries but no meal complete with toy was not one I really care to remember; except that I do remember it - in excruciating detail.
So our little one didn’t get obese, but his room was filled with cheap plastic toys and he loved each and every one of them even when they were identical. You could not get rid of ANY of them for ANY reason. They were his and they were precious. They were in boxes and gallon zip lock bags. They were under his bed and under his pillow. They multiplied like rabbits. Finally when he was about 8, he allowed me to box them all up and take them to a charity thrift shop where they sold bags of the toys for 25 cents each.
And the real irony of the situation is this: Now that Stubble is all grown up, he can’t eat fast food burgers because of stomach issues.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Improving my Mood
23:48
This was how long it took for the endorphins to kick in this morning. Knowing that I am going to do 30 minutes on the treadmill, sometimes I still have to play “head games” with myself. “If you get to the end of this song, you can quit any time you want to.” “If you get to 20 minutes you can quit any time”. “If you can do 10 minutes at 4 mph you can quit anytime”.
Usually the endorphins kick in somewhere between 11 and 17 minutes and then I feel like I could go forever… but I have to stop to go to work.
This morning, no matter what music I used, no matter what speed I tried, no matter how I adjusted my breathing, my feet and legs hurt for a long time. They were saying, “Stop now! Really, we don’t want to do this! We really, really mean it! Haven’t you gotten the message yet? Stop Already!” And yes, I did warm ups.
Thank goodness this doesn’t happen often because I really rely on the workouts now. It only took a few months, but now if I miss my workout, I’m grumpy all day.
The impetus for beginning the workouts was my doctor saying, “Your bone scan shows that your bone density is low normal. You need lots of calcium and exercise.”
This finally made me realize that with my son turning 18 in a matter of months, he should be perfectly capable of getting himself out of bed, showering, and making lunch without my supervision. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hey, Stubble. You are on your own now in the morning.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
Me: “I’m going to the gym to work out.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
I fully expected calls from the school going, “Where the hell is he?” but it never happened. He was only late one single day when he was sick in the early morning.
Why did it take me nearly 2 years to figure out that if I left, he might just rise to the occasion? Sometimes they surprise you that way.
This was how long it took for the endorphins to kick in this morning. Knowing that I am going to do 30 minutes on the treadmill, sometimes I still have to play “head games” with myself. “If you get to the end of this song, you can quit any time you want to.” “If you get to 20 minutes you can quit any time”. “If you can do 10 minutes at 4 mph you can quit anytime”.
Usually the endorphins kick in somewhere between 11 and 17 minutes and then I feel like I could go forever… but I have to stop to go to work.
This morning, no matter what music I used, no matter what speed I tried, no matter how I adjusted my breathing, my feet and legs hurt for a long time. They were saying, “Stop now! Really, we don’t want to do this! We really, really mean it! Haven’t you gotten the message yet? Stop Already!” And yes, I did warm ups.
Thank goodness this doesn’t happen often because I really rely on the workouts now. It only took a few months, but now if I miss my workout, I’m grumpy all day.
The impetus for beginning the workouts was my doctor saying, “Your bone scan shows that your bone density is low normal. You need lots of calcium and exercise.”
This finally made me realize that with my son turning 18 in a matter of months, he should be perfectly capable of getting himself out of bed, showering, and making lunch without my supervision. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hey, Stubble. You are on your own now in the morning.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
Me: “I’m going to the gym to work out.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
I fully expected calls from the school going, “Where the hell is he?” but it never happened. He was only late one single day when he was sick in the early morning.
Why did it take me nearly 2 years to figure out that if I left, he might just rise to the occasion? Sometimes they surprise you that way.
Endings and Beginnings
I watched Stubble get his heart broken a few weeks ago. From my bedroom window I could see him talking to his girlfriend of two and a half years in our front parking area. She was going to come over to swim and to have dinner with us. Instead she broke up with him.
When he came into the house is face was frozen and expressionless and his eyes were bleak,
“She dumped me.”
“Are you OK?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“No.”
He never cried, at least not in front of me, but he did let me hold him and rub his back for about 20 minutes or so before he got out his computer to remove her presence from his Facebook site. He couldn’t completely do it though, because they have been together so long that he would need to erase most of his pictures. It has to be hard. They had so many good times and he needs to remember those without having the memories depress him, but that will only come with time and distance.
It is trite but true that when one chapter ends, another begins:
Stubble started college this week. He likes his classes and professors. He’ll be on campus from mid-morning until late afternoon which will keep him VERY busy. He will be around people most of whom are starting out on their own amazing journeys into adulthood. It is an exciting time in his life and I am very proud of what he is doing – giving up a lazy summer to get a head start on his transfer program.
I wish him all the best and much happiness.
When he came into the house is face was frozen and expressionless and his eyes were bleak,
“She dumped me.”
“Are you OK?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“No.”
He never cried, at least not in front of me, but he did let me hold him and rub his back for about 20 minutes or so before he got out his computer to remove her presence from his Facebook site. He couldn’t completely do it though, because they have been together so long that he would need to erase most of his pictures. It has to be hard. They had so many good times and he needs to remember those without having the memories depress him, but that will only come with time and distance.
It is trite but true that when one chapter ends, another begins:
Stubble started college this week. He likes his classes and professors. He’ll be on campus from mid-morning until late afternoon which will keep him VERY busy. He will be around people most of whom are starting out on their own amazing journeys into adulthood. It is an exciting time in his life and I am very proud of what he is doing – giving up a lazy summer to get a head start on his transfer program.
I wish him all the best and much happiness.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Ignoring Rule Number 3
There are a few general rules of living that are universal:
1) You can’t drive faster than the car ahead of you.
2) Drinking your breakfast is NEVER a good idea.
3) Always get a good night’s sleep.
4) Wear clean underwear.
5) Eat your vegetables.
6) Look in the direction you are walking.
Follow these little gems of motherly advice and you can pretty well make it through life intact.
Yesterday I was bumped into by a student looking back over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. It was not a gentle bump. She was completely surprised and subsequently embarrassed. Was she looking back for a friend? Did she think that she may have dropped something important? Whatever the reason, there was nothing either she or I could do to avoid the collision.
I remember repeating general rule number 6 to Stubble over and over again as we made our way through his childhood. He was always looking all about as he moved forward at breakneck speed. Often with painful consequences: The unfortunate tree root on the dirt path; the unexpected bicycle on a collision course; the sign post that he just didn’t see. They were all there in his path waiting to catch him “not looking”.
‘Eyes Forward’ is a good way to live. Not that the past isn’t important and we shouldn’t remember it and value what we had, or that we shouldn’t glance side to side from time to time; but as we move forward, often at a rapid pace, we really need to pay attention to where we are going and the obstacles in the way. And I don’t mean this only in the “walking down a hall” sense. As we make our life choices, we need to be looking ahead figuratively. What are the possible consequences of that move across country, and if you try to go back to where you started again will it prove a huge disappointment? Probably. You have to keep moving forward toward something. It just may be something completely unexpected and unimaginable only a few months ago. That is what life is all about and it can be painful emotionally and physically, it can be messy and hard and, hopefully, ultimately rewarding.
I wish that I had really understood number 6 twenty years ago. I wouldn’t have wasted as much time.
And now, enough philosophizing for one night when I can't sleep...
1) You can’t drive faster than the car ahead of you.
2) Drinking your breakfast is NEVER a good idea.
3) Always get a good night’s sleep.
4) Wear clean underwear.
5) Eat your vegetables.
6) Look in the direction you are walking.
Follow these little gems of motherly advice and you can pretty well make it through life intact.
Yesterday I was bumped into by a student looking back over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. It was not a gentle bump. She was completely surprised and subsequently embarrassed. Was she looking back for a friend? Did she think that she may have dropped something important? Whatever the reason, there was nothing either she or I could do to avoid the collision.
I remember repeating general rule number 6 to Stubble over and over again as we made our way through his childhood. He was always looking all about as he moved forward at breakneck speed. Often with painful consequences: The unfortunate tree root on the dirt path; the unexpected bicycle on a collision course; the sign post that he just didn’t see. They were all there in his path waiting to catch him “not looking”.
‘Eyes Forward’ is a good way to live. Not that the past isn’t important and we shouldn’t remember it and value what we had, or that we shouldn’t glance side to side from time to time; but as we move forward, often at a rapid pace, we really need to pay attention to where we are going and the obstacles in the way. And I don’t mean this only in the “walking down a hall” sense. As we make our life choices, we need to be looking ahead figuratively. What are the possible consequences of that move across country, and if you try to go back to where you started again will it prove a huge disappointment? Probably. You have to keep moving forward toward something. It just may be something completely unexpected and unimaginable only a few months ago. That is what life is all about and it can be painful emotionally and physically, it can be messy and hard and, hopefully, ultimately rewarding.
I wish that I had really understood number 6 twenty years ago. I wouldn’t have wasted as much time.
And now, enough philosophizing for one night when I can't sleep...
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Road Trip!
I guess I thought EVERYBODY took Road Trips for vacations. I didn’t realize that most people just went to a resort somewhere and lay around a pool doing nothing; Or maybe played round or two of golf or a game of tennis. As a child, our family took vacations that were work. We logged miles, saw lots of the country, EVERY historic marker in the Midwest, EVERY stand of old growth pine trees in Northern Michigan. And NO, I am not exaggerating.
Dad was a history teacher both by profession and deep down into his very soul. We could no more not learn something on vacation than we could fly to the moon. Now, don’t get me wrong, we did fun things like always stay at a campground that had at the very least a swimming pool and if everything fell perfectly into place, horses to ride. But we visited mines and ghost towns and national monuments. We went to museums of minerals and museums of dinosaur bones. We canoed and hiked and rode through the Soo locks. I have been to the Wisconsin Dells, the headwaters of the Mississippi, the Badlands, the Appalachians, the Mohave Desert, and Mackinac Island. I have wandered Washington DC and Colonial Williamsburg and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. I have been to Art Galleries and Forts, cities big and sprawling and towns small and quaint. I truly believed that it wasn’t really a vacation unless you spent 3 – 4 hours in a car, preferably 5 – 6 every few days. We would be on the road for a day and then stay over to see the sights for a day or two and then move on. And there were SWIMMING POOLS and HORSES!
Now, I actually LIKE those kinds of vacations. And when Stubble was about 5 going on 6, we took him on his first Road Trip. This was the road trip where Stubble decided that his favorite thing in the world to eat was Clam Chowder. And eat it he did, morning, noon, and night. The entire trip he smelled vaguely of fish. We travelled up the Central Valley of California to Sacramento and the California State Rail Road Museum and the surrounding Gold Country, then across the state to San Francisco to eat our way across the city and enjoy everything that is wonderful about Fisherman’s Wharf, and then down the coast through Solvang…he had a GameBoy…we had LOTS of extra batteries: we were set. And DANG, heading up through the Central Valley, I never saw so many trucks of tomatoes in my life! Truck after truck after truck piled high with tomatoes; long convoys of them. And the condition of the road spoke to exactly how many trucks travelled that route daily. And DANG, Boys both big and little certainly appreciate trains…I thought we’d never get out of the rail road museum. And DANG, the Boys also like boats and the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park was another day long affair.
This was also the vacation where Stubble flagged down his first cab. We had been told that the Imaginarium was not to be missed. And it wasn’t. An entire building filled with science toys. On the map, it didn’t appear to be very far from our hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf. We had spent so much on food and fun that, being extremely frugal for the moment I suggested, “Lets walk”. Well, the map should have been labeled as “not to scale” because it was an hour long walk to the Imaginarium. We spent most of the day there – just give us something that holds our attention and we will stay forever. It is how we get our money’s worth out of the entrance fees. The Bearded One probably had the most fun of all of us playing with prisms and mirrors and all sorts of fun physics inspired displays. For Stubble there were plenty of buttons to push and knobs to twirl. When it was finally time to walk back to the hotel, we realized that we would be walking all that distance into the wind and I decided that we were all TIRED. TOO TIRED TO WALK ALL THAT WAY. We tried calling for a cab with no luck and finally, reluctantly started trudging back to the hotel. Cabs went by, but they were mostly all full. One was empty and when The Bearded One raised his hand and waved, the cabbie immediately flicked on this “out of service” light…even though he was headed in the same direction that we were going. Guess he had a hot date. I had given up on getting a cab, but Stubble hadn’t. When he would see one go by, he would step over to the curb and raise his arm in a prefect imitation of his Dad. I tried to tell him that wouldn’t work when they all had passengers already, but he still believed that he could get a cab. And then, suddenly, a cab pulled up from behind us and the driver asked, “You guys need a cab?” He had seen Stubble trying to hail a cab and after he dropped his fair off a few blocks away, came back around for us. The Cab Driver got a BIG tip that day and Stubble was all swelled up with pride for hours. Sometimes all you really have to do is BELIEVE hard enough.
Toward the end of the trip, The Bearded One mentioned the fact that this was one of his best vacations ever. I asked what kind of vacations he had taken as a child. “Oh, we went to somebody’s farm”. Now what on earth kind of vacation is that?
Dad was a history teacher both by profession and deep down into his very soul. We could no more not learn something on vacation than we could fly to the moon. Now, don’t get me wrong, we did fun things like always stay at a campground that had at the very least a swimming pool and if everything fell perfectly into place, horses to ride. But we visited mines and ghost towns and national monuments. We went to museums of minerals and museums of dinosaur bones. We canoed and hiked and rode through the Soo locks. I have been to the Wisconsin Dells, the headwaters of the Mississippi, the Badlands, the Appalachians, the Mohave Desert, and Mackinac Island. I have wandered Washington DC and Colonial Williamsburg and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. I have been to Art Galleries and Forts, cities big and sprawling and towns small and quaint. I truly believed that it wasn’t really a vacation unless you spent 3 – 4 hours in a car, preferably 5 – 6 every few days. We would be on the road for a day and then stay over to see the sights for a day or two and then move on. And there were SWIMMING POOLS and HORSES!
Now, I actually LIKE those kinds of vacations. And when Stubble was about 5 going on 6, we took him on his first Road Trip. This was the road trip where Stubble decided that his favorite thing in the world to eat was Clam Chowder. And eat it he did, morning, noon, and night. The entire trip he smelled vaguely of fish. We travelled up the Central Valley of California to Sacramento and the California State Rail Road Museum and the surrounding Gold Country, then across the state to San Francisco to eat our way across the city and enjoy everything that is wonderful about Fisherman’s Wharf, and then down the coast through Solvang…he had a GameBoy…we had LOTS of extra batteries: we were set. And DANG, heading up through the Central Valley, I never saw so many trucks of tomatoes in my life! Truck after truck after truck piled high with tomatoes; long convoys of them. And the condition of the road spoke to exactly how many trucks travelled that route daily. And DANG, Boys both big and little certainly appreciate trains…I thought we’d never get out of the rail road museum. And DANG, the Boys also like boats and the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park was another day long affair.
This was also the vacation where Stubble flagged down his first cab. We had been told that the Imaginarium was not to be missed. And it wasn’t. An entire building filled with science toys. On the map, it didn’t appear to be very far from our hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf. We had spent so much on food and fun that, being extremely frugal for the moment I suggested, “Lets walk”. Well, the map should have been labeled as “not to scale” because it was an hour long walk to the Imaginarium. We spent most of the day there – just give us something that holds our attention and we will stay forever. It is how we get our money’s worth out of the entrance fees. The Bearded One probably had the most fun of all of us playing with prisms and mirrors and all sorts of fun physics inspired displays. For Stubble there were plenty of buttons to push and knobs to twirl. When it was finally time to walk back to the hotel, we realized that we would be walking all that distance into the wind and I decided that we were all TIRED. TOO TIRED TO WALK ALL THAT WAY. We tried calling for a cab with no luck and finally, reluctantly started trudging back to the hotel. Cabs went by, but they were mostly all full. One was empty and when The Bearded One raised his hand and waved, the cabbie immediately flicked on this “out of service” light…even though he was headed in the same direction that we were going. Guess he had a hot date. I had given up on getting a cab, but Stubble hadn’t. When he would see one go by, he would step over to the curb and raise his arm in a prefect imitation of his Dad. I tried to tell him that wouldn’t work when they all had passengers already, but he still believed that he could get a cab. And then, suddenly, a cab pulled up from behind us and the driver asked, “You guys need a cab?” He had seen Stubble trying to hail a cab and after he dropped his fair off a few blocks away, came back around for us. The Cab Driver got a BIG tip that day and Stubble was all swelled up with pride for hours. Sometimes all you really have to do is BELIEVE hard enough.
Toward the end of the trip, The Bearded One mentioned the fact that this was one of his best vacations ever. I asked what kind of vacations he had taken as a child. “Oh, we went to somebody’s farm”. Now what on earth kind of vacation is that?
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Sweeping It Under The Rug
When The Bearded One travels, which is not so often these days, “normal” routines go right out the window. When Stubble was little, it was an excuse to have Friday night dinners of Coke and Popcorn while we watched the latest Disney ‘made for TV’ movie. Nutritionists do not be alarmed; I made him eat an apple for “balance”.
It was more important to spend time together than it was to do laundry as long as we still had clean underwear in the dresser. At least that is what I told myself. In reality it was because I just didn’t have the time or the energy to keep everything spotless (um...relatively clean) when there wasn’t somebody to tag team parent. It was a standing joke that the kitchen got cleaned when the call came from the airport that the plane had landed.
I kind of miss those times. Now that he is all grown up, I don’t have a valid excuse not to cook healthy dinners, wash up afterwards, and do laundry regularly. These days, I’d sure like to have somebody to watch a Disney Movie with while the kitchen just quietly stays a mess.
It was more important to spend time together than it was to do laundry as long as we still had clean underwear in the dresser. At least that is what I told myself. In reality it was because I just didn’t have the time or the energy to keep everything spotless (um...relatively clean) when there wasn’t somebody to tag team parent. It was a standing joke that the kitchen got cleaned when the call came from the airport that the plane had landed.
I kind of miss those times. Now that he is all grown up, I don’t have a valid excuse not to cook healthy dinners, wash up afterwards, and do laundry regularly. These days, I’d sure like to have somebody to watch a Disney Movie with while the kitchen just quietly stays a mess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)