Bullet points, in no particular order.
* Juggling is a team sport
* kidney stones are unpredictable at best. One should not encourage one's spouse to attempt mobilization two weeks before Christmas unless one has a very good backup plan for juggling
holiday tasks.
* I lack very good back-up plans
* Cinnamon rolls are not negotiable. Kroger makes them. Note to self for 2012
* Teenagers must be awakened for Christmas morning, or it becomes Christmas afternoon.
* Christmas afternoon is just as good
* Uninspiring music at Christmas mass only affects your spirit if you let it. Don't let it.
* There is no excuse for uninspiring music at Christmas mass.
* Feed your faith wherever you find sustenance. The walls don't matter. It's all in the book.
* There is no such thing as an original translation. It's all conjecture. Who cares.
* Family, no matter how far, no matter what day, makes any day a repeat of Christmas.
* It is a blessing to have everyone gathered under one roof, even during the most frazzled of
times.
* I don't see my neighbors enough. Why is that? They are right here every day. I think I need
to work on that in 2012.
* I am profoundly blessed with good kids, even when they do stupid things.
* My Lord, kids can do stupid things.
* Somewhere along the line, I realized that instant gratification was not only unlikely, but
also unrewarding. I'm not sure when I learned that. I need to get that message across.
* Gift bags are easier, but wrapping paper and tape and bows are more fun.
* One does not require a big meal on Christmas Day
* Some traditional gatherings do not require family at all, but rather friends who are closer
than most family. These traditions must be nurtured. Lasagna and wine are a good start :)
* The Christmas Story is not available on Netflix or Hulu. That's just wrong.
* Babies are beautiful. Babies with challenges are more beautiful. Mothers waiting to deliver
babies are beautiful. God takes care of them all.
* The cookie consumption by an individual child is sometimes mindblowing in its proportion.
Baking cannot occur fast enough. Pack boxes and trays early.
* Thankfully, there is great satisfaction in holiday baking, even the second time around.
* I don't think I could adjust to Christmas at the beach. Well, maybe for one year.
* I am not a good Christmas card sender. I send Epiphany cards. It works for me.
* Every year I vow to do things differently, be organized and less stressed, find the true
meaning of Christmas. You know what? I never lost the true meaning of Christmas, and I am what I am at Christmas, and that is good enough.
Now, about those New Years resolutions.....
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Nurse, heal thyself.
I've worked in a pediatric office for 4 years. I have been exposed to and colonized with a fantastically wide variety of crud. Those cute little people who walk in the front door? A veritable parade ensemble tossing out a plethora of parasitic pathogenic organisms as if they were candy from a float. My hands are perpetually peeling. This is because I wash them 200 times a day. That Geiko lizard looks like SILK next to the skin on my knuckles.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
Monday, November 21, 2011
It's the most wonderful time of the year
I started hearing that song on November 1, from the delightful local station which thought the listening public needed some motivation to get into the retail, I means Christmas, spirit. 2 months? Really? I'm already over it. Let's examine a few concepts of that little musical ditty.
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Rock bottom
There are bumper-sticker worthy statements which speak to this sentiment. "When you hit the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on." "When life knocks you to your knees, you're right where you need to be." "You don't have to see the whole staircase at once, just the first step, one step at a time." It is the idea that you will reach a place when you can't get any lower, so there has to be a way to drag yourself back up. Either you find it yourself, or life finds it for you. Rock bottom is the absolute end of the free fall, right?
Is there an Ephiphanical second (I am virtually POSITIVE I made that word up--so it is probably, at best, redundant) when one says "Enough." Do you believe in an "AHAH!" moment? divine inspiration? All of the above? I do. I believe change is born of these revelations. There is a particular turning point at which we start to seek the path back out of whatever place we're in. If it is a place we've seen before, the realization that we're back can be even more defeating.
We could be talking about any low point in life: Emotional, financial, personal, professional. It is quite possibly a combination of several things, which lead to one particular crisis point. But whatever it is, I believe it has to promote change. Either a change in the way one lives, or a change in the way one thinks. For me, it has been a lifelong war, with battles won and lost. But if today was my rock bottom (again), then there must be a way to get back to the top of my rope, out of my pit, and on to something better. Painful as it may be, the hard part is not hitting the bottom--it is finding the hand and footholds I'll need to climb up again.
Is there an Ephiphanical second (I am virtually POSITIVE I made that word up--so it is probably, at best, redundant) when one says "Enough." Do you believe in an "AHAH!" moment? divine inspiration? All of the above? I do. I believe change is born of these revelations. There is a particular turning point at which we start to seek the path back out of whatever place we're in. If it is a place we've seen before, the realization that we're back can be even more defeating.
We could be talking about any low point in life: Emotional, financial, personal, professional. It is quite possibly a combination of several things, which lead to one particular crisis point. But whatever it is, I believe it has to promote change. Either a change in the way one lives, or a change in the way one thinks. For me, it has been a lifelong war, with battles won and lost. But if today was my rock bottom (again), then there must be a way to get back to the top of my rope, out of my pit, and on to something better. Painful as it may be, the hard part is not hitting the bottom--it is finding the hand and footholds I'll need to climb up again.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
No time to do what you love? Better love what you do!
In a perfect, Lake Wobegonesque world, I would love to spend my days of late summer putting up the bountiful harvest, traveling to quaint little destinations with my husband and children, enjoying the many blessings of nature so graciously given, and then returning to my perfectly charming cottage chic home where we would gather around the bonfire in the evenings and share our favorite moments of the day. There would be good wine, dark chocolate, and fine, rich tea interspersed throughout. There would also be a housekeeper. and a chef.
Right.
I see no mention of work in there, home or otherwise. No endless shifts of physical exams and phone calls. No grocery shopping. No cleaning. No laundry. I did not include any of the back to school madness of book procurement, orientation meetings, uniform shopping, tuition payments. No arranging carpools or worrying about how everyone gets to where they need to be at the appropriate time when there is only one available form of transportation--and she is working.
But life is what you make it, so it's worth trying to love the pesky and mundane things in life. Seek out the joy in the little things: I may not be making pint after pint of perfect salsa, but I have plenty left from last year. This year, I will content myself with a few perfect fruits from my lone tomato plant, sliced fresh and served with basil and fresh mozzarella. I am not whipping up a new school wardrobe for my offspring (dear Lord, how DID my mother manage that for five children?), but I am ridiculously proficient with a computer, a discount code, and an eye for a bargain! I am not organizing my home to perfection ala Betty Boom-Boom Crocker, but I am managing to prod my baby girl into some semblance of preparing for her move to college.
My travels are not to lofty mountain grandeur or deep emerald green forests, no sparkling pools of clear water with splashing falls and glistening mist. But I thoroughly enjoyed trekking north for mom's 88th birthday, meeting my new and completely adorable grand niece Jozie, and seeing the family. If my weekends are spent here at home, I can enjoy celebrating a birthday, the return of my oldest for a few days, the opportunity to relax with a book, or just to politely ignore my to-do list in order to calm my mind.
If I must go to work, and it does seem that I must for many years to come, I can at least feel that what I do is important, is appreciated, and in some ways makes another mom's life a little easier. I am blessed to at least be able to work in my chosen field and use my education, while still balancing the other important things in my life.
I get great joy from clipping coupons, and smile at the loving teasing I receive from my offspring as I whip out the product I got for FREE! I delight in whipping up some zucchini bread from a friend's unending supply. There is satisfaction in matching all the socks which come out of the dryer, or just clearing the kitchen counter. I occasionally even find a hidden stash of chocolate!
Life is good.
Right.
I see no mention of work in there, home or otherwise. No endless shifts of physical exams and phone calls. No grocery shopping. No cleaning. No laundry. I did not include any of the back to school madness of book procurement, orientation meetings, uniform shopping, tuition payments. No arranging carpools or worrying about how everyone gets to where they need to be at the appropriate time when there is only one available form of transportation--and she is working.
But life is what you make it, so it's worth trying to love the pesky and mundane things in life. Seek out the joy in the little things: I may not be making pint after pint of perfect salsa, but I have plenty left from last year. This year, I will content myself with a few perfect fruits from my lone tomato plant, sliced fresh and served with basil and fresh mozzarella. I am not whipping up a new school wardrobe for my offspring (dear Lord, how DID my mother manage that for five children?), but I am ridiculously proficient with a computer, a discount code, and an eye for a bargain! I am not organizing my home to perfection ala Betty Boom-Boom Crocker, but I am managing to prod my baby girl into some semblance of preparing for her move to college.
My travels are not to lofty mountain grandeur or deep emerald green forests, no sparkling pools of clear water with splashing falls and glistening mist. But I thoroughly enjoyed trekking north for mom's 88th birthday, meeting my new and completely adorable grand niece Jozie, and seeing the family. If my weekends are spent here at home, I can enjoy celebrating a birthday, the return of my oldest for a few days, the opportunity to relax with a book, or just to politely ignore my to-do list in order to calm my mind.
If I must go to work, and it does seem that I must for many years to come, I can at least feel that what I do is important, is appreciated, and in some ways makes another mom's life a little easier. I am blessed to at least be able to work in my chosen field and use my education, while still balancing the other important things in my life.
I get great joy from clipping coupons, and smile at the loving teasing I receive from my offspring as I whip out the product I got for FREE! I delight in whipping up some zucchini bread from a friend's unending supply. There is satisfaction in matching all the socks which come out of the dryer, or just clearing the kitchen counter. I occasionally even find a hidden stash of chocolate!
Life is good.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The offical last day of July
Somehow, we have arrived at the last day of July. I have no idea how this happened. Seems to me we just got through the end of school, and graduations, and spring allergy season. Suddenly, *BAM*! We are entering the month which signals back-to-school sales, carpool plans, moving to college and multiple tuition payments.
I've considered lamenting the unbelievably rapid passing of time, but instead have decided to look forward. No point in reviewing what I thought summer might bring, as it still has a few weeks to surprise me. Rather, what do I want tomorrow to be? How do I want it to look? What do I want to share with people with whom I come in contact? What do I want for my family? My Home? My job?
In no particular order of priority or importance: I would like my daughter to settle into college, and find in and for her classes an enthusiasm and success she may have missed in high school. I would like my oldest son to finish his master's degree on schedule and be accepted into the dental school of his choice. I would like my youngest children to find their first years of high school both challenging and managable. I would like Chad and I to carve out some "couple time" amidst the chaos of once again being the sole transportation for not one but two high school students (how I will miss my other driver!). I would like to FINALLY tackle the house redecorating task of which I've dreamed for several years, even if it is just paint. I would like to find a schedule which allows me to keep my job and still keep my sanity amidst the challenging kid schedules. I would like to see the morale in my workplace returned to the level it was when I hired on. I would like to find the time to be a resource for expectant and new moms, either within or outside my job, to somehow impact the next generation of parents and children. Surely somethign I have learned in the last 20 years could be valuable those who look at the next 20 with fear and trepidation. I would like to see our country on a firm financial foundation, so that my grandchildren don't look back and wonder how this generation could morally and financially have bankrupted their future.
I have no idea why I am pondering both the mundane and the mountainous. Perhaps it is the current political unrest, or the incessent hundred-degree heat index, or possibly even a desire to avoid returning to my kitchen (which requires more attention to cleaning detail that I have energy today). When I read over my list, which is certainly not all inclusive, I find things over which I have great control. More, however, can be impacted only by fervent and hopeful prayers. I think I'll tackle those things first. After all, tomorrow is another day!
I've considered lamenting the unbelievably rapid passing of time, but instead have decided to look forward. No point in reviewing what I thought summer might bring, as it still has a few weeks to surprise me. Rather, what do I want tomorrow to be? How do I want it to look? What do I want to share with people with whom I come in contact? What do I want for my family? My Home? My job?
In no particular order of priority or importance: I would like my daughter to settle into college, and find in and for her classes an enthusiasm and success she may have missed in high school. I would like my oldest son to finish his master's degree on schedule and be accepted into the dental school of his choice. I would like my youngest children to find their first years of high school both challenging and managable. I would like Chad and I to carve out some "couple time" amidst the chaos of once again being the sole transportation for not one but two high school students (how I will miss my other driver!). I would like to FINALLY tackle the house redecorating task of which I've dreamed for several years, even if it is just paint. I would like to find a schedule which allows me to keep my job and still keep my sanity amidst the challenging kid schedules. I would like to see the morale in my workplace returned to the level it was when I hired on. I would like to find the time to be a resource for expectant and new moms, either within or outside my job, to somehow impact the next generation of parents and children. Surely somethign I have learned in the last 20 years could be valuable those who look at the next 20 with fear and trepidation. I would like to see our country on a firm financial foundation, so that my grandchildren don't look back and wonder how this generation could morally and financially have bankrupted their future.
I have no idea why I am pondering both the mundane and the mountainous. Perhaps it is the current political unrest, or the incessent hundred-degree heat index, or possibly even a desire to avoid returning to my kitchen (which requires more attention to cleaning detail that I have energy today). When I read over my list, which is certainly not all inclusive, I find things over which I have great control. More, however, can be impacted only by fervent and hopeful prayers. I think I'll tackle those things first. After all, tomorrow is another day!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
teenagers
Let's talk teenagers, by whom I am totally surrounded. I have never lived with so many at once. My first child left home at 16 and for all intents and purposes has never come back. He visits from time to time, eating me out of Honey Nut Cheerios and filling my refrigerator with tofu and hummus, but his visits are never very long. Now his sister has reached the magical year of 18, my youngest boy is weeks from 14, and the baby is in her 13th year.
I have a confession to make. As much as I love my older children, and as proud as I may be, this is not always my favorite age. I don't often regret experiencing the first child's later teen years largely via telephone, text and email, 100 miles away. Sometimes ignorance is bliss (now that he's 20, that is truer than ever).
I look back at those long gone days of childhood, when all I needed to do was kiss a booboo to make it better, rock a child with a fevered head, sing a lullaby to soothe a bad dream. I know, I know--there was so much more hair-pulling going on at the time, but when I choose to reminisce, I don't bother with the annoying stuff! Those are good years. I try to tell mothers that as often as I can. It doesn't get worse, but it does get different. You'll miss those little people, even as you are delighting in the new-found big people.
By the ripe old age of 18, the wisdom we need to hear most is the knowledge we are least willing to listen to. Sure, there were plenty of people willing to save me from making bad choices, but I thought I knew everything. Like Dorothy and the ruby slippers, the lessons learned by making my own mistakes were lessons I had to learn for myself. Do I wish I had listened to my parents more? Absolutely. Do I think I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet and threw a young-adult style little hissy-fit on occasion? Most definitely. It's a part of letting go, on both sides. As much as I would love to save my children from themselves, it is better if I watch as they make their own way.
That is not to say that I do not offer my opinion. Repeatedly. In various forms, and forums. Sometimes my suggestions/thoughts/insights are met with immediate flippancy or argument. Sarcasm is spoken fluently and regularly in my house: If there were college credits to be had, we'd all be tenured professors. But it has been my experience that those conversations immediately dismissed by the teenager as stupid and irrelevant are later pondered, taken in, and occasionally (gasp!) acknowledged as worthy.
Someone once described parenting in the teen years as being pecked to death by chickens. I figure the chickens will all fly the coop long before they can be the death of me. But whether they take off at 16, 18, or 24, I will have earned my bragging rights and my battle scars.
I have a confession to make. As much as I love my older children, and as proud as I may be, this is not always my favorite age. I don't often regret experiencing the first child's later teen years largely via telephone, text and email, 100 miles away. Sometimes ignorance is bliss (now that he's 20, that is truer than ever).
I look back at those long gone days of childhood, when all I needed to do was kiss a booboo to make it better, rock a child with a fevered head, sing a lullaby to soothe a bad dream. I know, I know--there was so much more hair-pulling going on at the time, but when I choose to reminisce, I don't bother with the annoying stuff! Those are good years. I try to tell mothers that as often as I can. It doesn't get worse, but it does get different. You'll miss those little people, even as you are delighting in the new-found big people.
By the ripe old age of 18, the wisdom we need to hear most is the knowledge we are least willing to listen to. Sure, there were plenty of people willing to save me from making bad choices, but I thought I knew everything. Like Dorothy and the ruby slippers, the lessons learned by making my own mistakes were lessons I had to learn for myself. Do I wish I had listened to my parents more? Absolutely. Do I think I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet and threw a young-adult style little hissy-fit on occasion? Most definitely. It's a part of letting go, on both sides. As much as I would love to save my children from themselves, it is better if I watch as they make their own way.
That is not to say that I do not offer my opinion. Repeatedly. In various forms, and forums. Sometimes my suggestions/thoughts/insights are met with immediate flippancy or argument. Sarcasm is spoken fluently and regularly in my house: If there were college credits to be had, we'd all be tenured professors. But it has been my experience that those conversations immediately dismissed by the teenager as stupid and irrelevant are later pondered, taken in, and occasionally (gasp!) acknowledged as worthy.
Someone once described parenting in the teen years as being pecked to death by chickens. I figure the chickens will all fly the coop long before they can be the death of me. But whether they take off at 16, 18, or 24, I will have earned my bragging rights and my battle scars.
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