The Long Haul

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: Shawna

Shawna is a photographer, graphic designer, and Jill of all trades. She is happily married and enjoys spending time curling up on the couch with a good book and a steaming cup of cocoa. She also enjoys cleaning dead bugs from windowsills. You can find more of her at Ramblings of an Otherwise Coherent Mind.

Topic: “What are your thoughts on marriage? Being married, not being married, staying married, not staying married and how does this impact your life?”






I believe that marriage can be a truly wonderful thing. Being committed as part of a team can make your load lighter, but it’s a something you definitely have to work at. What’s wonderful is that you come to discover that when you are in it with someone you love and care for that it’s a job you don’t mind in the least.

There is a comfort knowing that someone is waiting for you at home. Someone who will listen (even if its only with half an ear) to what new burden your co-worker became this week. To knowing that not only do you have a date for the rest of your life, but that this is someone who will notice when you are feeling down and who cares about you enough to find out why. Someone who will not only hold your hand when its sweet and romantic, but will also hold back your hair when you have the flu and find yourself tossing your cookies into the porcelain throne

While Disney would have you look at marriage with the rose-colored glasses of romance, many people fail to notice is that marriage isn’t all sunshine and heart shaped boxes of chocolate. There are days when you will not see eye-to-eye on things and days when you feel you are pulling that great big load all by your lonesome. Let me clue you in on a little secret you may not have heard before. Yeah, that’s right, lean in closer..

Ready?

Love isn’t a 50/50 thing.

Shocking? Maybe to some, but I’d like to think the majority of us in it for the long haul stumble across this truth eventually. Some days he will love you more and vice versa. Balance in a marriage can be as bad as 80/20 one day and then 40/60 the next. The point with a functioning and happy marriage is that the balance doesn’t matter because no one is keeping score.

I used to think all people knew this, I mean, it seemed like common knowledge to me, but I learned firsthand how wrong I was.

Years and years ago (in my early twenties) I was too young, naïve and inexperienced to see the red flags a certain young man was throwing off. Ignoring the advice of family and friends I married the boy and was surprised that as soon as the “I-do’s” were over he threw out those rosy tinted shades of mine and became a bully who threatened and intimidated and demeaned without so much as a by-your-leave. And scorecards? This guy came pre-loaded with a ledger so far into the red with imagined slights that there was no hope of my swinging it back into balance all on my own.

I spent years trying to make everything better in that relationship until I wore myself out to the core. I literally could not take another step in the harness that I had allowed myself to be shackled into. All that time I kept thinking that any minute now he’d see how it really was supposed to be and he’d take the yoke on his side of the cart and we’d finally start pulling like a well-matched team. I eventually learned there was a reason why an ox and a horse were never paired together with good results (not that I am calling him an ox!) but you can imagine my relief when this individual announced that he was tired of “dealing with me” and moved onto what he imagined to be far greener pastures than those I maintained at home.

After that fiasco I put myself on the shelf for a while to get my bearings back. I was ashamed that I had let things get so bad and for so long, but I also found a new-found resilience within that let me know I would never allow myself to be someone’s doormat again.

Now you would think that with an experience as bad as the one I went through that I would be soured on love, but I wasn’t. I knew love could be so much more than that. I still believed in love, and hoped that if I was patient that it would eventually find its way to me. Please do not get me wrong. I am a firm believer in the “if its broken, mend it” mentality, but at some point you realize that if you are the only one willing to work on a less-than-desirable situation then the odds are never really going to be in your favor.

Now its round two and this time its different: we are both old and wise enough now to not only know what we want, but we are also able to see through the small flaws that every one of us has in order to see the silver lining that lies within. I am willing to overlook socks on the floor and he doesn’t get on me about hauling home yet more yard sale “finds” when my car trunk is still full from the previous week’s excursion. Who cares about the “proper” was to load a dishwasher… I am grateful to have someone who is willing to load it in the first place.

Love, however, is a compromise… another thing you may not have heard of. We all have things that get on our nerves, but we also need to remember that we ourselves aren’t perfect (otherwise we’d be translated already and our families would be standing around with no clean underwear and wondering where that gal who ran the washing machine went off to).

We all need to do a little give-and-take in our relationships. Sometimes its something small like watching a movie that they adore that may not be your particular cup of tea. Sometimes its backing off and allowing your spouse to have their own space for awhile. Love is knowing that even if we argue on something that we don’t have to worry if that person is going to come back home tonight. Its buying chicken livers even if they make you gag because he loves them. Its being willing to tweak that recipe you perfected years ago to allow for a pinch or two of tastes that they enjoy.

I am at the beginning of this crazy relationship…one that I plan to go on forever. We’re still in the “honeymoon” phase so to speak and are still learning things about one another, but then that’s a lifelong process anyway as no one stays completely the same anyway. For now I try to keep a list up of what foods the beloved likes, but I still occasionally get it wrong, as does he. Our world isn’t going to come careening to a halt just because I couldn’t remember if it was rye or pumpernickel bread he preferred, and I am not about to go into a fit if he buys pink flowers instead of the yellow variety that I adore. He eats his sandwiches and tells me he loves me anyway and I just enjoy the flowers and the love that went into picking them out for me.

We’ve had some bumps and ruts in the road, but we keep pulling onward, together.

They say most people are about as happy as they make their minds up to be and I believe it. We choose to focus on the good, and that’s made our life together thus far pretty happy, but what about what comes down the road in days and months and years to come?

Well, what you practice becomes habit. If we choose now to work through these things together, then I truly believe that will be the way we will continue to work through the long haul. I have found myself a pulling partner… one who is willing to pull his fair share of the load, whatever percentage that happens to be today.

Books I've Invited into My Heart

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: Shawna

Shawna is a photographer, graphic designer, and Jill of all trades. She is happily married and enjoys spending time curling up on the couch with a good book and a steaming cup of cocoa. She also enjoys creating macaroni art portraits. You can find more of her at Ramblings of an Otherwise Coherent Mind.

Topic: “Tell about your favorite childhood book and why it means so much to you.”

A hard task indeed. After all, a child is a work-in-progress; ever growing and learning and developing and in that process ones tastes change. But there is one truth that doesn’t change… certain books have a way of allowing us to open up, inviting them in where they twine themselves around our hearts.

For a girl constantly getting in trouble for having her nose in a book rather than playing outside in the fresh air or getting chores done in a timely manner, there was a lot of books that marched their way through my heart and imagination… I’ll wean my list down to just a few treasured favorites.

Ladybird put out a series of easy-read books in the 1960s. Among them was Cinderella, which came out in 1964. While I have always been a fan of fairy tales, I admit that I was more drawn to this rendition of Cinderella for its gorgeous artwork… but then, it can be forgiven, since I was in the second grade when I first discovered this book in my school library. I would wish on the first star I saw every night that Cinderella’s dress would be waiting under my bed for me when I woke in the morning.

It never was. Years later I was able to find a copy of this little gem for myself and its now sitting on my shelf of beloved books from my childhood.

I was ten when my grandmother gave me my first Trixie Belden book. It was # 18 in a series of 38 books and she had found it at a yard sale. It was my first experience with a mystery novel and my ten year-old self thrilled at the adventures that fourteen year-old Trixie and her friends found themselves in. Here was an average, everyday girl; slightly pudgy and bad at math who often got herself into awful jams, but still managed to figure the puzzle out in the end and save the day, and I desperately wanted her to be my best friend. When forced to play out of doors I often found myself sleuthing alongside Trixie and the gang hot on the trail of stolen social security checks and planning our next charitable function (for the Bob-Whites of the Glen were always doing charitable work in one form or another).

Trixie’s series never made it out of her teens (unless you read some of the online fan fiction) and for a girl who has been around for decades, she still has a strong fan following. I often find myself reaching for one of her adventures when I have a few hours of time to myself and am feeling nostalgic, and admit that I read the entire series from start to finish about once a year. “Mystery of the Phantom Grasshopper” (it was a weathervane) isn’t the most popular of the series amongst fans, but it will always hold a special place in my heart thanks to my grandmother.

In the fourth grade my teacher, Mrs. Blue pulled Season of Ponies by Zilpha Keatley Snyder from the shelves and assured me that I would enjoy it… and I did. Pamela is a lonely girl who is left with her two aunts on a farm surrounded by empty barns and no animals whatsoever except for a cranky old cat named Brother. It seems to Pamela that she has been stuck on the farm forever, and not even the odd amulet her father, a travelling salesman, gives her is enough to lift her spirits.

One day Pamela hears a flute playing a haunting melody and races to the window to see a herd of delicately beautiful in gold, pinks and blues dancing in the mist, lead by a boy who lives free and comes and goes as he pleases. As he and Pamela spend the summer playing and creating ever more fanciful games, Pamela has to make a decision that ultimately gives her the courage to have a say in how she lives her own life.

I am sure many people who knew me as a child/young adult would expect Season of Ponies to be my favorite book. Surprisingly enough it isn’t, however, my favorite was written by the same author.

The Velvet Room introduces us to Robin, who lives in a Model T with her family during the Great Depression. When the car breaks down one morning outside the gate of an old plantation, Robin wanders off and discovers a large abandoned hacienda. When her father returns with news that he has found work in a nearby orchard, Pamela finds opportunities to wander back to the home, wondering what lies inside. A local elderly woman gives her a key that opens a secret entrance to the home, and, once inside she finds a grand library, with velvet drapes and so many books that it would take her years to get through them all. Among the books is a diary of a young girl, Bonita, which soon fills Robin’s thoughts.

As Robin spends more and more time in her “Velvet Room,” dreaming of being Bonita, she begins to pull further away from her family and the harsh world she lives in. It isn’t until the near destruction of her beloved library, that Robin realizes just what she has by being herself and how much she is losing by spending so much time wishing to be someone else.

I could certainly go on and on, but I suppose I could just drop an “honorable mention” to a few other books that I still love and adore:

Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell and Lillian Hoban
One Monster After Another by Mercer Mayer
The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
The Pinballs by Betsy Byars
Homecoming by Cynthia Voight
Piper at the Gate by Mary Stanton
The Maggie B by Irene Haas
Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis
Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery

Muddy Feet

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: Rebeckah

Rebeckah is a 35 year-old mother, social worker, and photographer. She enjoys spending time with children. She believes that every person can make the world a better place by being kind. Rebeckah lives outside of Philadephia with one husband, one kid, and one cat. She also enjoys raquetball. You can find more of her at Life with Kaishon.


You know those days?

Those days when you have a ton of things to do for work; when none of it is making sense?

When it is raining and dismal outdoors?

This is what happens to Kaish on those days:

Seriously.

On a sunny, happy fall day, when muddy feet would make me smile, they are nowhere to be found!

But when I up to my eyeballs in paperwork, when I am racking my brain about what to make for dinner, when I am popping Advil like jellybeans…

This happens!

And he WALKS through the house to show me.

I kid you not!

Now, I would like to say I handled it with grace and love.

I did NOT!

I yelled.

I think I scared the neighborhood kids.

Oh well...

After we got out to the garage and started getting clean, I got nicer : )

and I smiled.

And I listened to the story of how they were playing at the ‘pond’

(which is really a sewer…in case you were wondering)

when Kaish fell in.

I thanked God for the precious boy he gave me!

The precious, wonderful boy!

The boy who loves mud!

And then I did something that always makes me smile!

I forced them to let me take a picture.

Only Shoshi complied!

Did you play in the mud when you were young?

My Daddy used to take us out to the edge of the cornfield in the summer after it had rained.

That mud felt glorious!

I have to ask my Mom how she felt about clean up!

I am sure she was DELIGHTED...

My Nephew, My Uncle

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: KAREN

Karen is not a teacher, but she hopes to be one when she grows up. If she ever gets around to it. In the meantime, she enjoys life in Southern California, spending her free time at Disneyland, and watching the Angels play baseball. Despite her proximity to Los Angeles, she prefers gazing at the stars in the sky to the stars of Hollywood, and her blog A Peek at Karen's World, is as random as she is.

The Nephew will be 6 in a few weeks, but most days you’d swear he was closer to 40.

Since I have no children of my own, it has long been my mission to become the undisputed Favorite Aunt. The fact that he doesn’t have many to choose from is beside the point.

To firmly secure my position of favored relative, I recently spent an entire day with The Nephew, in which I learned a valuable lesson. The lesson being that he has now come to that age where he’s decided that if you don’t agree with him, it’s because, clearly, you didn’t hear him.

(It’s scary how much this kid and I have in common.)

We were in the car. I took him to a movie. Part of my quest to be the Favorite Aunt included introducing him to his first Jim Carrey flick. Sadly, he didn’t enjoy it as much as I did. But at least he liked the penguins.

As we were driving, we passed a miniature golf place that also has a few roller coasters perfectly visible from the freeway.

“Whoa! What’s that place?” His eyes were wide with wonder.

“Scandia,” I answered, thinking that he might still be too young to have any real fun there.

“No it’s not,” he said. “That’s the berry place.”

The berry place?

“What berry place?” I asked.

He started to hum something that reminded me of a TV commercial.

“Are you talking about Knott’s Berry Farm?

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s Knott’s Berry.”

I smiled at him and shook my head. “No, buddy. It’s not Knott’s Berry Farm. That place is called Scandia.”

I thought his five year-old sensibilities would know I was telling the truth, but he was sure he knew better. It’s weird because stubbornness doesn’t run in my family AT ALL…

He insisted that it was, indeed, Knott’s Berry Farm even though he’s never been there and has no idea what it looks like. “You aren’t listening to me,” he said. “That’s Knott’s Berry Farm. You don’t even know.”

It should be noted that I was perfectly aware of how silly I sounded, arguing with a boy fresh out of kindergarten. But he needed to KNOW that he was WRONG.

Finally, he said, “Okay, it’s not Knott’s Berry Farm.” I sighed with relief. “It’s The Mountain.”

He was referring, of course, to Magic Mountain. Which is some 60 miles away and another place he’s never been.

“[Nephew], listen to me. That is not Knott’s Berry Farm. It is NOT Magic Mountain. You are wrong. It’s called Scandia. I don’t know why we’re even arguing about this.”

Silence overtook the backseat. He stopped talking and I was relieved to think he had finally understood and started to believe me. And then I heard singing. I glanced into the rearview mirror to see him sitting there in his booster seat, feet kicked straight out in front of him, his hands crossed over his chest. He rocked back and forth, singing:

“What’s wrong with Kaaaa-ren?

Why isn’t she listening to me?

Does she even HEAR me?”

I heard, all right. Loud and clear.

He may be nearly 5 going on 40, but I’m 34, going on 4.

Maybe I should start calling him my Favorite Uncle…

Four Overly P.C. Parents of First Graders

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: CHEESEBOY

Hello, my name is Cheeseboy, but it could be 'Teachinfirst', as I teach first rather than fourth grade. But I'll tell you what, you can call me Abe. I like to blog. I blogged on my very first try, too. You could read more of what I've written over at The Blog O' Cheese, but only if you're awesome like that... 




Dear Principal,

It has come to my attention that a first grade teacher at your school is having the students sit on the floor "Indian style". I'll have you know that my child is 1/16 Cherokee Indian and I find this deeply offensive.

Further, I'd like to point out that it is a complete misnomer that American Indians sit with their legs crossed all the time. Look, they have chairs just like everyone else. (Yes, occasionally they do sit with their legs crossed on the chair, but that is generally the exception, not the rule.)

I implore you to require this teacher to stop using this horrifically offensive phrase. I'd never ask children to sit "White Man Style"! (Sitting like you are watching a NASCAR race while eating mayonnaise with a Hooters waitress in your lap.)

Thank you for your time,

Beatrice Footinmouth
1/8 Cherokee Indian
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Principal,

It has come to my attention that a teacher at your school has recently replaced the phrase "Indian style" with "Crisscross Applesauce". I would like to voice my concern regarding this issue.

My name is Chris Kelley and I was one half of the 90's rap duo "Kriss Kross". My daughter is now in the class that this phrase is being used. I have to say that I am deeply hurt and offended by this. During our band's heyday, we never once sat on stage with our legs folded. That would have made for a very awkward moment.

I would appreciate it if you spoke with this teacher and told her to stop using this offensive language.

Thanks,

Chris Kelley
Jumper

PS: I would also like to express my dissatisfaction with the removal of "backwards clothes day" from the school calendar.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Principal,

My son recently came home from school and told me that his teacher asked him to sit "Crisscross Applesauce" on the floor.

My name is Dale Mott, owner of Mott's Applesauce and I can assure you that we did NOT intend our applesauce to be spread on the floor and sat in by a bunch of children. I presume that you will remedy this situation.

As a thank you, I have included a free sample of our sauce.

Thank you,

Dale Mott
Owner, Mott's Applesauce
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Principal,

My name is Gerald Smartington, CEO of "Frankleton's Pocketless Pants".

In the last couple weeks, my daughter has come home from school complaining of her teacher asking her to "sit on your pockets". I'll have you know that my daughter does not own a single pair of pants with pockets on them.

I am deeply offended by the use of this phrase. What ever happened to sitting "Indian Style" or "Crisscross Applesauce"?! I think you will find that as our business booms more and more of your students will not have pockets on their jeans.

Unless you remedy this problem, I will have my lawyers look into what can be done.

Thank you for your time.

Gerald Smartington
CEO, Frankleton's Pocketless Pants

Garage Sales or Garage Swaps?

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: Nancy

I blog about the blessings and absurdities of everyday life. I am a writer, a reader, a bike wife, a mom, and a music fan. They don't call me Aunt Blabby for nothing... 

Looks like spring has finally come to stay. The robins are chirping, the allergy-prone are sneezing, and every weekend the street corners in my neighborhood are blooming with garage sale signs, as households attempt to part with the detritus of another year of American accumulation.

I understand the concept of a good, sinus clearing garage sale, one that leaves the seller (slightly) enriched and clutter-free. It's just never been the outcome of any garage sale in which I've participated.

When I was growing up in suburban upstate New York, the Neighborhood Garage Sale was one of the social events of the year, a day where everyone sat out in their driveways in folding chairs and making change from a shoebox full of cash, all the while yelling affectionate insults at their neighbors about the quality of their items for sale.

On the appointed Saturday morning in June, nearly every driveway in the Virginia Colony subdivision was filled: racks of outgrown clothing, bikes with bent frames, boxes of books and record albums. Like lions stalking a slow-moving antelope, cars that we didn't recognize would cruise slowly up and down the streets before we'd even opened for business at 7:30 am, stopping with the wheels on someone's lawn to issue forth a passenger who would examine a floor lamp or treadmill before hopping back in to move on down the line.

My mother had a pricing system honed through years of practice. Each item had a little white rectangular tag marked with the initials of the family member who'd put it up for sale, and the price. The cashier on duty (also my mother) would take the buyer's money, peel off the label and stick it on the appropriate page in a wirebound notebook, one for her, one for my dad, and one for each of the three kids. Over the course of the day, as the hagglers descended and tried to talk us down on price for wilted stuffed animals and rickety chairs, I'd sneak a quick glance to see how much I'd earned.

That number in mind, I'd hop on my banana seat bike and cruise up and down our street trying to figure how I could blow my newfound fortune on something else. Maybe Carol Flannigan is selling her 10-speed, or Lizzy Cooper is finally parting with her Madame Alexander dolls! If there are parents and educators out there worried about the deterioration of a child's math skills over summer vacation, I heartily recommend setting the child loose on a garage sale with a budget of $7.89. They'll be doing long division and multiplication like MIT students in no time, figuring out how to get spend every penny of it (but not a cent more.)

The trouble is that as the day wound down, the parents began doing the same thing. Mom would stroll off down the street to see what was happening at the Melich's house, and when she got back she'd tell Dad to go take a look at the table that was still sitting in the driveway over at the Crane's, wouldn't that work better in the upstairs hallway than the one they already had? In the meantime Mr. Meyer would stop over and take a couple of swings with the aluminum tennis racket Dad was selling, mentioning how his old racket got broken when his son used it as a golf club. "Got change for a $5, Nance?" he'd ask, reaching into a worn out leather wallet.

By the time the sun set on our community garage sale, our neighborhood would have completed a massive transfer of goods, with a net change in wealth of exactly zero. It was Potlatch, Rochester -style.

Which is why I don't do garage sales. I can't afford that kind of de-cluttering.

Simplify

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: JANELLE

I taught first, second and fourth grades before taking a sabbatical as a software trainer for a year - traveling all over the US of A and seeing a lot of the insides of airports, airplanes, hotel rooms, and conference rooms. I have since returned to teaching (just a glutton for punishment, I guess), and currently teach 3rd grade. I also work very hard at being my nieces' and nephews' favorite aunt by spoiling them shamelessly.

As I was getting ready for school to start this year, I hung a sign on my classroom wall that a friend gave me a few years ago. "Simplify". I decided that this would be my code to live by during the school year. I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist and want to create great lessons and experiences for my students, so I spend a lot of time at school. Unfortunately, I do not have enough hours in the day to do all the things I would like to do at work and keep a balance in my life.

Enter first day of school. I began the school year already falling "behind" as I wasn't able to have everything done that I wanted to before the daily demands of a teacher's life took over. But you can't stop time. Or beg for just one more week. I tried it. The clock just kept ticking.

Ever since then, I have been working a lot of overtime hours and bringing work home in the evenings and on the weekends, and feeling like one of those cartoon characters who is running so fast their feet are a blur but they aren't moving anywhere - all they are doing is creating a big hole to sink down into. Rather than "catching up", I have barely been getting the things done I need to from day to day, with more and more being added to the "back burner" for a "later" that never comes. I have tried to figure out why this is. Certainly there is more than ever expected of teachers, as we deal with larger class sizes and less prep time (1 1/2 hours a week when you are teaching at least 8 lessons a day just doesn't quite cut it). But also I think I underestimated the amount of time it would take to get my feet under me in a new grade.

Well, this week I came to the point where I realized living like this has got to stop. I am tired (literally) of not getting enough sleep and having to drink a Diet Coke to get through a day. I am tired of never having any real down time during the week. I am tired of extra responsibilities at work that take away from my classroom preparation. I am tired of feeling scatterbrained and forgetting and misplacing things. I am tired of always rushing around and ending up being late anyway. I am tired of a seriously cluttered house and car that I don't have time to clean. I am tired of not leaving work at work. I am tired of not having time or energy to exercise or read my scriptures or go to the temple. Can you tell I am just tired?

So, anyway, back to the code, "Simplify", which I have forgotten in the mad rush of school starting. A couple of friends this week have reminded me to take a step back and figure out what I can do to lighten the load. How I can chip away at the mountains of "back burner" items that constantly weigh on my mind. And they have reminded me to not take life so seriously. Take time to go for a drive. To go out to eat. To laugh. To stay in bed on a Saturday morning and read a book. To get a massage. That it is OK to let go of some things, even though they might be good things.

I am going to simplify my life. Starting now.

It's all Quite Simple

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: REBECCA


I'm a New Zealander who has lived in Italy for the past four years. I have two beautiful kids, and a hot husband! I love, love, love to write. I am very passionate about books and the outdoors. I am a seeker, I hope I may inspire my children to be such also.

I watched the full moon rise above the hill behind our house tonight. It was gorgeous. The sky tinged blue above the trees as if a somber sun was rising. Yesterday I pulled up lettuce from our garden and made a big, lush salad. I took a long walk in the rain and held my face up to the sky. I closed my eyes to listen to a bird's song. I smiled at a spider making its way down our hall. I took my shoes off to walk in grass. I sat on a hill to watch black storm clouds rush across the blue sky.

I simply love this world around me.

There's a tree on our neighbour's property that I adore. I made friends with them originally just so I could go see this particular tree. Fortunately they are really nice, but I'm sure I would have allowed anyone to visit that tree if it belonged to me. It stands amongst the others like a wise old chief. I spent a lovely hour of this afternoon lying under it.

I grew up being entertained, inspired, and quite nearly babysat by the trees.

Growing up in a tiny, country community on the West Coast of New Zealand meant an absolute abundance of virgin earth to play in with my friends. Beyond that, however, it kindled within me a poetic spirit. I am filled with awe on a daily basis, and I need only walk the same simple wooded hill near my home to enjoy this. I may marvel at the same thing today as I did yesterday.

The same tree, my quiet Chief, the same blades of grass, wildflowers, rolling hills; but they never do look the same to me. With the glorious flowing seasons, and ever-changing shades of light from minute to minute, the landscape around us can be our constant 'change of scene' that so many of us desire in perilous and insatiable amounts. The intimacy that may be cultivated in rediscovering over and over again that the beauty in one simple patch of our good Earth is awesome. With our current economic and environmental situation would it not be a gift to ourselves - to our world - to reteach ourselves to be more easily pleased? To feel holiday-kissed after our daily walk in the park? After our evening walk with the kids? After a cup of tea in our own back garden?

I enjoy travel, and have traveled a bit, much more than some, much less than many. I've discovered many beautiful places, but it is the places I know as well as a dear friend that I am truly inspired by; the places I've seen in countless (but hardly all) shades of light. It's the places I've seen in rain, dew, frost, and sun that move me so deeply.

Tomorrow I'm planning a trip, I'm heading down the hill to lie under my favourite tree. Perhaps the wind will be blowing the leaves about, perhaps a bird has made a nest, the sunlight will do what it will to gift me with diversity, and I need not go far from home.

You Go, Boy!

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: LESLIE

Leslie is the mom of a lovable French Bulldog named Olive, and her 17 kids can be found her in first grade classroom on weekdays. After earning a Master's degree in Psychology, she found happiness in teaching, and it's anyone's guess what comes next. A blissful life of balance is her pursuit; she seeks new adventures, but takes comfort in the familiar. Her castle is a tiny urban condo which is only 400 square feet!

My background in Psychology makes me very sensitive to gender identity issues when dealing with children. It makes me sensitive to every development issue, really. I feel like each word and action those children see and hear from me makes an imprint on who they become in the world, or on who they think they should be. Sometimes, that's too much for me to think about for long, which is why I am undecided about having human children of my own. Canine development seems much more forgiving. Anyway, I do think about these issues often, and I am very deliberate about the words I choose as I talk to my students. All day. Every day. In addition to being positive, supportive, caring, and upifting, I always try to be gender-neutral in my classroom. I address my students as "Scholars" instead of "boys and girls." If they see something and say, "Eewww, no, that's for girls!" or, "That must be a boy. He has short hair!" I say, "No. This is for anyone who likes it. It doesn't have to be for girls or boys!" and "Girls can have short hair. And boys can have long hair!..." And then we have a big discussion about it all.

So often, even though I am so deliberate about these things, many girls are still drawn to stereotypically "girly" things, like pretending their coats are babies in their arms, and many boys seem to be drawn to traditionally "masculine" activities, like making guns out of building blocks, and running around flying toy planes.

Yesterday I was relieved to find evidence that my gender neutrality is a message my students are receiving loud and clear.

I recently bought a bunch of new goodies for my treasure box, and started a new reward policy about how to earn those treasures. (You have to do that this time of year.) It was a big ceremony with lots of pomp and circumstance (I think. Maybe just pomp, though, I don't know. I'm not really sure what pomp is. Or circumstance, in this context, for that matter.). Anyway, I was very dramatic about revealing all the treasures they could choose when they earned a reward. I had foam bookmarks, cool star-shaped sunglasses, dinosaurs, erasers, sparkly pencils, sparkly rings with pretty gemstones, and dice. (Don't worry. They use dice for math games, not craps. At least I hope not craps. Mental note: check to see what those kids do at recess tomorrow over there by the fence.)

Ok. Several of my students won the reward of choosing from the prize bucket on the Friday before Mother's Day. One boy chose a foam bookmark, a girl chose a die, 2 other girls chose rings, and 2 boys chose rings. When one girl chose her ring, she said she was going to give it to her mother for Mother's Day. I said, "Oh, that's so nice! She will love that!" Then the boys who chose rings also said their plan was to give them to their moms.

Today, one of my boys came in wearing the sparkly, fake diamond-like ring on his index finger. I said nothing about it. I heard one or 2 kids say to him that hey thought he was going to give it to his mom. He had no reply, or at least not one I heard.

Hours later, he was still wearing the ring while playing a reading game with the other kids. No one batted an eye. Perfectly normal. As it should be. No contrary opinions, no one made fun of him all day, and he did not seem self-conscious at all wearing the somewhat feminine piece of jewelry. Just at home in his skin. In his happiness, and joyful childhood. It's just what I want for him. It's what I want for all my kids.

I hope someday they don't have to be in a classroom to have that freedom and equality to do what they love, wear what the love, and choose who they love. Without fear. Without isolation. Without marginalization. Without anything at all except what they were meant to have: peace.

A Quiet Drama

Pin It

GUEST BLOGGER: SUSAN

Trying to keep on my toes as I deal simultaneously with potty training, chronically ill children and a graduating Senior, all while attempting to breathe through my nose and knit a sweater.

Waiting in the E.R. is boring. Most of the time when I take my 4-year-old son we don't have to wait. It's a small sort of blessing; my son’s rare metabolic condition usually means we are zipped through triage straight to treatment. However, about a year ago I found myself in the E.R., waiting for my son to be seen- as a matter of caution, not emergency.

On that particular E.R. visit the only other occupants of the waiting room were two brothers, one about 16- 17 years old and the other about 12. They caught my attention, not only because they were there without adults, but because the older brother looked incredibly green and was sitting with his head bowed, as still as a statue. I half expected him to faint. The younger brother radiated nervous energy and, though vibrating, kept to his seat.

After about 20 minutes of utter silence a large man, an older version of the brothers, entered the waiting room. He looked muscular and tough and particularly grim. In fact he looked like the kind of man that Robin in the movie 6 Days 7 Nights said you could, "send them out in the woods with a q-tip and a pocket knife and they build you a shopping mall."

The waiting room was small; there was no way I could avoid witnessing what passed next. The man went and sat in front of the older boy, placing himself so that their knees touched. The man was silent for a moment and then said, "Son, first I want you to know that it is serious, but your brother is going to be okay." The older boy didn't move. The man paused, then said gently, "Look at me." The boy slowly raised his eyes.

"I want you to know that it wasn't your fault." At that the older boy seemed to start breathing for the first time all evening. The man continued, "I'm sorry if I appeared angry, I was really worried about getting here in time- but I was not angry with you. These kind of things just happen."

At this point I remember them hugging, but in retrospect the hugging may be a wishful embellishment of my imagination. They probably simply slapped each other on the back. I do remember vividly how the older brother’s face was transformed with relief, and how the younger brother immediately relaxed out of vibration-mode.

The three left to visit their injured family member, and my son was called for his chest x-ray. I never ran into the boys or their father again, nor did I ever hear the whole story.

The experience made me ponder how my face often looks grim when I'm worried and how my own children sometimes misinterpret that. I marveled at what a great dad this man appeared to be; he communicated his love through eye contact, physical contact, and loving words. That's what everyone waiting in any E.R. needs. In fact, that's simply what every child needs from their parents, every day.

Is "Me Time" Too Important Now?

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: GIGI

I'm Gigi. I'm a recovering lawyer as well as a former internet marketer. I live in Austin, TX by way of Phoenix, Orange County, San Francisco and Chicago. I am currently a SAHM and fumbling foodie. I spend my days practicing the art of living life haphazardly and blog about it at KludgyMom. I'm honored to be writing for Four Perspectives today!

I think this is a question worth asking: do we place too much importance on “me” time?

Before you start pelting me with rocks, garbage, lipstick and dirty diapers, let it be known that I am ALL FOR me time. I think it is important to ANYONE’s well-being – mother, father, grandpa, kid, whoever.

I think about my own mom, raising children in the 60s and 70s (yes. I am old.) She ran a household, cooked meals every day (couldn’t afford to eat out EVER), cleaned her house, visited her parents, made sure school work was done – all the things the moms of today do – but never was there a “I really deserve a spa weekend” moment back then. She didn’t get weekly pedicures – she didn’t get any pedicures. She didn’t engage in retail therapy. She had her hour or two of watching soap operas, but it wasn’t ever something she demanded as a right or an entitlement.

Was this healthy? No. She could have used a little less of us and a little more for her. It would have made her a better parent. But moms in her generation still had June Cleaver hovering over their shoulders, women’s lib movement notwithstanding. Obviously, it wasn’t ideal. And sometimes, with all due respect to my wonderful mom, it showed in her parenting.

But now I’ve started to wonder whether the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction. My mom would’ve been looked upon as selfish for taking a spa weekend. Now, you’re almost an outcast if you don’t. The need for “mommy me time” is widely covered in all possible media. I see Facebook statuses, hear chatter at the elementary school, read blog comments that are rampant with “I know I just got back from a week’s vacation, but my kids are driving me nuts and I am going to spend the morning at Starbucks and getting my nails done. I DESERVE it.” or “I haven’t had a girls night out in WEEKS. I DESERVE it.” or “My husband worked until 8 p.m. last night and I was on point with the kids the whole time. He’s going to pay for that this weekend – the kids are ALL HIS. I need some time off. I DESERVE it.”

Just like the lack of me time is not healthy, too much me time can start to show in one’s parenting. I know because I spent two years of my life demanding and claiming me time: to play tennis, to go shopping, to have girls nights out – all in the name of “making me a more happy and well-rounded person so that I can be a better mother to my children.”

Well guess what? The me time started slipping into what should have been husband time, kid time, family time, volunteering at school time. My priorities got way out of whack. My marriage was on the brink. I wasn’t a better parent for having more me time, I was a more selfish and distracted one. I didn’t DESERVE all the time I had to myself. I DESERVED a swift kick in the pants, which I eventually got.

For men, the opposite seems to be true. Once having embraced the image of the detached dad who works all day and comes home to pour himself a martini and sit alone in the living room, our culture now seems to devalue men pursuing me time and pressures them to be more active and involved fathers, deeply engaged in every aspect of their children’s lives – to the point that, in my opinion, some men are left with nothing for themselves. And when they do try to claim some well-earned me time, they can be criticized.

Obviously, I don’t mean to generalize that “all moms take too much me time” or “all moms don’t take enough.” Every family’s situation is different. But what I am saying is that as a culture, where we place our value seems to have radically shifted. Each person will respond differently, with the goal being striking the right balance. But it’s such a difficult tightrope to walk.

You're Just A Mommy

Pin It
GUEST BLOGGER: REBECCA

Country-Fried Mama is a transplanted Yankee raising two girls in the deep, deep, DEEP South. Visit her blog at www.countryfriedmama.com and follow her on Twitter @countryfried.


When my husband first went back to work after an unfortunate ankle incident, my girls and I ferried him there so he wouldn’t get busted for driving under the influence of narcotics.

My daughter, Miss D., has since been asking lots of questions about what her dad does in that big building, and she recently asked me what my job is.

“I’m a mommy and a teacher,” I said.

“No, you’re just a mommy,” said Miss D.

I sighed, counted to five, and tried not to freak out.

Some context: I never considered myself the stay-at-home type. Before Miss D. was born, my husband and I both assumed I would go back to work. I don’t remember even discussing other possibilities. But once my maternity leave ended and I went back to my job as a high school English teacher, both my husband and I found that leaving Miss D. at daycare everyday was painful.

I started to feel desperate about her being there. It was a really wonderful daycare, but all I could think about every day was that I was spending my time with other people’s children instead of my own sweet baby. I felt like I was doing a crummy job as a teacher and a crummy job as a mommy. I was beyond relieved when my husband got a job in a more affordable part of the country and I could plunge into mommyhood full time.

I am still relieved. I would not trade being at home with my girls for anything, and yet…the world seems very small on some days.

So when Miss D. said, “you’re just a mommy,” I felt a little sick. When I had to leave her each day to work, I soothed my guilt with the idea that at least she would grow up knowing that mommies have important careers, too. I still want her to know that.

So I tried to explain that the laptop permanently attached to my body is not just for online mah-jongg, which she is inexplicably interested in. “I teach classes on the computer,” I told her. “When you sleep, I’m a teacher.”

“No,” said Miss D., who gets her stubborn streak from me. “You’re just a mommy.”

Sigh.

I’m guessing that anyone who reads this knows there should be no “just” in front of “mommy.” Being a mommy is important. I know that. I care far more about the measurable outcomes of my performance as Mommy than I ever did for any job outside my house. That’s the big picture.

The little picture is that my peanut-butter-sandwich-making, laundry-folding, spit-up-cleaning, Little-Einsteins-watching days are not always fulfilling and I fear my brain might be turning to mush.

I was on my hands and knees under the kitchen table yesterday scrubbing my baseboards, an activity I don’t recall ever performing when I worked full-time, when I had an almost uncontrollable urge to start screaming.

“I have a Master’s degree!” I wanted to yell, but I didn’t want to scare the baby.

I am not housebound. I go to playgroup. I go to book club. I go to the grocery store more often than I would like. But sometimes, my world seems uncomfortably small. Is it shrinking?

Someone should alert Al Gore.

Being Me

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: SAVIRA

Savira is an empty nester with a passion for life and teaching yoga. She is curious about life and yoga and is ready to face what each have to offer with compassion, respect and humor. She focuses on 'Living, Laughing, Breathing’ her way to wherever her destiny may take her.

I recently had my first consult with a Fitness Coach. She began to tell me about all the possibilities that are available for me, from becoming a personal trainer to a nutritionist. She talked about the various machines and their benefits and so on... Honestly, I lost her from the very start.

I sat down and she began to take my blood pressure and monitor my heart rate and explain to me the importance of the two. We then proceeded to do the body fat test/analysis. It is here where she used a device to squeeze my fat - waist, thigh, triceps, and so on. Each place is done twice and plugged into a computer. The average is calculated by the very same computer and - voila! - my results appear.

The computer had nothing new to tell me. I had known what the results would be. My heart rate and blood pressure were beyond excellent. Everything else was in the medium zone except for my body fat which was in the FAIR zone! She nodded her head and proceeded to tell me what I could do about it.

Please don’t get me wrong. The Fitness Coach was just doing her job – but I would have loved it if she was a little more personable and was not looking me over like I was a misfit.

I am a person and did not want to be a percentage in some sort of general statistic. I belong to a different culture and my build/body will always be different from others. I will never be the perfect size for my height or age. I can only be ME and I acknowledge this with every breath I take. No computer or person is ever going to tell me otherwise. The changes in my size are a reflection of my journey from single hood to lover, then wife, mother and so on. It is a reflection of my growth, my self-realization and spirituality. It is what makes me the person I am today.

Every wrinkle or curve has a story to tell, some happy and some not so happy. I would not trade it for anything. I will take care of and nourish my body to the best of my ability. I am unique and want to stay that way.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I look at the person staring back at me and say to her, "Let the beauty and strength within shine through". Nobody can dictate how I should look and I will not let them do so. Have they walked in my shoes? Have they seen the ups and downs of my life? Have they cried and smiled like I have? I think not… and hope they never will. I say this because my life experience is mine and mine alone. My experiences are my strength and I will not let someone take them away from me by dictating the way I should look.

I will soon be 50 years old and I am very proud of my age. Each year of my life has been filled with happiness, sorrow, growth, love, marriage, disappointments, achievements, kids, friendships and so on. I have worked hard at being comfortable with where I am in my body and the person I am today. I nourish myself with love, eating healthy and doing yoga. I also work hard at being non- judgmental about my body. I only have one!

I will be ME and I am BEAUTIFUL.