A Beautiful Mess

A Beautiful Mess

Three years ago, almost to the date, I wrote a blog post that started our homeschool journey.  At the time I did not realize this was the case.  However, after three years I have a few thoughts on where I was at the time and where I am now.

Here is a link to the original post: The Blog That Started It All

In the last three years we have been on a journey that I never could have seen at the time I wrote the post. Within a week I was berated and bullied by the school's principal.  The teacher who wrote me the email about my Zoebug and her bullies retraced the statement.  In fact, she said she never even wrote those words, which was insane since I had the original email.  I was told to take the blog down and to do a formal apology to all those involved.  I removed the blog post, but only because I was not prepared to fight.  I never once apologized for my reaction, nor did I feel it was necessary.  I was confused and I was ashamed that I let my situation get out of control like that.  I probably shouldn't have been so honest, at least not until my family left the school.

The moment I brought my girls home for Easter break and sent my resignation email to the principal was such a freeing moment.  One I will never forget.  I made the blog post live again, and felt a huge weight off my shoulders.  Of course minutes after I sent the resignation I was inundated with annoying emails.  However, the emails only reassured my decision. I was, not so politely, told that I would have a ruined reputation if I left the school.  That I would lose my ability to teach in my neighborhood, due to the tainted reputation.  Three years later, and I am still a successful educator with more private students than I had when we left.  So much for that tainted reputation.

I reread the blog post moments ago, and was transported back to the entire situation.  Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.  I can tell you that my entire tenure at this school was a cluster of fucks.  Between working hours that I didn't agree upon, to feeling like an outsider at teacher lunches...it is amazing that I didn't uncover the lies and deceit beforehand.

One thing I have noticed is that each day brings its own mess.  We are constantly making adjustments and learning from our mistakes. Lives are messy, but I wouldn't trade our lives for any other.

My 2015 Favorites

As the year ends, and I can honestly say it has been an odd one, I am reminded to focus on the positive.  So, here are 15 of my favorite things:

1. Dr Bronner's Peppermint Soap

I have very dry skin, and it itches a lot.  This line of soaps are, by far, the best I have ever used.  I love the way it makes my skin feel so clean, and it doesn't leave me feeling dry or itchy.  

2. OGX Teatree Mint Shampoo/Conditioner

Okay, I realize this is technically two products, but they go together.  I have always loved thin mint cookies from the Girl Scouts, and when I use these I am transported to childhood.  They also don't give me an itchy scalp, which is also a super good thing.

3. Aveda Beautifying Composition

This is the best combination oil, as it can be used on hair and on body/face.  I just love the way it can be mixed with other essential oils to create an even stronger elixir for wellness.

4. doTERRA Frankincense Essential Oil

This oil has completely changed how I clean wounds.  I no longer use peroxide, due to the fact that as it bubbles it kills healthy skin cells as well as the bacteria.  In case you are curious the article is: HERE.  Frankincense is my goto for zits, or scrapes, or ingrown hairs.  It is amazing.

5. Waterpik flosser

I actually wrote about this amazing tool earlier this year: First 40 @ 40 I still love this flosser and cannot imagine returning to the regular flossing of my past.

6. Tinkle Hair Remover

I know what you are thinking...pee.  But this little razor has completely changed the way I remove hair from my face.  And I am a klutz, so if I can get it to work than it must be amazing.

7. Nose Piercing

On my 40th Birthday I got my nose pierced.  It was a bit like getting poked by a large needle...oh, wait...it was exactly that.  But I still love the way it looks.  And I have been able to replace the jewelry and that is super fun.

8. Nordictrack Elliptical 

I am so glad to have been given the elliptical from my parents.  It has helped me exercise, despite the issues with my left knee and back.

9. Burt's Bees Pink Grapefruit Face Wipes

I am not a girl who can handle a multi-step facial cleansing routine.  I love being able to quickly wipe the day away.  I just love the way these smell, and they don't burn my skin nor leave it dry.  They have also replaced witch hazel, which is a much stronger astringent.

10. Hi*ball Energy Drinks

I love water...okay, I tolerate water.  But having an organic, flavored water is really awesome.  Plus it gives me energy and does make me jittery.  It is a bit pricey, but completely awesome for during and after using the elliptical.

11. The Girl on the Train

I read quite a few books this year.  However, this one has stuck with me.  A quick read, and I even suggested Jim would enjoy it (he did).

12. The Staves

I very rarely hear new music and think - yes, that is for me.  I know that comes with age.  However, I was pleasantly surprised how much I enjoyed listening to many of the songs from The Staves.  They are my favorite music find this year.

13. Miley Cyrus

I suppose we all have a guilty pleasure, and I know this counts as mine.  However, ever since I saw her performance on Saturday Night Live, I have been a fan of Miley's music.  She might make strange choices in her life, but no one can deny her amazing voice, execution and interpretation of music.

14. Jessica Jones

I am NOT a super hero person.  And even though I had a huge crush on Superman as a kid, movies and TV shows about superheroes is not my thing.  However, I was so thrilled at how well the Netflix series of Jessica Jones was produced, acted, and directed.  I was left wanting more, and that happens rarely in a series.  I'm sure the fact David Tennant was the Purple Man had a lot to do with my love for the show.

15. The Man in the High Castle

Jim and I binge watched quite a few shows this season on Netflix: Master of None, Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Grace & Frankie, An Honorable Woman, Dr. Who, and Portlandia just to name a few.  However, combine alternate history with a creepy theme song and I'm hooked.  It seemed some didn't think the characters were well developed, but I don't think that is what made the show so addicting. It was the discovery of the "man" (no spoilers) who we realize controlled the players, like puppets in his twisted reality.  Puppets are not developed.  And the scenery alone is worth the watch.

Well, that is a list of my top 15 favorite things of 2015.  What are yours?

This Ain't No Frank the Fish Finds a Friend

When I was in third grade, I finished my daily school work like I was in the Olympics. This allowed for time to draw and create artwork for my grandparents, who picked me up for lunch everyday. My teacher realized this time could be used a bit more effective, so she suggested writing a story for the Young Author's Conference. I would be creating a picture book and attending a special field trip?  Count me in!

At some point my friend, Dana, decided we should write a book together. We could BOTH go on the field trip. It was initially a pretty great idea. I made the illustrations, and Dana wrote the words on the pages. We would discuss the story and artwork and then each take care of that part of the story. So we were creating the story together. The name we decided on was Frank the Fish Finds a Friend. I loved alliteration, so the title basically wrote itself. As the name suggests, a fish named Frank is lonely while swimming in the big ocean. He dreams of having a friend to spend time with, and finally finds a girl fish. At this point, Dana and I had completed a lot of the book.  However, our teacher came to us and gave us the grave news: only one could write the story and take it to the conference. The other "author" had to have a separate work. She had made a mistake when reading the conference rules. I was so upset; I cried. Dana made a proclamation that since she "wrote" the story and I only "drew" the pictures, it was her book. At first I was devastated, but I had an idea: I would write a better story. And I already knew I drew better, so it HAD to be an overall better story.

What happened next was inevitable: a whole lot of unhealthy competition. I wish I could say it was healthy, but it was fueled by anger and jealousy on my part. I am pretty certain Dana was also acting on anger and hurt as well. I chose a new story idea: Puddems Adventures. A story about a mouse who finds another mouse and goes on adventures. Sound familiar? Yeah, because it was. It was my version of Frank the Fish. Each day we compared what we wrote at home the night before. When we compared, we would incorporate the different ideas. My mice got married, Dana's fish got married. Dana wrote tongue in cheek locations for her fish to explore, I also wrote tongue in cheek locations for my mice to explore: Mount Cheesemore, Cheesy Honeymoon Suite, etc. I became completely obsessed with creating this book. I didn't want the story to end and eventually asked my family for ideas on places Puddems could adventure. Finally I had to end the story, because it was supposed to only be a specific amount of pages. So I had Puddems get pregnant, have twins (a boy and a girl), and live happily ever after. I also ended with a statement that another Puddems Adventures would be coming soon. Ah, the simple naivety of an eight year old.

I'd like to say that after the initial competition, Dana and I were even better friends. Alas, unfortunately this became known as the Frank the Fish situation. We did eventually heal our friendship, and used this argument as a learning experience. If we were arguing in the future, we would always say that we didn't want it to become a Frank the Fish situation. That stupid confusion on our teacher's part tore our friendship as quickly as, well, as a page from a book. So, you can see my complete bewilderment earlier this month when Dana told me she needed to have three months apart from me and our friendship. I believed this was not a Frank the Fish situation. Apparently I was wrong, and it seems just as serious if not worse. I have been scolded and told to simply sit idle until she's ready to talk. However, this isn't third grade, and this isn't Frank the Fish Finds a Friend. We are 40.

I still have the Puddems Adventures book, and have fond memories writing it. Maybe not having expectations of friendship would have been better on my part. However, I am not sure if I can forget what this latest situation uncovered. But, like a good picture book, I will continue to move forward by turning pages and opening myself to new adventures.

Stay tuned - a new Michelle adventure is coming soon!

Hearing "You're Fat" By a Loved One

What Constitutes Bullying?

For over a month I have been mulling over this question.  As many of my readers know, I was bullied as a child and young adult.  And two years ago, I experienced adult bullying as well as the bullying of my oldest daughter, Zoe.  So I suppose you can say I'm not inexperienced when it comes to bullying.

However, what if a family member feels it necessary to address an issue?  What if that issue is weight, or your decision to homeschool, or your choice in spouse, or your decision to adopt, or your decision to move?  Is there a right way to present the concern?  I believe there most certainly is.  But what if my beliefs on this matter are a direct result of my past?  What if I'm just too damn sensitive?  This has been weighing on me (no pun intended) for over six weeks.

Thirty Years Removed

This year I turn 40.  This seems so big to me.  I cannot tell you why exactly, but it is a case of what I thought I would experience by 40.  I don't necessarily feel that my choice to have babies and put my family first in my 30's was a bad choice, but I'm definitely in a different place than I imagined.  Different bad?  Nah, just different.  The little girl of yesterday is still inside of me, but I have grown and accepted my past for what it is worth: the past. However, I have not forgotten the laughter and judgmental comments spewed across the classroom; especially at recess and Girl Scouts.  I have forgiven those children involved, but I wonder if those bullying memories have made me less accepting and more sensitive to bullying behaviors now.  

I think it is difficult to be objective when it comes to emotional scaring.  It is also so difficult to prove.  What if my experiences are simply my perspective on what was happening.  What if I am using the word "bullying" when in fact that isn't at all what is happening.  I have challenged friends before regarding the way bullying it taught in schools today.  The word "bully" is now in the vernacular of children, and can be thrown around without much thought.  However, I believe if the child feels comfortable to start dialogue with a teacher or other adult, the countless over-dramatic children seem to be worth the effort.    

Grief

Everyone deals with grief differently, and I truly believe no one way is perfect.  For those who felt I should be "over it" after Ray's memorial, I simply shook my head in disbelief.  If you are reading this and you have suffered a loss and are still getting "over it" that is okay.  Please know you are not alone, and there is no exact science to when you'll be "over it."  Therefore, food became my comfort, and I must admit I am housing more weight than ever before.  Well, not exactly, because I have lost since January, but you know where I'm going with this.  I'm not proud of this, but I certainly do not need to be judged by my body either.  In all honesty, I would much prefer to be challenged or bullied about pretty much any other topic related to my choices, but weight is just too personal to me and my inner-world.  

I live inside my head most of the time.  For many of my friends and family, this may seem surprising to some.  I can be quite open and talkative to be around, and I can be silly and spontaneous.  This doesn't mean I am an extrovert.  In fact, I am not.  I honestly think too much about everything and everyone - well after and much more than I think I should at times.  I am also what I refer to as a sensitive, not behaving in a sensitive way (which maybe I am too...).  I feel what others are feeling, and oftentimes internalize their emotions.  As I have aged, my ability to feel what others feel is only stronger.  I can feel over an email, a text, a phone conversation.  However, when I was grieving the loss of Ray last year, I was also grieving for my mother, my children, and our family.  I was not concerned with my body or health.  

Words

I could go into explaining how words are simply that: words.  How actions speak louder, and all that jive.  But the truth is: words hurt.  Regardless of their intent, words spoken hang over us like cartoon balloons.  Whether there is heartfelt concern over another person, I believe there could be tact in the situation.  In fact, I appreciate concern.  I just felt slapped in the face.  Yes, time has passed, but my initial reaction is still hanging there...concerning me.  Maybe I overreacted, but I don't think I did.  At the time, I felt others pressuring me to just move forward and ignore the comments; because the source was not in the right frame of mind.  But the thing is, I don't believe that behavior gets to be excused.  I have since accepted an apology, but the words will continue to reflect my feelings toward the person.  I will continue to work through that, but I have never been super good at forgetting.

I'm not one to watch the Oscar's.  In fact, I believe Hollyweird is pretty much not something I care to spend my free time viewing.  That being said, I wish a young Michelle had heard the words from Graham Moore last night:

A Year Later

Last year at this time I was spending a lot of quality time with Ray.  At this point he was doing well in rehab, and we were discussing how he could come home for Christmas (if just for a visit).  Quickly this situation turned grave.  But it is almost incomprehensible that a year has passed me by.  I am completely mystified how I have been able to survive the last few years, and 2014 especially.  If I didn't have pictures to show the various activities our family has experienced, I would have told you it was still 2013.

In the last couple of weeks I have spent time going through photos and updating the Ladybug's blog:
The Martin Ladybugs

I took pictures, so I know I was there physically.  However, I just don't remember much.  I don't remember what we ate for Thanksgiving dinner last year, nor Christmas Eve and Christmas, nor what I did between January and summer.  It's like I was going through motions, but not exactly making connections.  I have a lot of memories of summer, and watching the girls swim and learn how to do strokes properly.  But then there was a month of pure hell that I'm not sure how I made it out the other side without killing someone.

The flood of 2014 was not a simple day or five project.  It uprooted our whole existence for a month.  I could not practice for a wedding to which I was singing/playing without squeezing into the bathroom/laundry area and working on the music.  I was unable to teach private piano and voice lessons the first week of the school year, because the basement was completely torn up.  And these are just two of the many problems we encountered.  Many items were lost in the water, and so much clean up had to be done.  It seemed as if it would never be done, and yet here I am on the other side of the mountain.  How did I manage to get here?

I also managed to help my mother clear our more than 60 years of "stuff" from Ray's house.  If you are interested: Placing Significance on Insignificant Stuff 

Then in the midst of all of this, we had lice AND hand-foot-and-mouth disease.  Fortunately it was only the ladybugs who got the lice (I may have gone off the deep end if I also had them), but unfortunately I also got the hand-foot and mouth.  You would think ONE plague would be enough, but no, we had TWO.  And between Jim and I, we have also had enough blood work, procedures, and doctor's visits to last a lifetime.  Good news is that we both are mostly healthy, and neither needs surgery.

I do not wish to sound cynical, but this has been quite the shitty year for us; figuratively and literally. For starters, we had sewage in our basement when it flooded.  Then I just wrote a check for Jim's procedures, and Maggie (our beautiful dog) was found to have two kinds of intestinal worms.  We have also seen Zoe returning to some more anxious behavior, and now have been able to attribute it to her digestive system out of whack.  She is on her vitamins again, and things are moving along nicely (physically and emotionally).  But the shit is there.  And it is after a few pretty shitty years for Jim and I and our little family.  However, I am confident that at some point the clouds will lift and we will live in the light for at least a short while. Of course that is before something else crazy happens.

Somehow, someway, I have clawed my way through this last year.  I appreciate those who have clung onto me while I was at my worst.  It is through love that I have persevered, and it is through love in which I will enter 2015.  I thank you all for reading.

Placing Significance on Insignificant Stuff

A lifetime of thingamajigs, doodads and gizmos.  Collections of curios and curiosities.  Some hidden from view, but all put in place by my grandparents.

In the last eight months I have been helping my mother clean out over sixty years of life from my grandparent's home.  If it is humanly possible, I have felt every imaginable emotion.  It is also rather surprising how deeply moved I feel about this home.  Each time I visited and worked, many items followed me home.  Some were out of necessity (sweeper, light bulbs, etc.) but others, many others, were because they hold dear and strong memories (record albums, chairs, etc.).

At first it felt like we would never even make a dent in the drawers, shelves and closets.  But bit by bit, step by step, we slowly made progress.  I must admit, my mother did most of everything.  I helped though, as much as I could.  But there were so many items that seemed insignificant, and yet, it is hard not to place significance on these items.  Why do we do this?

Before the casket was closed for the last time, a little beanie baby bear, a can of coke and a jar filled with a Manhattan were added with love around Ray.  It felt reminiscent to the burials of the Egyptians.  All that was missing was gold, jewels and a dead animal or two.

As I laughed with my mother over crazy things that Ray kept in his home, I realized that I too place significance on insignificant objects.  Did I want the bar light from Ray's basement?  Of course!  We do not have a bar, nor do we have an appropriate place to put it.  What about a hammer for small nails?  Sure!  In fact, when we repainted the bathroom this came in handy.  How 'bout brown paper bags, rubber bands, ten rolls of clear tape, calculators, note cards, stuffed animals, a stereo, etc.  The list goes on and on.  And the thing is, I cannot tell you that any are insignificant to us.

But no matter how many insignificant (or significant) things one surrounds themselves with, it does not take the place of a person.  The girls each took a stuffed animal from Ray, and quite often I see Evie take hers and inhale it.  It still smells like Ray (which to clarify smells very good).  Today I found myself doing the same thing.  I was at my moms and Emma and I were sitting on the couch she traded with the one at Ray's.  We were being silly, and we picked up the pillows to hide our mouths to see if we could determine expression on our mouths.  We both inhaled at the same time and went, "ah...".  It smelled like Ray. It smelled like home.  It was significant.

Not My Kid - A Year Later

It has almost been a year since I wrote "Not My Kid" and thus began the journey toward a very VERY big choice: homeschooling my ladybugs.  At this one year anniversary I want to muse about how that moment changed my life.

Regrets
They say hindsight is 20/20, and quite often when I make a choice (regardless of the time spent mulling it over) I look back and say, "I should have done things differently."  I'm not perfect, but I do try to make important decisions after much thought and prayer.  The crazy part of 2013 was that the end of 2012 seemed to be so positive: I got a job as a music teacher with the ladybugs' school, and everyone was healthy and happy...so I thought.  When I left said job in December for the Christmas break, I was at an all time career high; the Christmas pageant went amazingly and I was feeling completely loved and reassured that I was in the right place.

However, I had my rose-colored glasses on, again.  The school was on a course to destruction and I do believe there were very ill-fitted people people running the show.  People show their true colors under stressful circumstances, and the bullying that occurred only brought to light who people actually were inside.

Finding out who your true friends are can be difficult at times, but afterwards the grateful knowledge supersedes the pain...eventually.

Results
First of all, we continued to homeschool passed the summer months.  Mainly because it works for us.  The Lutheran school that "everyone" was going, in fact, did see quite a few new students and families this fall.  Of course, that was never an option for us anyway; maybe that was just the way it was always supposed to be.
I am only in contact with a few people from the school, and that's okay.  We have all moved onward down different pathways...maybe we will meet again.  For some though, I sincerely hope not.

Rhetoric
One of the reasons I left the diseased environment of the school was due to the environment itself.  Of course my blog entry Not My Kid did have a bit to do with it.  I was bullied to pull the blog post, and I was encouraged to simply turn my cheek and "make up" with those involved.  When Jim visited the school to get Zoebug's schoolwork, people approached him regarding having conversations between me and "those who hurt me" so that "the air could be cleared," and everything "could return to normal."  Normal.  What in God's name was normal about that environment in the first place?  No thank you.  Bullying is not something I take lightly, and my removing my children was, and will forever be, the best decision I made in 2013.

What a difference a year makes.

The Yellow Banana

I was an anxious child.

That is an understatement at best, but the truth is I was super anxious about most situations. One of my biggest dilemmas was going to sleep at night.  And if you think that was an issue, it was only exacerbated by sleeping away from home.  I practically never spent the night away from home, unless we were on vacation as a family.  However, my sister and I did spend the night at my Grandma and Grandpa Riske's about once a month when our parents were working in their band, the Knight Kats.

As bedtime approached, my Grandpa would pull out the bed from the davenport (their terminology) in the red room (it was called red because of the red shag carpet it bestowed for many years of my childhood).  Then my Grandma would put sheets on the bed and get blankets and pillows to make it all comfy.  That bed was so uncomfortable, especially if you laid incorrectly (which was very easy to do).  There were bars that lined the mattress, and they stabbed in my back and side no matter which way I would turn.  Then there were the areas on either side of the bed where the arms of the davenport.  Grandma would shove pillows or other things in them because she was worried that we would fall in the cracks during the night.

One night I was having a particular difficult time falling asleep.  No matter how much Grandma rubbed my back, I couldn't fall asleep.  The figure eight, the three taps, nothing seemed to bring on sleep.  Then my Grandpa brought in a large, stuffed, yellow banana.  It was nothing special, but it seemed huge to me.  Just a simple yellow banana stuffed toy with the Dole label on it.  It was like this one:

And believe it, or not, this was just the thing that worked!  It became the one thing that had to accompany me to bed each night.  I called it - The Yellow Banana.  Not especially creative, but pretty much spot on with the name.

The banana stayed with me throughout my life.  When Zoe was a baby and Evie was on the way, we put her in a big-girl bed.  I found The Yellow Banana in a box and it looked a bit more tattered than it had when I was younger.  I also had to remove the label because it was falling off.  However, it was the perfect solution to stopping Zoe from rolling off the bed.  Years later she still has to have the banana taking up the space between the wall and the mattress.

I did a bit of research today, because of course Evie wants her own banana.  The banana was an advertising promotion from Dole, most likely from the 60s or 70s.  In later years the banana became a character named Bobby and often sported tennis shoes, a cane, and a top hat.

How did my grandparents obtain this little gem?  I have no idea.  But what matters the most is the magic contained in that stuffed toy.  It brought many nights of quick sleep for myself, and now for my Zoe.  When I asked my Grandpa where it came from, he simply said, "The attic."  A mystery for certain.  But I do know that sleep in our family would be quite different without The Yellow Banana.

Pals Forever

Born to German immigrants, Raymond Henry Riske took his first breath on Wednesday, August 21, 1918. He grew up in Detroit, Michigan during the roaring 20s and the depression of the 30s.  His folks rented homes on Joseph Campau and Hendricks Street, however, unfortunately, neither home has stood the test of time.  

His father, Emil, had been a nurse in the Navy during the Spanish American War, and he was a factory man during Ray’s life.  His mother, Anna, loved animals especially dogs.  There were at least four or five dogs who ate dinner outside their home each night.  Bob, who was a German Shepard, eventually became the family dog.  Bob had an amazing temperament.  He would allow the chickens from the house next door to walk on his back, but he would chase the birds away from the garden.  

Ray loved to help his mom with her daily chores, and they would always go to the local theater to see the latest movie.  Ray loved movies and he also built his own radio when he was a boy.  He listened to shows like The Green Hornet and Amos and Andy, and loved the crooning of Bing Crosby.  Years later, Ray would whistle around the house and do a fabulous Bing interpretation as well.  In fact, when I was a little girl I decided I would marry Bing (that is after I found out Popeye and Casper were cartoons and therefore not real) but to my chagrin my grandma informed me that Bing was not a nice husband and that in fact he was also dead.  

Ray attended Cass Technical School, where he makes certain to add was the only high school in Detroit to have an airplane in the top floor.  He also quite often stated, “when I attended all the teachers wrote the textbooks.”  In fact, his Chemistry teacher was Mrs. Lindbergh, the mother of famous aviator Charles A. Lindbergh.  Even though Ray was never very fond of school, he loved to read books about ships and detective adventures.

Ray could tell one story over and over again: his courtship and love of Ardis Sherman.  Even almost twelve years after her passing, Ray would still gets misty-eyed when he heard a favorite song “Every Day of My Life,” by the McGuire Sisters.  Theirs was a marriage of true love and happiness right up until the end.  Only having one child, Cheryl, Ray never felt he needed more.

In fact, Ray was the most positive and optimistic person when it came to his life and his overall health.  He was quick to share with others, “I can’t complain,” when asked about how he was doing. He also was very handy with making contractions and knew how to fix almost anything.  I think the most impressive thing he made was a holder for the Atari remote controllers.  You could sit and use the controller without stress to your hands.  In many cases I believe Ray could have patented his inventions, and helped make the world a more enjoyable place to live.

No matter what Ray was to others, he was my Pal.  I will never forget the first day I called him Pal.  It was his birthday and my grandma and I were getting the cake ready.  She wanted to know what to put on as his name (Ray, dad, grandpa), and I said, “Pal.”  I felt that Pal encompassed all the titles he held.  And Ray was truly my Pal in every sense of the word.  He listened to all my woes, and was always there to share a Coke and eat whatever candy was in the red-room cabinet.  

I remember spending mornings after sleepovers asking him to explain how a light-bulb worked, or how pillows were made, or how the energy got from the plug to the TV.  I also remember asking him about the olden golden day decorations at our favorite restaurant: The Forge.  As we ate crunchy bread sticks waiting for our salads with blue-cheese dressing and our dinners of frog’s legs, Ray shared with me the names and uses of anything I asked about. And honestly, I don’t have a clue whether he knew the real answer or not, but his answers were the truth to me.  I remember washing his car, mowing the lawn, shining shoes, sorting nails in his immaculate garage, tinkering at his workbench and finding things in their basement fruit cellar (which was always overstocked with can goods).  I loved singing with his dog, Misty, while she begged for a cherry from his Manhattan and dressing her up with Ray’s neck ties.  I also remember hiding in the coat closet when he came home from work.  I would yell, “boo,” and he would always pretend to get scared.  

We always had a close relationship from little on.  He even named one of his backyard roses “Michelle” after its name tag got lost. I also remember him patching up boo-boos; especially the one he patched after he let go of the bike when I was just learning to ride.  There was a big bump in the sidewalk that I hit on a bad angle.  I remember him apologizing time and time again, to which I had already forgiven him for letting go.  There was also another time we were all playing with sparklers and my mom had insisted I didn't touch the hot end of the stick.  Of course when my Pal came to retrieve the stick I took the hot end in my hand to give him the cool end, because I didn't want to burn him.  Boy was that a bad choice.

We spent every summer up at Houghton Lake with my grandparents.  Ray used to take a morning walk to get the newspaper, and I would accompany him around the small village.  Once my sister, Kelly, was old enough she came along too.  The best part of the walk was the spooky old house we all decided we would live in one day.  Each summer vacation was not complete without seeing the spooky old house.  It couldn't have been all that spooky, because we decided that we would buy the house and each live in a separate area. On one walk we actually went right up to the house and peered in the windows.  All we saw were boxes and the like, but we sure got each other scared.  The following summer the house was gone; apparently torn down due to the sign that said “CONDEMNED.”   

Ray loved music and taught me some really silly songs when I was a kid.  My favorites were: The Peanut Song (choo choo peanut butter), Show Me the Way to Go Home (think I had a drink about an hour ago), and Bring Them In (which I had to learn how to roll my tongue to sing the song properly). Ray also had the most amazing record collection and oftentimes let me borrow one to listen to at home. My favorite was Evita because I had a huge crush on Mandy Patinkin and there were pictures in the fold-out album cover. Ray also loved Abba, and gave me the Voulez-Vous album when I was four, “To my No.1 Granddaughter,” it said.  He also gave me a 45 of Boy George’s “Mistake Number 3”.  We loved to watch The Lawrence Welk Show together, and we would try to tap dance like Arthur Duncan, which usually ended in a ton of laughter.  Ray also had an affinity for the Puccini opera “Madama Butterfly.”  We watched a video of the Placido Domingo production, which in fact was my first experience with opera.   I know he was so proud of my when I was part of the Michigan Opera Theater’s production of Verdi’s Aida.  

Ray also loved tape recording stuff.  He enjoyed having my sister and I sing or talk into a microphone. Once he decided to tape record himself reading books to my sister and I, because he saw it on a morning show.  I can still hear, “Now, turn the page.”  He always tape recorded Christmas with my family, from the moment we entered the door until all presents were unwrapped.  The laughter, the anticipation, the excitement, and the inevitable bratty selfish behavior from my sister and I that would ensue at some point.   

I had a very difficult time with friends and dealing with daily bullying, but no matter what happened at school I always had a friend in Ray.  He was always there for a Coke and a candybar.  Quite possibly not the healthiest way to deal with sadness, but then again who doesn’t love chocolate?  Inspired by a song sung in school, “Love Sidney,” I wrote a song for Ray called, “Pal’s Forever.”  And Ray was my biggest fan when it came to singing and performing.  

Ray had his own words for things: han-ga-burgers were hamburgers, pis-sketti was spaghetti, and The Corner was the restaurant by his house.  He also never could keep names straight and thus was known to call people “Charlie” or “Guy” so not to embarrass himself.  He also could not spell and would spell things phonetically.  However, since I’m a terrible speller, I hardly seemed to notice.  

I spent many evenings watching TV with my grandparents.  I just sat there and spent time enjoying laughs and tears.  Once I was older and married and once my grandma Ardis passed away, Ray and I continued our life-long friendship. We spent hours shopping at Target and Kmart (two of his favorite stores). However, we would always start with BLT combo lunches at Leons (which included fries and soup) and we would always end the time together with drinks at Starbucks.  In fact, I got him hooked on mocha frappuccinos, while I drank my triple venti soy lattes.  We talked about everything; from “soup to nuts” he would always say.    

In the summer of 2003, Ray took my husband, Jim, and I to Traverse City for a vacation.  We spent the time playing cards, talking, and having fun drinking Manhattans and eating out.  Ray  always woke before us and had the table set for breakfast and had coffee percolating in the background.  I never could believe how young he was for someone in his 80s.  He walked a mile to see the Sleeping Bear Dunes and he made us laugh by joining Jim and I to watch silly reality TV in the recreational room at the campsite.  I will also never forget the wine tasting that left all three of us inebriated, and Ray encouraging me to go in on a case of wine with him.  Not quite certain if I’ll ever be able to enjoy raspberry wine again. 

Once Zoe came, Ray worried our Friday lunches would be over. But we just brought Zoe along for the ride. He relished in spending time with a baby, and I’ll never forget how he ran up and down the aisle-way with Zoe at Foot Locker while I found a good pair of walking shoes. He even babysat Zoe while I went through my clothes closet, and kept her busy for an hour. Thus, naturally once Eva came we both rolled a cart while shopping.  My girls were so lucky to have a relationship with their Papa Ray, who joined us for breakfast and grocery shopping every Friday and enjoyed chocolates and Cokes with us on Wednesday afternoons.  When Ray was in rehab, I brought Eva alone on two separate occasions.  She showed Papa Ray how she could spell (getting ready for her weekly spelling test) and then played a few songs on the piano by ear.  He loved my girls and was so proud of them.  

Everyone who came in contact with my grandpa Ray was an instant friend of his - he was just that charismatic.  He had friends all over the place (restaurants, Kroger, church, etc.), and his heart was willing to accept more. It is not surprising that this only child (his siblings died at birth) bloomed the moment he was in the center of a group of people.  He was fantastic at telling stories about his life - some true and others not so much.  But it never really mattered, because his smile and personality sold people every time. 

Ray also continued my grandma’s charitable donations to a wide variety of organizations.  I had never seen as many gifts as he would receive as thank yous for his donations.  Greeting cards, calendars, notepads, stickers, blankets, address labels and calculators only name a few of the many presents he received.  

Even up to the end of his Earthly life, Ray never lost his positive spirit.  He made certain to let us know he was doing fine and that it was “neat” that we were there to spend time with him.  He shared with me a long journey through a beautiful landscape with beautiful blue flowers and lush foliage only a couple of days before his spirit left the earth.  Being able to hold his hand throughout this journey meant so much to me; however my special friendship with Ray has been one of the greatest joys in my life.  Ray lived each day with gusto, with no regrets, and with the admiration of everyone he met.  I hope to be able to emulate that as much as possible as I enter a new year of my life.  

Ray was a jack-of-all-trades and touched many lives in his 95 years.  However, he is and always will be my Pal Forever.   

The Second Day of Christmas

I happen to feel all holidays are rushed anymore.  Christmas displays in July, Easter in February, Halloween in May.  But I think my biggest pet peeve is who quickly the Christmas season is put away - trees set out for the garbage man, lights boxed up the day after, and Christmas music immediately eliminated once the 25th is complete.

In truth, the season of Christmas is 12 days in the church calendar, which is concluded by the Epiphany.  I always find it annoying the Christmas music is started the day after Halloween, but cutoff once the true Christmas season begins.  Growing up Lutheran, we celebrated the travels of the three kings/wise-men, bringing their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the tiny Christ child.  Even though I am well aware Jesus was not born in winter and that most biblical scholars believe it took a year or more for the kings/wise-men to reach the baby, I still find the tradition of the Christmas season to be very spiritual in nature.

One of the most important traditions my husband and I started was the importance of presence and not presents on and around Christmas.  Our girls get one gift from Santa, and only one or two from us.  We do not encourage greedy gift requests (you know, the long LONG list that is rolled out once the child sits on Santa's lap), nor do I find piles and piles of gifts on Christmas morning to reflect the true meaning.  I am not suggesting I am above those that find enjoyment shopping and wrapping and giving; I am simply stating that I and my family have found greater love and meaning without all the stuff.

This year has been a difficult one - one with job issues, spiritual difficulty, and overall a real soul searching journey.  The most recent emotional and physical challenge has been the declining health of my grandpa and pal, Ray.  He was put into hospice on the 23rd of December and his placement there has actually been quite a gift to us.  Christmas Eve was very low-key and yesterday we had my parents over for a quite and meaningful Christmas dinner.  It was such a breath of fresh air and removed from the years of xanex and whiskey to help the day go along.

In the spirit of the next 11 days, my family will be attending Holiday Nights and Greenfield Village this evening, going to see the lights on Hines Drive tomorrow evening, continuing our Christmas celebrations on Saturday with the Martin clan, and then spending time gathering donations for the Purple Heart.

I'm not suggesting that my reading audience is unaware of the season of Christmas.  However, I want to empower everyone to try to spend time making memories that lengthen the presence of Christmas and not the presents.  God bless you all.

Gone Are the Days of the Mixtapes

On Sunday, the Ladybird and I were on a return trip from Ann Arbor.  Ladybird, for those who do not know, is my "new" 1996 Pontiac Bonneville.  She is full of the latest bells and whistles, but only those offered in 1996.  One of those features is a lovely stereo and tape deck.  As the radio played I found myself reminiscing about the days of the mixtapes.

I vividly remember sitting at my stereo, which had a turn table and a double tape deck, waiting for my favorite song to play.  Quite often the song would be truncated by some obnoxious DJ, but I would tape it anyway.  I also remember making my first mixtape....

In high school I had this huge crush on an upper class man named Jessie.  Jessie's brother, Johnny, was dating my sister and we were lab partners in Chemistry.  I found out that he loved The Beatles, and I decided to make a mixtape for a birthday gift.  I took records from my mom's collection, and listened to all the songs over again and again.  I carefully selected the songs to be used, and then spent countless hours making the recordings seamless.

I was so proud to hand the tape over to Jessie.  Of course he was kind enough, and he didn't make fun of me to my face, but I know that his friends were laughing as I walked away.  He told me it was a really cool gift, but we never were more than acquaintances and lab partners.

Years later I was driving in my sister's car and the Beatles were playing in her tape deck.  The songs sounded VERY familiar.  I would know exactly what song would follow.  So I asked her where she got the tape and she told me she got it from Johnny years before.  Apparently many people who were friends of Jessie's and Johnny's had a copy of the mixtape I made, which in a strange way made me feel pretty awesome.

In college I dated a guy, named Marshall, who made me a mixtape (AND he wrote me a song too).  He told me each song on the tape was selected especially for me.  That he had spent a lot of time creating the best song list for how he felt about me.  I actually loved many of the songs on the tape, and played it over and over and over again.  I also felt very special that someone took the time to select a special song list for me.  Awhile later we broke up, but I still enjoyed listening to some of the songs on the tape.  Not because it reminded me of him, but because some of the songs were pretty great.

Marshall and I hung out in the same group, and one night we were all out at the karaoke bar that we frequented.  Marshall's current girlfriend was telling some of the group about this awesome mixtape she had been given.  That the songs were created especially for her.  I figured making a mixtape was just something Marshall did, that is until she began to name the songs on the tape.  I asked if I could see the tape cover and she said okay.  The two of us went out to the parking lot and shared our tape covers with each other.  And you know what?  The tapes were exactly the same.  Nothing was different.  Each song Marshall carefully selected for me, was in fact the same ones he selected for her.

We sat in silence for a few moments, and then we began laughing hysterically.  Because from that point forward neither of us would be persuaded by a mixtape ever again.

But I have to wonder what teens do today to share music with each other.  Do they make MP3 lists?  Or do they make videos of them listening to music and post to Youtube?  Whatever the case might be, technology has definitely changed the way we listen to music, and thus how we share it as well.  I must say that I kind of miss the days of mixtapes decorated in stickers, the hopeful hearts and the time spent carefully crafting the perfect song list.  But I suppose that is what happens as one ages...nostalgia kicks in.

The Netflix Binge

Santa Clause gave our family a new Blue Ray player for Christmas, and thus we got Netflix to join in the fun.  At first Jim and I watched old Twilight Zone episodes, and had fun introducing the Ladybugs to Jem and old Spiderman episodes.  Then Jim and I enjoyed the newest season of Arrested Development, and also journeyed through seasons of Breaking Bad.  However, upon the completion of Orange is the New Black, I have found myself obsessed with Parks and Recreation.

I will admit that season one was fair if not poor in its execution, however, by season two Parks and Rec found its rhythm.  Each night we watch four episodes, give or take, and I cannot get enough of the characters.  I feel as if they are part of my world and we are all friends.  I have become a binge television viewer.

 
Binge watching seasons of television shows makes me wonder if I would be as obsessed by the series if I had to wait a week for a new episode.  Take Lost for example, I think my brain appreciated the week between episodes.  I was able to discern through the information presented, and determine what I thought was the real story.  Lost gave such fantastic cliffhangers that if I binge watched the show I may have not been as satisfied with the plot.  However, I have to state that the finale was really horrible and in no way how the series should have ended.  Breaking Bad is similar to the intensity of Lost, with its plot twists and turns and the deep character development.  After a couple of nights of watching episodes, I am compelled to watch a documentary or two.

In the same vein, I truly believe that my obsession with Parks and Rec would not be near as so if I had to wait a week between episodes.  Instant gratification is something I'm not used to, but something I am getting very comfortable with.

   

When we gave up our cable television a couple weeks ago, I was afraid that I would miss it.  Truth is, I don't.  Probably due to the fact I am currently obsessed with Parks and Rec.  However, it is so convenient and inexpensive to watch through an antenna and through a service like Netflix, I cannot imagine ever needing cable again.  

I remember the summer we got cable installed at our home.  I was eight, and my sister and I spent countless hours watching and rewatching Grease 2.  At the time, I had no idea what was being suggested in "Lets Do It For Our Country," nor did I find it repulsive that a person would have to change his identity to impress the cool girl.  I also remember watching The Incredible Shrinking Woman that same summer, as well as shows about circus acts from the 1800s.  I have been trying for years to find a youtube video of Lavinia Warren, General Tom Thumbs wife, singing "Beautiful Dreamer," but I have never been able to find that song Kelly and I remember from the show.  

That was when cable was new and exciting, and possibly fifty stations (maybe).  There was no recording, there was no pausing to go to the bathroom, and there was no rewinding to see a scene again.  I remember nine years ago when I was pregnant with Zoe, I was encouraged to get a DVR.  The DVR really did change the way I watched television, but I must say Netflix has revolutionized how a watch a television series.  No longer do I need to purchase the entire season on DVD, nor do I have to set the DVR to tape a particular show.  I simply search for the title and start the viewing process.

I wonder how many people binge watch like me.  Maybe this has been going on for years, and I am just now jumping on the bandwagon.  But, believe me, I cannot imagine watching TV any other way.

If 38 is Midlife, I Need To Retire

This morning I read an article called, "This is 38"; if you are interested in reading it (since I am referring to it) click here: THIS IS 38

I am looking forward to 40, probably for only one reason: I will be traveling to Wales to spend time with my best friend, Dana.  However, I can unfortunately state that I do feel older this year.  I can also emphatically state I am much happier with 38 than I was with 18, but maybe not as physically happy as I was at 28.

No matter where you are in life, there is always moments where you take a breath and realize you are in a completely different place than you anticipated years before.

I had no intentions of every having children 12 years ago when I met my husband, Jim.  I was newly out of a disappointing marriage, I was focusing on grad school, and I had my own place.  I was happy; I was independent.  If I was able to travel back in time and talk to that 26 year-old, I would probably slap her in the face and say - WAKE UP!  But what good would that do?  Especially considering she would need to experience the loss of her dear grandma, the change of careers, falling in love, having two beautiful daughters, and making a home from a fixer-upper.  But to think this is the middle?  I completely disagree.

I have been very fortunate to have three of my grandparents live a very long time, and one live almost just as long.  My father's parents are 85 and 90, and my mother's father will turn 95 next month.  I sincerely believe in the power of genes, therefore, 38 is not middle age (maybe 45 is...but then again my grandparents are still aging).

Not my mother, nor my children.  However, you get the point.

When I think of living in "the middle" I think of my amazing mother. She takes care of her elderly father, who refuses to leave his home, and she watches my sister's special needs daughter at least once a week.  I do not think I'm in the middle of this life, but still diligently peddling up the hill.  I appreciate the point of Lindsey Mead in her above article.  We all hit the "middle" at different points, but I do believe we should no longer believe 40 is over the hill or in the middle of our story.

I am looking forward to writing new chapters to my story, one that will probably amaze me looking back 20 years from now.  Where will the road on the other side of the hill lead?  That is the excitement that keeps life exciting and unpredictable; and truthfully what writes a great story.  Let the future begin!

A Case For Not Attending My 20th Reunion

As some of you know, I was bullied quite badly when I was younger.  Even though time heals the wounds inflicted emotionally by others, it isn't a time I have simply forgotten.  By the time I was in high school I had established a group of friends who were more like me than when I was younger.  The bullying continued, but I was preoccupied with my interests to let it bother me.

Fast forward 20 years, and what do you have?  A class reunion.  I never saw myself attending another reunion after the completely uncomfortable five-year.  So I won't surprise any reader by stating the obvious: I am not going to attend the reunion dinner nor the family event the day after.

I have been reorganizing the Martin home, and I found Jim's yearbook.  Even though he graduated from a different high school, in a different city, a year before me, the people seemed to be just the same.  It was almost uncanny the similarities in people.  It was amazing how two separate situation could produce the same groups, cliques, etc.

I thought I would be a bit more specific to why I am not going to attend the reunion festivities.

Here are my reasons:

1. Social Networking
Facebook has completely eliminated the need to wonder what "insert name here" looks like or if "insert name here" ever went bald, grew fat, and/or changed.  With a very simple search, I can voyeuristically answer any question I have clinging to a balloon in my mind.  I can be in control to what others see, who can search for me, and catch up with old friends.  But what used to be reason to see classmates at a reunion (curiosity, unresolved issues, etc.) can be easily achieved by social networking.

2. People Never Change
I am not referring to those individuals who quit smoking, or decide to try a new hairstyle.  But it is naive and oftentimes heartbreaking to believe people can change their immature behaviors.  Popular then?  Still popular now with the same crowd of people.  To prove my point, we have a Facebook page commemorating the reunion.  Initially we had people posting pictures of high school stuff.  I am in one - from my dear friend, Jahna.  But in every other photo (over 100) I am in none.  Why?  Because I was not part of the parties, the get-togethers, the dates.  I was part of another group of friends, most of which left before me (see below).

Now there is information regarding the venue, price, etc. on the Facebook page.  Since then people are posting when they send in their checks.  Currently "Team Football" is winning.  Is this a surprise?

3. Friends Come and Go
I was quite close to the students who graduated a year before me.  When they graduated, I made friendships with underclassmen.  I had such difficulties trusting people in my class (from years of bullying), that I found peace with individuals who were younger or older.  I have a few close friends who I have had since high school: Dana, Jahna, and Joe from my class, and Rachel from a year after.  I also have remained in contact with other friends, but I have not lost contact with anyone I hold dear.

For me, high school was a season of my life; one of which is nicely packaged in a black and white box.  I am perfectly happy keeping the box wrapped and move forward in my life.

I Dreamt of My House Again...

....but this time it was different.

This time I was able to make the negative energy leave, and I was finally able to enter the attic without panic.  It was as if I finally got to the place I have been hoping to visit all this time.  

Maybe I should start from the beginning.  

Since I can remember, I have had dreams about a house.  Sometimes I am driving to find the house, sometimes I am walking to find it, and other times I am in one of its many rooms.  For awhile I was able to bring different people into the dream with me; almost as if I was lucid dreaming.  I often find myself traveling through the rooms and saw the Gothic decorating scheme.  However, it didn't matter if I climbed the red velvet staircases or if I took the elevator to the top level, each time I was met with adversity. 

Sometimes the adversity was ghosts, sometimes it was me waking up, and sometimes I spent too much time in other rooms to care about the attic. Quite often I am driving to locate the home; and I can see it's exterior before I awake.  In the dream I am very familiar with this home, and I have come to the conclusion I have lived there in another life.

However, the other night I dreamt of my house again, but this time I was able to fight the negative energy and make it up to the attic.  I made peace with those whose paintings hung on the walls, and I was able to view the land outside the gabled window.  The crazy thing is at the end of the dream I flew out the window over the land and looked backwards at my home.  I was at total peace, but also kind of bummed because I could have rather hung out in the house.

I looked up an analysis for these reoccurring dreams.  Here is what it says about dreams of an attic:

Attic
To see an attic in your dream represents hidden memories or repressed thoughts that is being revealed. It also symbolizes your mind, spirituality, and your connection to the higher Self. Alternatively, it signifies difficulties in your life that may hinder you from attaining your goals and aspirations. However, after a long period of struggle, you will overcome these difficulties.

To see a cluttered attic in your dream, is a sign to organize your mind and thoughts. Perhaps, you need to rid yourself of the past and let go of the past emotions that are holding you back.

Here is other applicable analyses:

House (General)

To see a house in your dream represents your own soul and self. Specific rooms in the house indicate a specific aspect of your psyche. In general, the attic represents your intellect, the basement represents the unconscious, etc. If the house is empty, then it indicates feelings of insecurity. If the house is shifting, then it suggests that you are going through some personal changes and changing your belief system. To dream that a house has no walls, represents a lack of privacy. You feel that everyone is looking over your shoulder or up in your business.

To dream that water is rising up in your house, suggests that you are becoming overwhelmed by your emotions.
Window
To see a window in your dream signifies bright hopes, vast possibilities and insight. If the window of a house is dark, then it indicates a loss to your perception or vitality.

To dream that you are looking out the window signifies your outlook on life, your consciousness and your point of view. It also refers to your intuition and awareness. You may be reflecting on a decision. Or you need to go out into the larger world and experience life. If you are looking in the window, then it indicates that you are doing some soul searching and looking within yourself. It is time for some introspection. To see another face in the window in your dream suggests that you are feeling emotionally distant and physically detached. Also consider the emotion depicted on the face.

Everyday is a Learning Opportunity

After reading many Facebook posts about school letting out for summer, I thought I would share my feelings regarding the subject.

Most educators anticipate and celebrate the upcoming summer months.  I completely understand the desire and necessity to rejuvenate, revitalize, and relax so that one can be a better teacher in the fall.  This is the first year I am actually NOT teaching this summer.  I have offered summer lessons for the past 20 summers (doesn't seem possible, but alas it is true), but felt that my family needed my undivided energy and focus this year.

So I imagine most will find what I write next as a complete contradiction to above.

An Arbitrary Date
I have always felt sorry for teachers when the end of the school year approaches.  National and state benchmarks are needed to be met, but 99% of the time books and curriculum are never finished.  A few of the items are sent home with families on the last day of school (everything but the books that can be reused in the fall), but teachers never assume all students complete the materials during the summer months.  In fact, I know that only a fraction of my private students will practice daily over the summer break, let alone practice at all.

We all know the last week (or weeks) of school are flooded by picnics, field trips, and other fun activities that put traditional curriculum on the back burner.  During the school year, teachers must comply by the requirements put in place by those in charge and therefore, not able to complete everything.  There is also a mindset with children (and their parents) that it is okay to "turn it off" in the summertime.  After all, children are force-fed so much information that a break is definitely needed.  In many cases children are taught to do schoolwork like it is a race, rather than at their own pace which only leads to partial learning.

I can remember the countless tests I studied for and memorized the important dates, definitions, and information, just to simply forget it the day after the test.  Garbage In/Garbage Out I would say.  And I still use this analogy with my students today.  I am not teaching children to learn a song so they can play it/sing it for the recital.  I am teaching students to become musicians - to truly understand what they are learning, so they can one day not need me anymore.

And isn't it interesting that one school ends on one date and another school ends on another date?  I know it has to do with days in school, per government regulations, and how many days are not taught during the "school year".  However, I think the "last day of school" is only an arbitrary date on the calendar.  I have been very aware of this mindset, so I have done my best to engage the Ladybugs in learning activities throughout the summer months.  However, if one homeschools there never has to be a break from the daily grind, the testing, and the ridiculous benchmarks made by people who no longer have a pulse on the changing education dynamics, because there isn't any of that.  There is simply learning.

So What Does This Really Mean?
I believe that learning shouldn't simply happen between 8am and 3pm, Monday thru Friday, September (or end of August) thru the beginning of June (or end of May).  What if school was all year and the students and teachers had breaks throughout the school year?  Like a week here and two weeks there.  And more breaks throughout the day, rather than one recess at lunchtime.  I remember getting three recesses when I was in school, and having an hour for lunch.  Now there is barely enough time to scarf down a lunch and run off steam to be gathered back into the classroom.  And people wonder why we have so many kids with attention problems.

Therefore, rather than the proverbial summer slide, students would move at a steady pace and truly learn about the subject(s).  Students could move into curriculum and objectives when they were ready, rather than when someone sitting in an office thinks it is time.  We could return to a time when school was taught to learn and not to determine who was the smartest or the best.  School used to be a privilege when the public school system was created; now in many cases school is a prison.

I have to agree that with the amount of "stuff" given to students for 9 months of the year, they do need time off to recuperate.  But what is the answer?  I do not have the answer, just ideas that float around in my head.  I do know that with my Ladybugs they each learn differently and at different paces.  Some material is taught and the light bulb goes on quickly, and in other cases the light bulb needs more time to glow.  They also have completely different interests and it is obvious when we are working on daily tasks.

The one thing I've learned this year is that no one situation works for everyone.  Homeschool is not for everyone, just like private nor public is made for everyone.  The bigger issue is that so many people judge others for the decisions they make for their families, rather than embracing that we all must make decisions based on what is right for our own family.

This reminds me of a quote attributed to Einstein (there is much speculation regarding the origins):

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

Romanticizing Abuse

When I was a little girl I was in love with LOVE.

The soundtrack of my life was sprinkled with show tunes and love ballads.  I knew one day I would fall in love with a troubled man who would change with my love and support.  Why is this?  Because of Musical Theater and Soap Operas.

Soap Operas
From a very early age I have memories of watching soap operas with my mom, grandma Ardis and grandpa Ray.  Lunch began at 12pm, but at 12:30 Ryan's Hope graced the airwaves on our television screen.  It was followed a half-hour later by All My Children, then One Life to Live, and finally General Hospital.  However, All My Children was my mom's personal favorite, and oftentimes the plot lines would be discussed on the phone or in person with my grandparents.  Why?  Because this was before DVRs, VCRs, and cable television.  How could life exist without "my stories"!

Even if you have never watched an episode of All My Children, everyone has heard of Erica Kane.  By the time I began watching, she was on husband six...or was it seven at that time?  It was all about passionate encounters, and chemistry provoked kisses.  And what little girl would not be in awe of the costume changes and how men were bending over backwards to please Erica?  Well, I can tell you this: I was definitely going to be like Erica.

American Musicals
This blog was inspired by a Facebook status message from my cousin.  She had gone to see Oliver! (a musical based on Dickens's book, Oliver Twist) over the weekend and was appalled by the story line between the leading woman, Nancy, and her abusive boyfriend, Bill.  I know the musical well, and I recall the song, "As Long As He Needs Me".  The leading woman states, "in spite of what you see, I know that he needs me."  And we see him physically abusing her throughout the show.  The only "need" he has is her ability to help him steal Oliver.  But through all of his words and actions, Nancy "knows" he "needs" her and always will.

I brought up the point that there is also an abusive relationship in the musical Carousel.  Interestingly enough, the abusive character's name is also Bill (Billy).  In both cases, the woman is convinced the man is in love with her even though he shows different behavior. Although, in Carousel Bill at least alludes the fact he "could" love Julie, as heard in "If I Loved You."  Regardless, he is not a good guy; maybe one could prove he realizes his wrongs when he is in heaven.  But the point is - the story is the same.

Thoughts For Tomorrow
Yes, there are classic books, television shows, and musicals.  But in some cases I think we as an audience need to make certain classics are to be read, and not seen.  I am in no case suggesting censorship  but I do believe that directors and actors are unaware how a little girl can get captivated by a magical musical world.  This woman knows that years of failed relationships were definitely influenced by what I watched and heard. I certainly hope that I can continue the legacy of loving musicals, without having my girls experience abusive behavior as normal.

Sick of Being Sick

or...Did You Know Adenoids Can Grow Back?

Almost 30 years ago I had my tonsils and adenoids removed.  I am told that my adenoids were so bad it took 45 minutes to remove the tissue.  What I remember is the frequent throat infections, and the long recovery after the surgery.  I definitely did not get the copious amounts of ice cream my grandfather insisted would be given when I woke from surgery.  I was simply given a wet rag...a wet rag.  The thought of it turns my stomach today, but at the time my throat was so dry I relished in its liquid.  I then proceeded to vomit for the next 12 hours, or so it seemed like that.  What was intended to be outpatient surgery was one of the most horrific experiences of my young life.  The fact that I still remember quite a bit of the event also speaks highly of its effect on me.

How Did I Figure This Out?
I have not been feeling well.  I cancelled two routine check-ups with my doctor, due to conflicting schedule stuff.  However, I really thought something was wrong.  I made the appointment last Monday, before I received the email asking me to pull my blog.  Once I received the email, I quickly knew I would need adjustment to my anxiety prescription as well.  As the week progressed, I began to have a soreness in my throat.  I attributed it to the stress, and I worried that it was my blood pressure.  I have high blood pressure, but it is regulated with a prescription as well.

When the nurse checked me in, I told her why I originally made the appointment.  Then I shared with her the throat thing.  She took my temperature, and I had a fever.  Fantastic.  My blood pressure was perfect, so the throat thing must be an infection.  The doctor had me say, "ah," and he quickly stated that I had adenoiditis.  "But I don't have adenoids," I replied.  "They grew back," he stated.  Fantastic.  Apparently tonsils are removed as a whole unit, the adenoids are scraped.  Therefore, little seeds can remain and grow new adenoids.  Maybe they are back to being huge again.  This would explain my snoring lately.

At least I am starting to have more motivation that I have since Christmas.  I also seem to be focusing more on the positives around me.

The End of A Long Week

...or Thank God for Xanex!

I know there is a greater purpose for what I have been experiencing this week (and the last month in general), and logically I know the storm will pass (most likely leaving debris everywhere to be cleaned up...but that's another blog).  I also believe in karma; not because I hope people "get their due," but because I believe that by loving and caring for others, I too will receive love and support in return.

I have been humbled by those who have stepped forward and thanked me for my recent blog on bullying.  I have been approached by so many readers (in person and online) who want to show appreciation for my open and honest take on the subject.  Even though I felt it appropriate to remove certain content until a future date, I feel the essence of my beliefs remains in the words not affected by this decision.

The truth is, I have forgiven the people who bullied me years ago and even those who have hurt me recently.  But I am unable to forget the pain that I endured at their words and actions.  Due to my past, I believe I am able to identify bullying and volatile situations easier than someone who has not experienced the pain, the stress, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness.  I was surprised that I hit a nerve with some who felt I was being too unkind to children.  Some thought I wasn't taking into consideration that children are born into sin, and therefore unable to always choose the right words or actions.

Please let me make myself clear: I do believe that some children are unkind (or other more descriptive names) by nature and/or nurture.  However, to me it does not matter whether one believes a child is born into sin or whether one believes that a child does not understand their words and/or actions.  What I am stating is that I believe it is sad and lazy if we as parents and educators simply brush off a child's behavior as "normal" or "how all children are".  Yes, children often speak their minds, and yes, many times what they say is unkind or hurtful.  However, it is our job as parents and teachers to instruct children how to behave (and not behave) toward others.  It is not merely a result of one teacher doing her best to redirect conversations. We need to have assemblies, conversations, and really enforce bullying situations with consequences.  We also need to have children feel that their opinions and feelings matter.  Even if a teacher or adult does not perceive the situation as bullying, the student may feel differently.

And we cannot ignore what a child perceives happened, because after all our opinions are directly influenced by how we feel about our environment.  As a parent it is hard to believe everything my girls tell me, but it is critical to listen to what they are saying because to them it is important.  I was very lucky to have a mother who listened to my tangents of thought each night after dinner.  I do not believe the teachers at the school understood the deep hurt I felt with friendships, nor was the idea of getting bullied at the forefront of conversations.  However, my mother listened.  I oftentimes heard, "you just have a difficult group of kids in your grade/class."  Which in retrospect is like saying, "kids will be kids."  But the fact remains: my mother was a saint for listening.

The Minor Fall, The Major Lift
The tricky part of bullying is that most of the time children aren't chanting the taunting minor third, "na na na na na." to another child, nor are there bruises or wedgies from bullies obtaining lunch money.  That is stuff in which movies are made.  Unfortunately we as parents and educators are influenced by what we see, and oftentimes serious situations go unnoticed.  But I can tell you from my own experience that bullying happens at church, at Girl Scout meetings (in front of my mother), and during classroom group projects.  So it hurts me when people dismiss situations in which a child or children are getting belittled, or when parents and/or teachers think the problem has been resolved.  Ask the child/children involved...they will tell you when they feel safe and comfortable.

Yes, I was a victim of bullying, but nothing is quite so crushing as having your child a victim herself.  When I described the situation in the bullying blog post, I was sharing frustration based on a long conversation with Zoebug, as well as an email from her teacher.  I did state that her teacher deflected the conversations between the children, but the other children are not MY child.  And MY child was still upset when she came home from school.  In fact, it took until the following evening (and a school tour) for Zoebug to move past the situation.  Maybe other children were also affected, hurt, stressed, and confused, but I am not their Mother.  I also feel that the fears of these children could have possibly prevented if the school had an assembly or meeting for the entire school (parents, children, teachers, etc.) to discuss how to move forward without fears.  It is these fears that can and do fuel children's reactions to others, and in many cases lead to teasing and bullying.

Trustworthy Relationships
The most difficult part of this week has been determining whom I can trust.  The answer is a small few.  But this is not the first time I have had to make the hard decision to eliminate people from my heart and my life.

And with that, I leave you this: