I got this via e-mail this morning, and I couldn't agree more! I'm not sure where it originated, but it appears to have been written by Lewis Napper, a Libertarian from Mississippi.
NEW PREAMBLE TO THE CONSTITUTION
'We the sensible people of the United States , in an attempt to help everyone get along, restore some semblance of justice, avoid more riots, keep our nation safe, promote positive behavior, and secure the blessings of debt-free liberty to ourselves and our great-great-great-grandchildren, hereby try one more time to ordain and establish some common sense guidelines for the terminally whiny, guilt ridden, delusional. We hold these truths to be self evident: that a whole lot of people are confused by the Bill of Rights and are so dim they require a Bill of NON-Rights.'
ARTICLE I:
You do not have the right to a new car, big screen TV, or any other form of wealth. More power to you if you can legally acquire them, but no one is guaranteeing anything.
ARTICLE II:
You do not have the right to never be offended. This country is based on freedom, and that means freedom for everyone -- not just you! You may leave the room, turn the channel, express a different opinion, etc.; but the world is full of idiots, and probably always will be.
ARTICLE III:
You do not have the right to be free from harm. If you stick a screwdriver in your eye, learn to be more careful; do not expect the tool manufacturer to make you and all your relatives independently wealthy.
ARTICLE IV:
You do not have the right to free food and housing. Americans are the most charitable people to be found, and will gladly help anyone in need, but we are quickly growing weary of subsidizing generation after generation of professional couch potatoes who achieve nothing more than the creation of another generation of professional couch potatoes.
ARTICLE V:
You do not have the right to free health care. That would be nice, but from the looks of public housing, we're just not interested in public health care.
ARTICLE VI:
You do not have the right to physically harm other people. If you kidnap, rape, intentionally maim, or kill someone, don't be surprised if the rest of us want to see you fry in the electric chair.
ARTICLE VII:
You do not have the right to the possessions of others. If you rob, cheat, or coerce away the goods or services of other citizens, don't be surprised if the rest of us get together and lock you away in a place where you still won't have the right to a big screen color TV or a life of leisure.
ARTICLE VIII:
You do not have the right to a job. All of us sure want you to have a job, and will gladly help you along in hard times, but we expect you to take advantage of the opportunities of education and vocational training laid before you to make yourself useful. AMEN and AMEN.
ARTICLE IX:
You do not have the right to happiness. Being an American means that you have the right to PURSUE happiness, which by the way, is a lot easier if you are unencumbered by an over abundance of idiotic laws created by those of you who were confused by the Bill of Rights.
ARTICLE X:
This is an English speaking country . We don't car e where you are from, English is our language. Learn it or go back to wherever you came from!
Lastly
ARTICLE XI:
You do not have the right to change our country's history or heritage. This country was founded on the belief in one true God. And yet, you are given the freedom to believe in any religion, any faith, or no faith at all; with no fear of persecution. The phrase IN GOD WE TRUST is part of our heritage and history, and if you are uncomfortable with it, TOUGH!
If you agree, share this with a friend. No, you don't have to, and nothing tragic will befall you if you don't. I just think it's about time common sense is allowed to flourish. Sensible people of the United States - speak out because if you do not, who will?
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Stay Home Moms, by Angie Alexander
So, you know how people are always saying “if only I were 15 again…”? YEAH RIGHT!!! Not only was I going through the craziest times in a young girls’ life, but I got pregnant with my first daughter. “How could this happen?” Oh, I know how it happened, but it wasn’t supposed to make me pregnant! All my friends were doing those things too, but nobody gets pregnant, right? Wrong.
But, I still finished high school, listening to everyone in class talking about what they were doing each Friday night, while I knew that I would be changing diapers. If I got really lucky, we might even have saved enough money to eat out, at McDonald’s no doubt!
Then I went on to college to achieve a Bachelor of Science, with an area major in Learning and Behavior Disorders, imagine that. I probably had a masters in that field by the time I was 14. I had been analyzed by every shrink in my home town, and other towns for that matter. Yeah, I guess you could say that I was pretty much trouble when I was younger. Let me just say this, I knew all of the police officers by name, and they knew mine. If it wasn’t me they were coming to see, it was my parents that were getting the courtesy call.
So anyway, after four years of working two jobs, raising two children (one of those being my ex-husband), I did something no one else in my family had done. I graduated from college. I was so proud of myself. It felt good to accomplish so much while raising my beautiful daughter and just growing up myself. My education, my working so much, and my divorce had caught up with me and I was ready for a break from everything. That’s when the next chapter of my life started.
I finally met a man who treated me nice. I had just sworn off men for a while and wasn’t really looking for anything serious. We started dating, having a good time while I was waiting to start teaching, when it happened again. That’s right, pregnant again! Now, with him having two girls, me having one, and one on the way, I went from one child to four in a matter of months.
He had a good job and that gave me the option to stay home with the kids. I’d always wondered what it would be like to get the kids off to school, be there when they got home, and be able to play with the little one while he was growing up. This would be great! What the hell was I thinking?
It doesn’t stop there. With the two of us being the most fertile people in the world, we quickly had two more children. That’s three babies in three years! The movie “Cheaper By The Dozen” was starting to look within reach. Now I’m looking at four girls and two boys every morning and night. What happened to the big plans that I had? The only time I get to use my education is when I’m putting someone in the “time-out” chair or my husband is coming home from men’s night at the golf course.
The typical “Stay Home Mom” day goes like this:
The clock says 5:15 and my husband is leaving for work. He kisses my head and I say “Good-bye, love you,” as I’m thinking, “If you will hurry up and leave, I may get 45 minutes of precious sleep!” I hear an annoying beeping from the baby monitor upstairs letting me know that my twelve year old daughter, Jorden, is getting up to get ready for school. Next, I hear the familiar sound of the upstairs baby gate being banged on and, “Mommy, I’m up!” from my two year old son Zachary. It’s now 5:50 and my bed is just getting comfortable, but he is consistent with the yells and if I don’t respond quickly everyone will be up. As I make my way to the stairs, shoes, socks, and the day’s clothes ricochet from all parts of my body. At this point I’m realizing that I have yet to pee, but oh well the King awaits. We brush his teeth, get him dressed, and stick our heads in to make sure Jorden is not back in bed. She’s up but not happy to see us, so we head back downstairs. My feet hit the last step when my ten month old, Hayden, is crying out and ready to join the fun. Zach and Hayden get fixed on the couch with me serving them their morning milk cups and turning on “The Wiggles.” Here is the perfect chance for me to finally pee, brush my teeth, and if no one is hitting each other, I get to do my two minute “ready for the day” look.
I empty the dishwasher, with Hayden’s help of course, and start laundry. Laundry is an everyday job when there are so many people. As I fold the clothes coming out of the dryer, the wrecking crew is unfolding them just as fast.
It’s now 7:00 and time for Jorden to leave for school and she is nowhere to be found. I call for her and she rushes down the stairs with wet hair and one shoe on and one shoe off. I remind her that the dogs need to be fed and she gives me the “go to hell!” look and keeps on trucking. Zach wants to go help with the dogs and WWIII starts. Of course, he wins and goes out to assist. So, now we have to spend the next thirty minutes outside waving bye to Jorden and playing outside. My last conversation with anyone over three years old has just passed me by and most of the time it ends with explicit words and “You're mean!” Hayden has had his daily ration of grass, Zach has two new boo-boos, and the monitor sends out yet another call for me to tend to business.
I gather up the troops and head inside to get the long sleeping Morgan. We start the brushing of the teeth and all morning routines, all the while Zach and Hayden see opportunity to touch everything normally off limits. Books everywhere, snacks half chewed, and chairs in places that leaves no doubt that they have crawled in all the upper cabinets. Now we have to clean up again before starting breakfast.
It’s 8:00 and time for pancakes and cheesy eggs. Everyone is worried about helping the other, so nobody is eating. Spilled drinks and scattered eggs make for a wonderful décor, but it just doesn’t go with the rest of the house. Plates are taken to the counter, and the contents that were on the plates don’t always make it. Nothing feels more appealing on bare feet than scrambled eggs.
I glance over at my to-do list as I start another load of laundry. The weekly menu, grocery list, and cleaning downstairs of house are on the board for today. I pop in Barney so I can get started dusting. The inventor of Barney knew just the right amount of time it would take to clean two bathrooms, two bedrooms, dining room, living room, sunroom, and laundry room. I have to participate in the songs and dances when I pass through or they will notice I’m not sitting with them. Amazingly, I manage to be only ten minutes past the “I love you, you love me..” song in finishing.
We head outside again to drain some energy from the rug rats. I try to straighten up the garage a little bit, play kickball, get shot by the bank robbers with the water guns, and manage to keep Hayden from eating more than one pound of mulch. Morgan has had her fair share of sand from the sand box, and everyone is now thirsty. But guess what, it’s 11:00 and time to get ready for lunch.
Once again, another meal full of action. Some are tired, some are hungry, and some just don’t want to cooperate. My only thought is that nap time is around the corner. Not that I will sit down, but at least I can go to the bathroom without an entourage.
After an hour of spilling and cleaning up, we finally make it to nap time. Hayden first, then Zach, then Morgan. Each step involves several visits from the last one standing. And if they don’t come in the room while I am putting one down, I get really nervous. You know the old saying, “while the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
Finally, they are all down and my real fun begins. Scrubbing floors and folding clothes that have been folded once already. I know that I usually have at least 45 minutes before someone wakes up. If I go fast enough I might get to eat and check our endless e-mails on the computer. My fingernails could possibly get painted if they sleep an hour.
It seems like only seconds when the vicious cycle begins again, Zach is up. Morgan has some type of sixth sense that she is missing something, so soon after she wanders from her room. Milk cups, Spongebob, and snacks are in order. The familiar argument of “my mommy!”, “no, my mommy!” starts, and I start reassuring that, even though I can’t believe it, I am the Mommy of both. This fight carries on long enough to raise Hayden from bed. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him until he has his milk. Yeah, he may not like it, but he gets poked and pulled by every part of his body. It’s surprising that his ears aren’t twelve inches long as much as they are pulled and stretched.
We head downstairs to play for a while and try to get the “grumpies” out. While everyone is occupied with toys, I start the menu for next week. I try to think of different things each week, but it seems like the same thing from week to week. Anyway, I use the menu to fill out my grocery list. I have to go upstairs to check if the girls are out of shampoo, lotion, etc. When I return it is like a full blown poopy fest. Everyone has either used the bathroom or needs to.
So, we head back upstairs to get everyone cleaned up before starting supper. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard the saying “too many cooks in the kitchen,” but this is definitely what is going on. Some are pulling out all the pots and pans, some have the ingredients spread out on the floor, and some are taste testing a few of the items. I take a minute to clear the kitchen and turn on Barney again. Hey, say what you want but what ever it takes.
Yes, it’s 4:30 and Jorden will be home soon. I know she is only twelve, but the conversation is about to get a little bit more interesting. Plus, she can help entertain the “shorties” for a while. I’m hoping to have supper on the table by 5:00.
Only fifteen minutes late, we sit down for a wonderful experience. Spaghetti sauce is everywhere. Some on shirts, in hair, up noses, and of course, on the floor. No one will quit talking through the whole meal. One is wanting more, one doesn’t want any, and Hayden is just squeezing his with both hands.
We manage to finish supper without me having a nervous breakdown and clean up the mess. Of course, all want to head outside again. I’m ready for that too because I can smoke a cigarette. Man is this the best cigarette I have ever tasted or what? Jorden and I have our routine argument over her after supper chores and everyone is screaming. I’m just watching the clock praying it will go much faster. And of course, someone finds some water and they all get in. So, the outside trip is coming to an end.
We go in to get pj’s on and make milk cups. Snuggling and Spongebob are now in order. I’m just noticing that it’s almost time for Hayden to go to bed. It’s also time for the countdown for Laken and Tristan, my stepdaughters, to arrive with my husband. He picks them up when he gets off work and they stay at our house for the weekend. So, needless to say, Zach and Morgan are getting excited again.
Hayden is gone to bed and we move to the front porch to wait on the arrival of Daddy and the Girls. Jorden gets home from walking the dog when everyone else is arriving. Talk about a circus. Everyone is hugging, chasing, stealing each other's stuff, and for sure fighting. Someone has already made someone else mad about something and I become a referee. But even with the extreme chaos, our family is now complete and I feel good watching the whole gang together.
It’s time to get the other two shorties ready for bed, brushing teeth, prayers, and laying clothes out for tomorrow. After several calls out that they are thirsty, or “I want you to lay with me,” they fall to sleep. It’s starting to get a bit quieter around the house. Then Tristan and Jorden start their routine arguing before bed. Laken is glued to the television because “Drake and Josh” are on. The big kids know that 9:00 is time to be in bed and reading. But when we go to check, some are still watching television. We kiss them good night and talk about what is up the next day for them. Hopefully nothing.
Finally, David and I have a few minutes to relax and talk about our day. Mine is pretty much the same each day, but he entertains me with his day at work. As he is having a bite to eat, I start making out my list of things to do for the next day. It’s really nice to have an adult conversation again. After checking on all the kids, we’re off to bed and rest for tomorrow.
I may not have intended for my life to turn out this way, with all the chaos and not having a job outside the home, but I wouldn’t change it either. It is really tough but very rewarding to see your children growing up right in front of you, and knowing that you have had a huge part of the way they are raised. When I worked two jobs and was raising one child, I always snickered at the women that said they stayed home and they were just worn out. Now I know what they meant. I do still dream of the day that I can get a part-time job, just to get a break from the house. But again, I wouldn’t change my life and would recommend this to any mother. I really couldn’t imagine not being a stay home mom.
But, I still finished high school, listening to everyone in class talking about what they were doing each Friday night, while I knew that I would be changing diapers. If I got really lucky, we might even have saved enough money to eat out, at McDonald’s no doubt!
Then I went on to college to achieve a Bachelor of Science, with an area major in Learning and Behavior Disorders, imagine that. I probably had a masters in that field by the time I was 14. I had been analyzed by every shrink in my home town, and other towns for that matter. Yeah, I guess you could say that I was pretty much trouble when I was younger. Let me just say this, I knew all of the police officers by name, and they knew mine. If it wasn’t me they were coming to see, it was my parents that were getting the courtesy call.
So anyway, after four years of working two jobs, raising two children (one of those being my ex-husband), I did something no one else in my family had done. I graduated from college. I was so proud of myself. It felt good to accomplish so much while raising my beautiful daughter and just growing up myself. My education, my working so much, and my divorce had caught up with me and I was ready for a break from everything. That’s when the next chapter of my life started.
I finally met a man who treated me nice. I had just sworn off men for a while and wasn’t really looking for anything serious. We started dating, having a good time while I was waiting to start teaching, when it happened again. That’s right, pregnant again! Now, with him having two girls, me having one, and one on the way, I went from one child to four in a matter of months.
He had a good job and that gave me the option to stay home with the kids. I’d always wondered what it would be like to get the kids off to school, be there when they got home, and be able to play with the little one while he was growing up. This would be great! What the hell was I thinking?
It doesn’t stop there. With the two of us being the most fertile people in the world, we quickly had two more children. That’s three babies in three years! The movie “Cheaper By The Dozen” was starting to look within reach. Now I’m looking at four girls and two boys every morning and night. What happened to the big plans that I had? The only time I get to use my education is when I’m putting someone in the “time-out” chair or my husband is coming home from men’s night at the golf course.
The typical “Stay Home Mom” day goes like this:
The clock says 5:15 and my husband is leaving for work. He kisses my head and I say “Good-bye, love you,” as I’m thinking, “If you will hurry up and leave, I may get 45 minutes of precious sleep!” I hear an annoying beeping from the baby monitor upstairs letting me know that my twelve year old daughter, Jorden, is getting up to get ready for school. Next, I hear the familiar sound of the upstairs baby gate being banged on and, “Mommy, I’m up!” from my two year old son Zachary. It’s now 5:50 and my bed is just getting comfortable, but he is consistent with the yells and if I don’t respond quickly everyone will be up. As I make my way to the stairs, shoes, socks, and the day’s clothes ricochet from all parts of my body. At this point I’m realizing that I have yet to pee, but oh well the King awaits. We brush his teeth, get him dressed, and stick our heads in to make sure Jorden is not back in bed. She’s up but not happy to see us, so we head back downstairs. My feet hit the last step when my ten month old, Hayden, is crying out and ready to join the fun. Zach and Hayden get fixed on the couch with me serving them their morning milk cups and turning on “The Wiggles.” Here is the perfect chance for me to finally pee, brush my teeth, and if no one is hitting each other, I get to do my two minute “ready for the day” look.
I empty the dishwasher, with Hayden’s help of course, and start laundry. Laundry is an everyday job when there are so many people. As I fold the clothes coming out of the dryer, the wrecking crew is unfolding them just as fast.
It’s now 7:00 and time for Jorden to leave for school and she is nowhere to be found. I call for her and she rushes down the stairs with wet hair and one shoe on and one shoe off. I remind her that the dogs need to be fed and she gives me the “go to hell!” look and keeps on trucking. Zach wants to go help with the dogs and WWIII starts. Of course, he wins and goes out to assist. So, now we have to spend the next thirty minutes outside waving bye to Jorden and playing outside. My last conversation with anyone over three years old has just passed me by and most of the time it ends with explicit words and “You're mean!” Hayden has had his daily ration of grass, Zach has two new boo-boos, and the monitor sends out yet another call for me to tend to business.
I gather up the troops and head inside to get the long sleeping Morgan. We start the brushing of the teeth and all morning routines, all the while Zach and Hayden see opportunity to touch everything normally off limits. Books everywhere, snacks half chewed, and chairs in places that leaves no doubt that they have crawled in all the upper cabinets. Now we have to clean up again before starting breakfast.
It’s 8:00 and time for pancakes and cheesy eggs. Everyone is worried about helping the other, so nobody is eating. Spilled drinks and scattered eggs make for a wonderful décor, but it just doesn’t go with the rest of the house. Plates are taken to the counter, and the contents that were on the plates don’t always make it. Nothing feels more appealing on bare feet than scrambled eggs.
I glance over at my to-do list as I start another load of laundry. The weekly menu, grocery list, and cleaning downstairs of house are on the board for today. I pop in Barney so I can get started dusting. The inventor of Barney knew just the right amount of time it would take to clean two bathrooms, two bedrooms, dining room, living room, sunroom, and laundry room. I have to participate in the songs and dances when I pass through or they will notice I’m not sitting with them. Amazingly, I manage to be only ten minutes past the “I love you, you love me..” song in finishing.
We head outside again to drain some energy from the rug rats. I try to straighten up the garage a little bit, play kickball, get shot by the bank robbers with the water guns, and manage to keep Hayden from eating more than one pound of mulch. Morgan has had her fair share of sand from the sand box, and everyone is now thirsty. But guess what, it’s 11:00 and time to get ready for lunch.
Once again, another meal full of action. Some are tired, some are hungry, and some just don’t want to cooperate. My only thought is that nap time is around the corner. Not that I will sit down, but at least I can go to the bathroom without an entourage.
After an hour of spilling and cleaning up, we finally make it to nap time. Hayden first, then Zach, then Morgan. Each step involves several visits from the last one standing. And if they don’t come in the room while I am putting one down, I get really nervous. You know the old saying, “while the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
Finally, they are all down and my real fun begins. Scrubbing floors and folding clothes that have been folded once already. I know that I usually have at least 45 minutes before someone wakes up. If I go fast enough I might get to eat and check our endless e-mails on the computer. My fingernails could possibly get painted if they sleep an hour.
It seems like only seconds when the vicious cycle begins again, Zach is up. Morgan has some type of sixth sense that she is missing something, so soon after she wanders from her room. Milk cups, Spongebob, and snacks are in order. The familiar argument of “my mommy!”, “no, my mommy!” starts, and I start reassuring that, even though I can’t believe it, I am the Mommy of both. This fight carries on long enough to raise Hayden from bed. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him until he has his milk. Yeah, he may not like it, but he gets poked and pulled by every part of his body. It’s surprising that his ears aren’t twelve inches long as much as they are pulled and stretched.
We head downstairs to play for a while and try to get the “grumpies” out. While everyone is occupied with toys, I start the menu for next week. I try to think of different things each week, but it seems like the same thing from week to week. Anyway, I use the menu to fill out my grocery list. I have to go upstairs to check if the girls are out of shampoo, lotion, etc. When I return it is like a full blown poopy fest. Everyone has either used the bathroom or needs to.
So, we head back upstairs to get everyone cleaned up before starting supper. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard the saying “too many cooks in the kitchen,” but this is definitely what is going on. Some are pulling out all the pots and pans, some have the ingredients spread out on the floor, and some are taste testing a few of the items. I take a minute to clear the kitchen and turn on Barney again. Hey, say what you want but what ever it takes.
Yes, it’s 4:30 and Jorden will be home soon. I know she is only twelve, but the conversation is about to get a little bit more interesting. Plus, she can help entertain the “shorties” for a while. I’m hoping to have supper on the table by 5:00.
Only fifteen minutes late, we sit down for a wonderful experience. Spaghetti sauce is everywhere. Some on shirts, in hair, up noses, and of course, on the floor. No one will quit talking through the whole meal. One is wanting more, one doesn’t want any, and Hayden is just squeezing his with both hands.
We manage to finish supper without me having a nervous breakdown and clean up the mess. Of course, all want to head outside again. I’m ready for that too because I can smoke a cigarette. Man is this the best cigarette I have ever tasted or what? Jorden and I have our routine argument over her after supper chores and everyone is screaming. I’m just watching the clock praying it will go much faster. And of course, someone finds some water and they all get in. So, the outside trip is coming to an end.
We go in to get pj’s on and make milk cups. Snuggling and Spongebob are now in order. I’m just noticing that it’s almost time for Hayden to go to bed. It’s also time for the countdown for Laken and Tristan, my stepdaughters, to arrive with my husband. He picks them up when he gets off work and they stay at our house for the weekend. So, needless to say, Zach and Morgan are getting excited again.
Hayden is gone to bed and we move to the front porch to wait on the arrival of Daddy and the Girls. Jorden gets home from walking the dog when everyone else is arriving. Talk about a circus. Everyone is hugging, chasing, stealing each other's stuff, and for sure fighting. Someone has already made someone else mad about something and I become a referee. But even with the extreme chaos, our family is now complete and I feel good watching the whole gang together.
It’s time to get the other two shorties ready for bed, brushing teeth, prayers, and laying clothes out for tomorrow. After several calls out that they are thirsty, or “I want you to lay with me,” they fall to sleep. It’s starting to get a bit quieter around the house. Then Tristan and Jorden start their routine arguing before bed. Laken is glued to the television because “Drake and Josh” are on. The big kids know that 9:00 is time to be in bed and reading. But when we go to check, some are still watching television. We kiss them good night and talk about what is up the next day for them. Hopefully nothing.
Finally, David and I have a few minutes to relax and talk about our day. Mine is pretty much the same each day, but he entertains me with his day at work. As he is having a bite to eat, I start making out my list of things to do for the next day. It’s really nice to have an adult conversation again. After checking on all the kids, we’re off to bed and rest for tomorrow.
I may not have intended for my life to turn out this way, with all the chaos and not having a job outside the home, but I wouldn’t change it either. It is really tough but very rewarding to see your children growing up right in front of you, and knowing that you have had a huge part of the way they are raised. When I worked two jobs and was raising one child, I always snickered at the women that said they stayed home and they were just worn out. Now I know what they meant. I do still dream of the day that I can get a part-time job, just to get a break from the house. But again, I wouldn’t change my life and would recommend this to any mother. I really couldn’t imagine not being a stay home mom.
Last Year's Christmas Letter (that was never mailed)
I'm a terrible procrastinator. Really. I don't hink I've ever mailed out a Christmas letter on time. And last year, I had it all typed up, envelopes addressed, copies made - and never went to the post office. So to all my friends and family who received neither present nor letter, this post is for you!!
And she writes....
Well, here I am again, writing a Christmas letter that may or may not get mailed by Halloween of next year (it didn't - obviously). If by some miraculous circumstance this letter arrives sometime during the holidays, we will all know that some sort of divine intervention took place!!! So, belated or not, here’s the Farthing Family Holiday Update.
If you have received this letter and have absolutely no idea who it may be from, don’t be surprised. If you’re a friend of mine, I may not have told you that I got married. So, if you remember Karen Reinhard – that’s me. If you still don’t know who this is from, you must be associated with my husband and he is notorious for not introducing me. So, HI!!!! I’m Karen, this is the annual letter (which you may or may not get during the Holidays since I normally send it late), and I hope you call Chuck to let him know that you got the Christmas letter from his really strange wife (ha!).
Anyway…..We all know what a procrastinator I am, and this year is no exception. It’s the third week of December, and I have yet to buy a single gift. I have several projects that have been left unfinished, and my house looks like it normally does (somewhere between “disaster area” and “nuclear holocaust”). Hey – if you want to visit me, come over anytime. If you want to visit the house, I’ll need for you to make an appointment. Currently, the schedule for the house is pretty full, but I could probably pencil you in, say, April Fool’s Day of 2012.
Anyway, projects. I have one unfinished project that irks me on a daily basis, but I just can’t seem to find the motivation to finish it. I will, someday. Hopefully someday soon. I’m wishing myself good luck with it, but so far my wishes have not come true.
So, I have these stairs. These particular stairs used to be covered in carpet. This summer, I decided that I hated the carpet on the stairs and ripped it up (not something my husband was happy with, by the way). And guess what? I have beautiful hardwood stairs. Well, they would be beautiful if I were to refinish them. Having neither the time nor the money to do it right, I decided to paint them. I decided to paint the walls in the foyer and up the stairs, as well. Again, this is not something that Chuck is happy about.
Three days before Thanksgiving, I started taping and painting walls and stairs. The walls look great (except for that one spot near the ceiling that I couldn’t reach, but you can’t really see it. Unless you look right at it, but who looks at the ceiling anyway?). But the stairs, well…. Okay, so I didn’t like one of the colors I chose for the stairs. Of course, I didn’t realize this until the paint was already on the stairs. So, I bought some new paint and started again. Needless to say, I ran out of time and didn’t get the job done. Now I have stairs with three different colors on them, tape still attached (in a different color, of course), one of the handrails has not been reattached to the wall – you get the picture. My foyer looks like something out of “Bear in the Big Blue House”. The kids like it, but, again, this is not something that my husband is happy about. It’s a good thing he works nights and I work days, or I think I’d hear just a little bit more about it (ha ha!). I really will get this project finished someday.
It just seems like there isn’t enough time for anything!!! As I write this letter, I am surrounded by laundry (both clean and dirty), my dishes have been done but are not yet put away, and house cleaning around here seems to consist of hiding stuff in closets. Do not open a closet in my house unless you are truly brave and fully insured. You know, Santa has all those elves to help him out. I wonder if he’d loan me some laundry elves? Maybe he could use his connections and have the Guild of Magical Creatures send over some cleaning fairies, too. Now that would be a Christmas present!!
Let’s see…what’s next? The kids are doing great. Everyone is getting taller, smarter, and more “smart-alecky” every day. Even the baby!! Daniel is the King of the Comeback and the Ultimate Repeater. For a three-year-old, he has a remarkable grasp of sarcasm (learned from his brothers and sisters, no doubt). His “4-letter word” vocabulary is astounding (learned from his mother, no doubt) and has caused me considerable embarrassment! So, we’ve recently embarked upon the “Clean-Up Your Mouth” campaign, chaired by Chuck and enforced by the kids. Needless to say, my “Quit Smoking” campaign has been derailed. I’m also starting to wish that the “Anti-depressants Are Not the Answer” campaign and the “You Can’t Really Drink Yourself Sane” campaign had not been the resounding successes that they were. C’est la vie.
Jessica has decided that she wants to take Jujitsu next year. Not Karate, not Tae-Kwon-Do, but Jujitsu. She was very concerned that I understood the difference. According to Jess, she doesn’t care to learn how to kick and hit people - she wants to learn how to throw them. Don’t ask me how a twelve year old knows the difference, but she is accurate in her assessment of the various forms of martial arts. Sounds like a father-daughter activity to me. At least I don’t have to worry about any boys getting out of hand with her in a few years. As a practitioner of Jujitsu, I doubt she’ll have very many dates!!!
James is, well, he’s James. I truly love my son, but he’s kind of like his Mom in that he definitely meanders to the beat of a different drummer. Notice I said meanders not marches. He wants to go his own way and in his own time, and he doesn’t notice that anyone else is on the path with him (if he’s even on a path). He has this fixation on penguins these days, and I think we’re going to have to check him into some sort of penguin dependency program. He has several penguin stuffed animals and associated penguin knick-knacks, he owns The March of the Penguins and Happy Feet on DVD. He knows all the different types of penguins, where they live, what they eat, what eats them, how they mate and reproduce (yes, yes he does), and all sorts of other penguin-type trivia. If I were a really sick and twisted mother, I’d disguise a Christmas goose as a penguin and serve it up for supper, but I think the boy would probably be scarred for life. Guess I’ll have to wait until he moves on to something else to exact my revenge….
Kristen started wearing glasses this year. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’m sure she looks very sophisticated. Chuck tried to talk her Mom (Lisa) into buying her some RPGs (for those not familiar with the term, RPG is an acronym for “Rape Prevention Glasses”, aptly naming those oh so fashionable black-framed, military-issue glasses we all received back in “the day”), but I’m pretty sure she wound up with something more attractive. That’s really too bad, though. As pretty as she is, she needs something to keep the boys away. I’m already plotting how to steal Chuck’s Taser so that I can follow (at a discreet distance, of course) and be able to send any misbehaving juvenile on a lightning ride with 50,000 volts!
Joey has decided that he wants to grow his hair out – long. His Mom said he could, but that poor boy doesn’t stand a chance!!! Every time it gets too shaggy, one of us manages to get him into the straight-jacket, tie him into the chair, and attack him with the clippers. We just can’t seem to help ourselves. He just has so much hair! And, invariably, he winds up with the “haircut gone bad” syndrome and gets scalped. And just so everyone knows, it doesn’t happen just at my house. It happens at Lisa’s house, too. Poor kid. He’ll eventually overcome the trauma of his childhood, though, and be a really strong person. With long hair, I’m sure.
Chuck’s still working for the Mayfield Police Department. I’m sure I could have everyone ROTFLOL with tales of “life on the mean streets”, but I’d hurt someone’s feelings or something. However, Chuck is out there harassing the citizens of Mayfield just like always. I found him the perfect t-shirt for Christmas. It says, “If you run, you’re just going to jail tired!” Now, my man may not be able to beat very many people in an endurance race. However, if he has to give chase and catches up within the first 200 yards, the resulting hit is going to hurt. I’ve seen it. He looks like a freight train hitting a go-cart. It’s truly a thing of beauty.
I started a new job and I love it. Don’t you wish you knew what I was doing - ha!!! Call me sometime and I’ll tell you about it, because I have to end this letter. A three-page Christmas letter is long enough.
So, with all of our love and our wishes that everyone has a great holiday season, I’ll close. Take care of yourselves, remember to have fun at least once a day, and let the people you love know how you feel (with exuberance and frequency).
And now, for the cheesy ending quote (but one of my favorites) by Maya Angelou: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Make sure that everyone remembers what a great person you are (including yourself), because if you got a letter from me (the worst correspondent in the world), it’s because someone in this house believes that you are truly exceptional. Happy Holidays and God Bless!!
Love,
Karen, Chuck, Kristen, Jessica, Joey, James, Daniel, and Ebony (woof!)
And she writes....
Well, here I am again, writing a Christmas letter that may or may not get mailed by Halloween of next year (it didn't - obviously). If by some miraculous circumstance this letter arrives sometime during the holidays, we will all know that some sort of divine intervention took place!!! So, belated or not, here’s the Farthing Family Holiday Update.
If you have received this letter and have absolutely no idea who it may be from, don’t be surprised. If you’re a friend of mine, I may not have told you that I got married. So, if you remember Karen Reinhard – that’s me. If you still don’t know who this is from, you must be associated with my husband and he is notorious for not introducing me. So, HI!!!! I’m Karen, this is the annual letter (which you may or may not get during the Holidays since I normally send it late), and I hope you call Chuck to let him know that you got the Christmas letter from his really strange wife (ha!).
Anyway…..We all know what a procrastinator I am, and this year is no exception. It’s the third week of December, and I have yet to buy a single gift. I have several projects that have been left unfinished, and my house looks like it normally does (somewhere between “disaster area” and “nuclear holocaust”). Hey – if you want to visit me, come over anytime. If you want to visit the house, I’ll need for you to make an appointment. Currently, the schedule for the house is pretty full, but I could probably pencil you in, say, April Fool’s Day of 2012.
Anyway, projects. I have one unfinished project that irks me on a daily basis, but I just can’t seem to find the motivation to finish it. I will, someday. Hopefully someday soon. I’m wishing myself good luck with it, but so far my wishes have not come true.
So, I have these stairs. These particular stairs used to be covered in carpet. This summer, I decided that I hated the carpet on the stairs and ripped it up (not something my husband was happy with, by the way). And guess what? I have beautiful hardwood stairs. Well, they would be beautiful if I were to refinish them. Having neither the time nor the money to do it right, I decided to paint them. I decided to paint the walls in the foyer and up the stairs, as well. Again, this is not something that Chuck is happy about.
Three days before Thanksgiving, I started taping and painting walls and stairs. The walls look great (except for that one spot near the ceiling that I couldn’t reach, but you can’t really see it. Unless you look right at it, but who looks at the ceiling anyway?). But the stairs, well…. Okay, so I didn’t like one of the colors I chose for the stairs. Of course, I didn’t realize this until the paint was already on the stairs. So, I bought some new paint and started again. Needless to say, I ran out of time and didn’t get the job done. Now I have stairs with three different colors on them, tape still attached (in a different color, of course), one of the handrails has not been reattached to the wall – you get the picture. My foyer looks like something out of “Bear in the Big Blue House”. The kids like it, but, again, this is not something that my husband is happy about. It’s a good thing he works nights and I work days, or I think I’d hear just a little bit more about it (ha ha!). I really will get this project finished someday.
It just seems like there isn’t enough time for anything!!! As I write this letter, I am surrounded by laundry (both clean and dirty), my dishes have been done but are not yet put away, and house cleaning around here seems to consist of hiding stuff in closets. Do not open a closet in my house unless you are truly brave and fully insured. You know, Santa has all those elves to help him out. I wonder if he’d loan me some laundry elves? Maybe he could use his connections and have the Guild of Magical Creatures send over some cleaning fairies, too. Now that would be a Christmas present!!
Let’s see…what’s next? The kids are doing great. Everyone is getting taller, smarter, and more “smart-alecky” every day. Even the baby!! Daniel is the King of the Comeback and the Ultimate Repeater. For a three-year-old, he has a remarkable grasp of sarcasm (learned from his brothers and sisters, no doubt). His “4-letter word” vocabulary is astounding (learned from his mother, no doubt) and has caused me considerable embarrassment! So, we’ve recently embarked upon the “Clean-Up Your Mouth” campaign, chaired by Chuck and enforced by the kids. Needless to say, my “Quit Smoking” campaign has been derailed. I’m also starting to wish that the “Anti-depressants Are Not the Answer” campaign and the “You Can’t Really Drink Yourself Sane” campaign had not been the resounding successes that they were. C’est la vie.
Jessica has decided that she wants to take Jujitsu next year. Not Karate, not Tae-Kwon-Do, but Jujitsu. She was very concerned that I understood the difference. According to Jess, she doesn’t care to learn how to kick and hit people - she wants to learn how to throw them. Don’t ask me how a twelve year old knows the difference, but she is accurate in her assessment of the various forms of martial arts. Sounds like a father-daughter activity to me. At least I don’t have to worry about any boys getting out of hand with her in a few years. As a practitioner of Jujitsu, I doubt she’ll have very many dates!!!
James is, well, he’s James. I truly love my son, but he’s kind of like his Mom in that he definitely meanders to the beat of a different drummer. Notice I said meanders not marches. He wants to go his own way and in his own time, and he doesn’t notice that anyone else is on the path with him (if he’s even on a path). He has this fixation on penguins these days, and I think we’re going to have to check him into some sort of penguin dependency program. He has several penguin stuffed animals and associated penguin knick-knacks, he owns The March of the Penguins and Happy Feet on DVD. He knows all the different types of penguins, where they live, what they eat, what eats them, how they mate and reproduce (yes, yes he does), and all sorts of other penguin-type trivia. If I were a really sick and twisted mother, I’d disguise a Christmas goose as a penguin and serve it up for supper, but I think the boy would probably be scarred for life. Guess I’ll have to wait until he moves on to something else to exact my revenge….
Kristen started wearing glasses this year. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’m sure she looks very sophisticated. Chuck tried to talk her Mom (Lisa) into buying her some RPGs (for those not familiar with the term, RPG is an acronym for “Rape Prevention Glasses”, aptly naming those oh so fashionable black-framed, military-issue glasses we all received back in “the day”), but I’m pretty sure she wound up with something more attractive. That’s really too bad, though. As pretty as she is, she needs something to keep the boys away. I’m already plotting how to steal Chuck’s Taser so that I can follow (at a discreet distance, of course) and be able to send any misbehaving juvenile on a lightning ride with 50,000 volts!
Joey has decided that he wants to grow his hair out – long. His Mom said he could, but that poor boy doesn’t stand a chance!!! Every time it gets too shaggy, one of us manages to get him into the straight-jacket, tie him into the chair, and attack him with the clippers. We just can’t seem to help ourselves. He just has so much hair! And, invariably, he winds up with the “haircut gone bad” syndrome and gets scalped. And just so everyone knows, it doesn’t happen just at my house. It happens at Lisa’s house, too. Poor kid. He’ll eventually overcome the trauma of his childhood, though, and be a really strong person. With long hair, I’m sure.
Chuck’s still working for the Mayfield Police Department. I’m sure I could have everyone ROTFLOL with tales of “life on the mean streets”, but I’d hurt someone’s feelings or something. However, Chuck is out there harassing the citizens of Mayfield just like always. I found him the perfect t-shirt for Christmas. It says, “If you run, you’re just going to jail tired!” Now, my man may not be able to beat very many people in an endurance race. However, if he has to give chase and catches up within the first 200 yards, the resulting hit is going to hurt. I’ve seen it. He looks like a freight train hitting a go-cart. It’s truly a thing of beauty.
I started a new job and I love it. Don’t you wish you knew what I was doing - ha!!! Call me sometime and I’ll tell you about it, because I have to end this letter. A three-page Christmas letter is long enough.
So, with all of our love and our wishes that everyone has a great holiday season, I’ll close. Take care of yourselves, remember to have fun at least once a day, and let the people you love know how you feel (with exuberance and frequency).
And now, for the cheesy ending quote (but one of my favorites) by Maya Angelou: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Make sure that everyone remembers what a great person you are (including yourself), because if you got a letter from me (the worst correspondent in the world), it’s because someone in this house believes that you are truly exceptional. Happy Holidays and God Bless!!
Love,
Karen, Chuck, Kristen, Jessica, Joey, James, Daniel, and Ebony (woof!)
Organized Moms
I am not an organized mom. I’m the mom whose house always looks like a clutter bomb exploded in every room. It’s clean – but I wouldn’t advise you to eat anything that got dropped on the floor. Clean laundry very rarely makes it from the laundry basket to the dresser. I don’t iron – ever. Yard work always seems to get done right before the sun goes down. The trash makes it to the curb on time (most days), but the trash can might not make it back for a few days. I always seem to leave the house ten minutes late, so the kids never get dropped off or picked up on time (sorry guys). I have five kids, so I use that as my excuse for the barely controlled chaos that I call “life”.
I do, however, have a friend who is organized. My “life” gives her a headache. She is amazing. Her house is always clean. Her kids are always clean – and dressed! Meals at her house are always on time (and she actually makes three meals a day!), and none of it was cooked in the microwave. Her yard is always perfect. Her vehicles are always clean – inside and out. And she has six kids. Three of them aren’t even in school yet. She’s managed to keep her body in great shape, and when she leaves the house she actually has her hair and make-up on. You’ll never catch her in Wal-Mart in pajamas – never.
I call her Hitler.
Mainly because I’m jealous as hell. I know, intellectually, how to be organized. I just can’t seem to make it work. I make lists and plans. I constantly develop strategies for getting rid of the junk in my house, and getting just one meal a day on the table before eight pm. My kids would probably fall over and die if we sat down at a table (like normal people) instead of in the living room to eat.
Amazingly, this woman is not a bitch. She’s fun to hang around, knows how to have a good time, and has a great sense of humor. She’s a bigger redneck than I am, only “classier” (I know – the ultimate oxymoron).
She also married a guy who came with the ultimate set of “guy skills”. If he can’t build it or fix it, then it just can’t be done. I love my husband dearly and he’s perfect for me, but I don’t ask him to do home improvement projects. That would be like inviting Armageddon into the house. I call Angie’s husband to fix stuff. I have to do it on the sly, though. It feels a little bit like cheating to have another woman’s husband over to snake out the toilet that keeps having problems.
I need to get her over here – alone – and do the Vulcan “mind meld” thing. You know, steal all of her organizing secrets and absorb her scheduling prowess. If I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll wind up on one of those reality shows where people come in and marvel at the mess you’ve made and then force you to clean it up.
I’d like to say that being organized is the same as not being lazy, but that would be bad for me. Because, conversely, being “unorganized” would mean that I would have to get off my butt and do something about it, right? I’ll think about it tomorrow.
I do, however, have a friend who is organized. My “life” gives her a headache. She is amazing. Her house is always clean. Her kids are always clean – and dressed! Meals at her house are always on time (and she actually makes three meals a day!), and none of it was cooked in the microwave. Her yard is always perfect. Her vehicles are always clean – inside and out. And she has six kids. Three of them aren’t even in school yet. She’s managed to keep her body in great shape, and when she leaves the house she actually has her hair and make-up on. You’ll never catch her in Wal-Mart in pajamas – never.
I call her Hitler.
Mainly because I’m jealous as hell. I know, intellectually, how to be organized. I just can’t seem to make it work. I make lists and plans. I constantly develop strategies for getting rid of the junk in my house, and getting just one meal a day on the table before eight pm. My kids would probably fall over and die if we sat down at a table (like normal people) instead of in the living room to eat.
Amazingly, this woman is not a bitch. She’s fun to hang around, knows how to have a good time, and has a great sense of humor. She’s a bigger redneck than I am, only “classier” (I know – the ultimate oxymoron).
She also married a guy who came with the ultimate set of “guy skills”. If he can’t build it or fix it, then it just can’t be done. I love my husband dearly and he’s perfect for me, but I don’t ask him to do home improvement projects. That would be like inviting Armageddon into the house. I call Angie’s husband to fix stuff. I have to do it on the sly, though. It feels a little bit like cheating to have another woman’s husband over to snake out the toilet that keeps having problems.
I need to get her over here – alone – and do the Vulcan “mind meld” thing. You know, steal all of her organizing secrets and absorb her scheduling prowess. If I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll wind up on one of those reality shows where people come in and marvel at the mess you’ve made and then force you to clean it up.
I’d like to say that being organized is the same as not being lazy, but that would be bad for me. Because, conversely, being “unorganized” would mean that I would have to get off my butt and do something about it, right? I’ll think about it tomorrow.
Smart Moms
My mother was the smartest woman in the world. Of course, I didn’t realize this until I had kids of my own. Had I actually listened to her when I was younger, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and heart ache.
My Mom’s early life was a nightmare. She was the oldest girl out of ten kids. Two of her siblings died very young. They were dirt poor and scratched out a living as migrant farm workers. Both of her parents were alcoholics, and all the kids lived with the most horrible abuse you can imagine. She started running away from home when she was nine years old. By the time she was fifteen, she ran far enough away that she wasn’t caught, and started living for herself.
She had almost no formal education, and didn’t get her first toothbrush until she was fourteen. But she was smart. She was canny and streetwise, and managed to successfully lie about her age and find work. By the time she married my father and started raising kids, she had done pretty well for herself.
The work she found was pretty unorthodox, and people still give me funny looks when I tell people about her. She worked in bars – first as a cocktail waitress, then as a bartender, then as a manager. She was running a bar in Alaska when she met my father. Alaska in the sixties was not as populated as it is now, and was still very much a no-man’s land. Being a woman in Alaska meant that you had to be tough, inventive, and have a sense of humor about life. She was one hell of a poker player, and once won $18,000.00, a cabin, and a Jeep in a poker game. And she made the guy who lost pay up. When she left Alaska, she sold him back his Jeep and his cabin.
She was determined that we wouldn’t grow up ignorant. I remember her setting out plates, cups, and silverware for a seven course meal and making us practice how to eat. We practiced how to speak without a southern accent, because she didn’t want people to assume we were stupid because of the way we spoke. We grew up all over the world, and my Mom made sure that we ate where the locals ate, shopped where they shopped, and visited shrines and historical places so that we understood a culture other than our own. We witnessed first hand the most incredible poverty and managed to grow up appreciating what we had.
Every year at Christmas, Mom would “adopt” a family she’d never met (and would never meet) and we would buy things for them. Not just toys, but clothes in all different sizes for all different seasons so that everyone in the family would have something to wear all year. We’d pick out a pantry full of food, and then buy gift certificates so that they could shop for perishables or just some of their favorites. She also picked out toys, jewelry, make-up, purses – you name it. She wanted to make sure that everyone was thought of. We all knew that this would mean less for us, but we didn’t care. We had more fun shopping for strangers than we did shopping for each other.
We weren’t rich, but we were comfortably middle class. My father was an officer in the Air Force, so we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. My Mom, however, would take jobs cleaning houses after people moved out and would make us help. We’re talking some serious dirt. She never paid us, either, but made sure that we understood that hard work really was its own reward sometimes.
My Mom was our champion when we were unfairly treated, and our worst nightmare when we wronged someone. I stole a candy bar once, and she caught me. I was six. She not only made me walk back to the store, return the candy and apologize, she made me work every day in this man’s store all summer so that I wouldn’t forget the lesson. I swept and mopped floors, dusted shelves, restocked, cleaned windows, and cleaned bathrooms. Was I ever sorry for stealing that piece of candy!
I was the world’s biggest tomboy, but she made me take tap and ballet lessons. For every sport I played, I had to pick a “girl” activity for balance. I was smarter than most of the kids in my classes, and wherever we lived the school teachers wanted to place me ahead a few grades. Mom said, “No.” She let them place me in advanced reading, writing, math, and science classes, but kept me with kids my own age for social studies, art, and music.
My father was killed in a crash when I was fifteen, and my brother and sister were twelve. We moved to the farm my father owned and tried to put our lives back together. Mom was faced with three teenagers at home, had no formal education, and hadn’t worked in fifteen years. She studied, had me teach her some algebra, took the ACT and went to college.
For the next few years we did everything we could think of to make that woman crazy. We stayed out too late, drank underage, drove fast, dated people who were no good for us. She hung in there until we all moved out and were on our own.
She started getting sick the same year my Dad died, and managed to hide it from us until we all graduated from high school. Then she started going down hill - fast.
She was in so much pain that some days she really shouldn’t have been out of bed. But she got up anyway. She went to class. It took her eight years and she graduated in a wheelchair, but she finished with honors. She got her degree before any of her kids, and we had been given every advantage. She knew that she would never be able to work, but she finished college anyway. It was that important to her.
When my first marriage fell apart and I was a single mom with two babies, the first person I called was my Mom. She was so sick that some days she couldn’t take care of herself, but she made sure that the kids and I had a place to live while I went to school. There were days when I was ready to give up. I was working two jobs, going to school more than full time, trying to take care of kids and Mom, and trying to get my life back together. Every time I thought about quitting, I would take a look at my Mom and realize that my life wasn’t so tough. If she could do it in a wheelchair, then I could certainly do it without one.
My Mom died when I was eight months pregnant with my last child. That was over three years ago. I still miss her so much.
She taught me to be strong when I was weak, and she taught me to have faith when I was hopeless. She taught me to give help when I could, and she taught me how to accept help when I needed it.
She taught me that balance is more important than focus, and that moderation is better than excess. She also showed me that being intelligent doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re smart.
She taught me how to pick myself up and dust myself off when life knocked me down. She taught me to laugh when that happens, and not to lose the lesson. She taught me that being able to laugh at myself feels so much better than being able to laugh at someone else.
She taught me that people are almost always both more and less than what they may seem, and often at the same time. She taught me that every person has pride, and to trample someone’s pride will put you in danger.
But most of all, she taught me to be smart. Not to fear making a mistake, but to fear not learning the lesson. Not to cripple myself or my kids, but to teach them by example how to be strong and how to be brave. And she was smart enough to teach me by any means necessary.
Thanks, Mom.
My Mom’s early life was a nightmare. She was the oldest girl out of ten kids. Two of her siblings died very young. They were dirt poor and scratched out a living as migrant farm workers. Both of her parents were alcoholics, and all the kids lived with the most horrible abuse you can imagine. She started running away from home when she was nine years old. By the time she was fifteen, she ran far enough away that she wasn’t caught, and started living for herself.
She had almost no formal education, and didn’t get her first toothbrush until she was fourteen. But she was smart. She was canny and streetwise, and managed to successfully lie about her age and find work. By the time she married my father and started raising kids, she had done pretty well for herself.
The work she found was pretty unorthodox, and people still give me funny looks when I tell people about her. She worked in bars – first as a cocktail waitress, then as a bartender, then as a manager. She was running a bar in Alaska when she met my father. Alaska in the sixties was not as populated as it is now, and was still very much a no-man’s land. Being a woman in Alaska meant that you had to be tough, inventive, and have a sense of humor about life. She was one hell of a poker player, and once won $18,000.00, a cabin, and a Jeep in a poker game. And she made the guy who lost pay up. When she left Alaska, she sold him back his Jeep and his cabin.
She was determined that we wouldn’t grow up ignorant. I remember her setting out plates, cups, and silverware for a seven course meal and making us practice how to eat. We practiced how to speak without a southern accent, because she didn’t want people to assume we were stupid because of the way we spoke. We grew up all over the world, and my Mom made sure that we ate where the locals ate, shopped where they shopped, and visited shrines and historical places so that we understood a culture other than our own. We witnessed first hand the most incredible poverty and managed to grow up appreciating what we had.
Every year at Christmas, Mom would “adopt” a family she’d never met (and would never meet) and we would buy things for them. Not just toys, but clothes in all different sizes for all different seasons so that everyone in the family would have something to wear all year. We’d pick out a pantry full of food, and then buy gift certificates so that they could shop for perishables or just some of their favorites. She also picked out toys, jewelry, make-up, purses – you name it. She wanted to make sure that everyone was thought of. We all knew that this would mean less for us, but we didn’t care. We had more fun shopping for strangers than we did shopping for each other.
We weren’t rich, but we were comfortably middle class. My father was an officer in the Air Force, so we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. My Mom, however, would take jobs cleaning houses after people moved out and would make us help. We’re talking some serious dirt. She never paid us, either, but made sure that we understood that hard work really was its own reward sometimes.
My Mom was our champion when we were unfairly treated, and our worst nightmare when we wronged someone. I stole a candy bar once, and she caught me. I was six. She not only made me walk back to the store, return the candy and apologize, she made me work every day in this man’s store all summer so that I wouldn’t forget the lesson. I swept and mopped floors, dusted shelves, restocked, cleaned windows, and cleaned bathrooms. Was I ever sorry for stealing that piece of candy!
I was the world’s biggest tomboy, but she made me take tap and ballet lessons. For every sport I played, I had to pick a “girl” activity for balance. I was smarter than most of the kids in my classes, and wherever we lived the school teachers wanted to place me ahead a few grades. Mom said, “No.” She let them place me in advanced reading, writing, math, and science classes, but kept me with kids my own age for social studies, art, and music.
My father was killed in a crash when I was fifteen, and my brother and sister were twelve. We moved to the farm my father owned and tried to put our lives back together. Mom was faced with three teenagers at home, had no formal education, and hadn’t worked in fifteen years. She studied, had me teach her some algebra, took the ACT and went to college.
For the next few years we did everything we could think of to make that woman crazy. We stayed out too late, drank underage, drove fast, dated people who were no good for us. She hung in there until we all moved out and were on our own.
She started getting sick the same year my Dad died, and managed to hide it from us until we all graduated from high school. Then she started going down hill - fast.
She was in so much pain that some days she really shouldn’t have been out of bed. But she got up anyway. She went to class. It took her eight years and she graduated in a wheelchair, but she finished with honors. She got her degree before any of her kids, and we had been given every advantage. She knew that she would never be able to work, but she finished college anyway. It was that important to her.
When my first marriage fell apart and I was a single mom with two babies, the first person I called was my Mom. She was so sick that some days she couldn’t take care of herself, but she made sure that the kids and I had a place to live while I went to school. There were days when I was ready to give up. I was working two jobs, going to school more than full time, trying to take care of kids and Mom, and trying to get my life back together. Every time I thought about quitting, I would take a look at my Mom and realize that my life wasn’t so tough. If she could do it in a wheelchair, then I could certainly do it without one.
My Mom died when I was eight months pregnant with my last child. That was over three years ago. I still miss her so much.
She taught me to be strong when I was weak, and she taught me to have faith when I was hopeless. She taught me to give help when I could, and she taught me how to accept help when I needed it.
She taught me that balance is more important than focus, and that moderation is better than excess. She also showed me that being intelligent doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re smart.
She taught me how to pick myself up and dust myself off when life knocked me down. She taught me to laugh when that happens, and not to lose the lesson. She taught me that being able to laugh at myself feels so much better than being able to laugh at someone else.
She taught me that people are almost always both more and less than what they may seem, and often at the same time. She taught me that every person has pride, and to trample someone’s pride will put you in danger.
But most of all, she taught me to be smart. Not to fear making a mistake, but to fear not learning the lesson. Not to cripple myself or my kids, but to teach them by example how to be strong and how to be brave. And she was smart enough to teach me by any means necessary.
Thanks, Mom.
Redneck Moms
Rednecks have been ridiculed since time began for being backwards, lazy, and uncivilized. I didn’t realize how many rednecks there were in the world until I moved to the capital of Redneck, USA. Over the course of time, I’ve been properly indoctrinated and have picked up an appalling amount of redneck tendencies. Hallelujah, pass the ammunition, AMEN! I am proud to say that being a Redneck Mom is not only really liberating, it’s sometimes kind of cool.
Only Redneck Moms get to say things like, “You boys get out of that tree before I turn the water hose on you!” and “You kids quit deviling that cat or I’ll light a fire in your pants!”
Only Redneck Moms get to go to Wal-Mart on Saturday in their pajamas.
Only Redneck Moms get to make Halloween costumes out of old sheets, spray paint, and Stitch-witch.
Redneck Moms have a lock on innovation. Can’t afford to spend $400.00 on winter coats, heavy gloves, and snow boots? No problem. Put baggies over hands and feet, add socks – instant gloves and waterproof boots. Cut out the top of a big garbage bag, cut a couple of arm holes and pop it on over a kid’s head – instant waterproofed jacket that doubles as a body-sled. Who knew that Ziplock would be a better insulator than Gore-tex?
Can’t afford a bunch of tools for home repairs? No problem. The Redneck Mom’s tool kit is cheap and easy to assemble. Get a shoe box, a claw hammer, a flat head screwdriver, a Phillips head screw driver, a pair of pliers, some duct tape and some WD-40. If it doesn’t fit – hit it until it does. If it doesn’t turn and should – WD-40 and a pair of pliers will fix things right up. If it turns and shouldn’t – duct tape will do the trick every time. Easy stuff.
Another redneck trick I learned the hard way. I cut my finger pretty badly, on a holiday when there was 18 feet of snow on the ground. Okay, so I’m exaggerating about the snow, just a little. Anyway – there was no way I was going to the ER for stitches. So, I called a girlfriend, and she told me to sterilize the wound, place the flaps of skin together, and apply some Superglue. I was a little leery, so I called the charge nurse at the ER and asked if that would work. She told me that Superglue was cheaper, less painful, and healed faster than stitches. And guess what? Superglue is evidently sterile, so there’s virtually no risk of infection. And you can shower with a Superglue patch. Who knew? I now keep Superglue in my first aid kit.
Other Redneck tricks include using hydrogen peroxide and baking soda as a stain remover. Salt and vinegar will clean copper bottomed pots and sterling silver jewelry. You can use a couple of car batteries, some jumper cables, and some wire coat hangers as an improvised welding rig. It works – I’ve tried it. We also made snow one year using a pressure washer, an air compressor, and some PVC piping. If a light bulb breaks but is still in the socket, cut a potato in half, spear the potato with the broken glass, and slowly turn the potato until the light bulb comes out. You can make play-dough with flour, water, salt, and food coloring. Redneck Moms can make earplugs out of chewed-up paper and pencil erasers.
Redneck Moms change tires the easy way. Loosen the lug nuts before you jack up the car. Once the lug nuts are a little loose, jack the car up just high enough that the tire can spin freely. Then use the tire iron to start the wheel spinning, and hold the tire iron in place. The nuts come the rest of the way off pretty easily. Reverse the process to put the spare on.
Redneck Moms don't take any crap from anyone. Do not mess with a Redneck Mom’s kids. She will sneak up on your car one night and put ping-pong balls or marbles in your gas tank. (Don’t ask me how I know that one.) Redneck kids know how to say, “Yes, Sir” and “Yes, Ma’am”, because Redneck Mom won’t tolerate bad manners. Redneck Mom will also put the fear of God into the neighborhood tyrant by marching his ornery little self straight to his Momma.
Redneck Moms never get taken advantage of on a car lot or by a mechanic.
Redneck Moms can make awesome Christmas tree ornaments out of popsicle sticks and tin foil.
Redneck Moms look out for each other, too. If a Redneck Mom is involved in some sort of tragedy, there’s another Redneck Mom stepping up to baby-sit, clean house, cook dinner, and pray for you in church.
I love being a Redneck Mom.
Only Redneck Moms get to say things like, “You boys get out of that tree before I turn the water hose on you!” and “You kids quit deviling that cat or I’ll light a fire in your pants!”
Only Redneck Moms get to go to Wal-Mart on Saturday in their pajamas.
Only Redneck Moms get to make Halloween costumes out of old sheets, spray paint, and Stitch-witch.
Redneck Moms have a lock on innovation. Can’t afford to spend $400.00 on winter coats, heavy gloves, and snow boots? No problem. Put baggies over hands and feet, add socks – instant gloves and waterproof boots. Cut out the top of a big garbage bag, cut a couple of arm holes and pop it on over a kid’s head – instant waterproofed jacket that doubles as a body-sled. Who knew that Ziplock would be a better insulator than Gore-tex?
Can’t afford a bunch of tools for home repairs? No problem. The Redneck Mom’s tool kit is cheap and easy to assemble. Get a shoe box, a claw hammer, a flat head screwdriver, a Phillips head screw driver, a pair of pliers, some duct tape and some WD-40. If it doesn’t fit – hit it until it does. If it doesn’t turn and should – WD-40 and a pair of pliers will fix things right up. If it turns and shouldn’t – duct tape will do the trick every time. Easy stuff.
Another redneck trick I learned the hard way. I cut my finger pretty badly, on a holiday when there was 18 feet of snow on the ground. Okay, so I’m exaggerating about the snow, just a little. Anyway – there was no way I was going to the ER for stitches. So, I called a girlfriend, and she told me to sterilize the wound, place the flaps of skin together, and apply some Superglue. I was a little leery, so I called the charge nurse at the ER and asked if that would work. She told me that Superglue was cheaper, less painful, and healed faster than stitches. And guess what? Superglue is evidently sterile, so there’s virtually no risk of infection. And you can shower with a Superglue patch. Who knew? I now keep Superglue in my first aid kit.
Other Redneck tricks include using hydrogen peroxide and baking soda as a stain remover. Salt and vinegar will clean copper bottomed pots and sterling silver jewelry. You can use a couple of car batteries, some jumper cables, and some wire coat hangers as an improvised welding rig. It works – I’ve tried it. We also made snow one year using a pressure washer, an air compressor, and some PVC piping. If a light bulb breaks but is still in the socket, cut a potato in half, spear the potato with the broken glass, and slowly turn the potato until the light bulb comes out. You can make play-dough with flour, water, salt, and food coloring. Redneck Moms can make earplugs out of chewed-up paper and pencil erasers.
Redneck Moms change tires the easy way. Loosen the lug nuts before you jack up the car. Once the lug nuts are a little loose, jack the car up just high enough that the tire can spin freely. Then use the tire iron to start the wheel spinning, and hold the tire iron in place. The nuts come the rest of the way off pretty easily. Reverse the process to put the spare on.
Redneck Moms don't take any crap from anyone. Do not mess with a Redneck Mom’s kids. She will sneak up on your car one night and put ping-pong balls or marbles in your gas tank. (Don’t ask me how I know that one.) Redneck kids know how to say, “Yes, Sir” and “Yes, Ma’am”, because Redneck Mom won’t tolerate bad manners. Redneck Mom will also put the fear of God into the neighborhood tyrant by marching his ornery little self straight to his Momma.
Redneck Moms never get taken advantage of on a car lot or by a mechanic.
Redneck Moms can make awesome Christmas tree ornaments out of popsicle sticks and tin foil.
Redneck Moms look out for each other, too. If a Redneck Mom is involved in some sort of tragedy, there’s another Redneck Mom stepping up to baby-sit, clean house, cook dinner, and pray for you in church.
I love being a Redneck Mom.
Mini-Moms, by Jessica Lugo
Where do I begin?! Being a Mini-Mom isn’t so bad, if you don’t include screaming babies, arguing boys, nobody listening to you….ect. Well, you get the picture.
I am the middle child of 5 yet the oldest. 2 blood siblings that are younger than me and 2 step-siblings that are older than me. The 2 younger ones always bicker and the 2 older ones don't live here all the time so they don't have chores and stuff.
My blood siblings are both boys. One is 4, the other one is 12. The 12 year old is a technical freak, an arguer, and annoying. He will find something to argue about and find something to correct. It makes my brain hurt. The 4 year old is a beater, a runner, and a repeater. If you say something bad, like a cuss word, he’ll say it! We all think it’s pretty funny, but we get in trouble for laughing because he gets in trouble for saying it.
When the steps come over, it’s war time……
“I call the computer and the quiet room tonight!”
“No the girls already called it, you fart heads.”
“What’d you call me?”
“A fart head. I could have called you a retard.”
“I dare you.”
“Retard.”
You get the picture…….
Most of the time, I’m a babysitter and housekeeper, but I get a break every now and then. It’s actually not as easy as it looks. You have to wipe noses and butts, feed everyone, yell at the baby, be ignored, and lose your voice. Us Mini-Moms get blamed for everything!!!! The baby doesn’t eat, “You need to feed him more!” The whole nine and a half yards more. Why couldn’t Mom have hired a baby-sit- wait……she did! She either quit or was too expensive!
I’m afraid to leave or, trust me, I would. I’m afraid the house will burn down or a boy will get hit by a car. I’m also scared to think of what else would happen.
We Mini-Moms also never get any privacy. I haven’t been able to go to the bathroom alone in forever!! That sounds really bad doesn’t it? I haven’t slept without the baby in 3 years! That’s how old Daniel is isn’t it? I haven’t showered alone in 3 years either……
This house is wacked. I can’t wait to move out. I might show my mom some mercy and take her with me when I go. NOT!!
I am the middle child of 5 yet the oldest. 2 blood siblings that are younger than me and 2 step-siblings that are older than me. The 2 younger ones always bicker and the 2 older ones don't live here all the time so they don't have chores and stuff.
My blood siblings are both boys. One is 4, the other one is 12. The 12 year old is a technical freak, an arguer, and annoying. He will find something to argue about and find something to correct. It makes my brain hurt. The 4 year old is a beater, a runner, and a repeater. If you say something bad, like a cuss word, he’ll say it! We all think it’s pretty funny, but we get in trouble for laughing because he gets in trouble for saying it.
When the steps come over, it’s war time……
“I call the computer and the quiet room tonight!”
“No the girls already called it, you fart heads.”
“What’d you call me?”
“A fart head. I could have called you a retard.”
“I dare you.”
“Retard.”
You get the picture…….
Most of the time, I’m a babysitter and housekeeper, but I get a break every now and then. It’s actually not as easy as it looks. You have to wipe noses and butts, feed everyone, yell at the baby, be ignored, and lose your voice. Us Mini-Moms get blamed for everything!!!! The baby doesn’t eat, “You need to feed him more!” The whole nine and a half yards more. Why couldn’t Mom have hired a baby-sit- wait……she did! She either quit or was too expensive!
I’m afraid to leave or, trust me, I would. I’m afraid the house will burn down or a boy will get hit by a car. I’m also scared to think of what else would happen.
We Mini-Moms also never get any privacy. I haven’t been able to go to the bathroom alone in forever!! That sounds really bad doesn’t it? I haven’t slept without the baby in 3 years! That’s how old Daniel is isn’t it? I haven’t showered alone in 3 years either……
This house is wacked. I can’t wait to move out. I might show my mom some mercy and take her with me when I go. NOT!!
Working Moms
Okay, first off, every Mom is a Working Mom – whether she earns a paycheck or not. Every Mom is a maid, a cook, a laundress, an EMT, a day care provider, a financial advisor, a landscape technician, a conflict mediator, a social worker, a teacher, a chauffeur, a dog walker, a pet groomer, a veterinary technician, a zookeeper, a social organizer, a cyber-cop, an enforcer, a judge, a jury, a prison guard, a spy, a battlefield general, a crime syndicate boss, a miracle worker…..I could go on and on. For those of us who also work outside the home, add to that the title of employee.
We are military wizards during the week. We get up every morning early enough to have a few minutes alone before we have to wake the masses. We stagger around, drink our coffee, take our showers, and get dressed. We then call reveille, supervise everyone’s early morning hygiene, feed the troops, hold muster, synchronize schedules, arrange transportation, reiterate communications plans, and send the troops out to do battle at school. Then we go to work.
We get in our cars, drive thirty or forty-five minutes (fighting all those other idiots on the road), finally get to work only to realize that we forgot to put on deodorant. Luckily, we have planned for this emergency (because it has happened many times before) and head for the ladies room to raid the “secret stash” in the locker or under the sink. We pilfer through hair spray, tampons, make-up, mouthwash, lotion, hair brushes, perfume, clippies and hair do-eys, and finally find the deodorant. But – horror – some other stressed out Working Mom has beat us to it and surreptitiously used the last bit!! After cursing and spitting about people who can’t respect someone else’s stuff, we say “To hell with it – I’ll go to Wal-Mart at lunch.” We go to our desks (or wherever), and put on the grouchy act so that nobody gets too close.
We go through the morning routine and actually get a lot done, because the word has spread and we are being avoided. The To-Do list is getting really short. Lunchtime is rapidly approaching. We watch the clock that last half hour like a fifth-grader awaiting the last bell of the school year. At last – lunchtime!!!!! We scramble for our purses, grab our keys in a death grip, and sprint for the parking lot at world record speeds in hopes that we’ll beat the lunch rush. We pull the Dukes of Hazard peel out and hit traffic only to get caught behind somebody in a hybrid with no sense of urgency. More curses, wild gesticulations, and steering wheel head bangs. Our antics do not please the other drivers, and a four car pile-up ensues in everyone’s haste to avoid the crazy woman stuck in the turn lane. We make an escape worthy of the best getaway driver and finally hit the Wal-Mart.
We dash for the door, blow past the greeter, skip the cart, hit the health and beauty aisle, grab our favorite brand (plus a spare), and then realize that we used Kathy’s hair spray last week so we really should restock. Before we know it, we’ve untucked our blouses and have $300.00 worth of “essential supplies” in a makeshift apron. We stagger to the check-out aisle and wait.
We finally finish checking out. We grab our loot, sprint back to the car, gun the engine, and roar back into traffic. Check the time – 20 minutes left. Check the rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of the gigantic knot forming, and realize that foundation is not going to hide that. Park the car, sprint for the front door, hit the bathroom door like a freight train, launch our supplies into the secret stash, and make a beeline for the junk machine. We have 10 minutes left. We need chocolate, and we need it now. Tragedy strikes!!!! Some loser has taken the last candy bar!!! We buy a bag of microwave popcorn and a coke and go to our desks to sulk.
While we mutter to ourselves about all the injustice in the world, we check the clock. Ugh – four hours to go. We head for the bathroom, because we still don’t have any deodorant on. Take care of business and head back to our desks. Finish up what needs to be done, lethargically grab our purses and keys, heave ourselves up and trudge for our cars. Look down and realize that the steering wheel is bent. Again. Think about cutting some bangs to hide the battle scars. Check the rearview mirror. Yep, definitely need some bangs. Slowly cruise out of the parking lot and head home.
Flip open the cell phone and call the Mini-mom (a. k. a. the eldest daughter). Get the down-low on the situation at home. Mini-mom reports that everyone is being a butt-head, and that Aunt Flo is in town. The boys found some paint cans and thought it would be funny to take the lids off and hang them over the ceiling fan blades. Then someone hit the light switch. Mini-mom says it actually looks pretty good, but Dad is going to be mad because his deer head is blue. Sort of. It’s got some yellow on it, too. Also, the baby decided that he didn’t want to use the potty anymore, and so the laundry pile is bigger. Mini-mom reports that the aliens across the street have multiplied again, and there is an “It’s a Girl!” sign in the front yard. Did we get them a present? Mini-mom asks if a pack of birth control pills would be tacky. After all, they already have six kids – where are they going to put any more? Mini-mom also asks what’s for dinner, because the boys are driving her crazy. She says she fed them some mac-and-cheese at 3:30, but they’re hungry again. Anyway – she has to go. Someone’s screaming about who gets control of the remote, and she thinks that armed conflict is about to break out.
We hit McDonald’s because the concept of kitchen chemistry is just too much to bear at this point. Spend $43.78 so that everyone has a shot at getting something they’ll actually eat. Call the house from the driveway to get some help, and get attacked by boys. Mini-mom looks like she needs a drink. Too bad she’s only 12 years old. She needs chocolate.
Working Mom and Mini-mom open the emergency can of chocolate frosting, bust out some spoons and dig in. We enjoy a few minutes of silence while the boys stuff their faces and hope that they leave us some scraps. We do the math, and realize that Working Mom earned $85.00 today before taxes. Subtract 30% for Uncle Sam, subtract $343.78 for food and supplies, and we have a net loss of $248.28. Oh, well. If the government can engage in deficit spending, so can we. Right?
We are military wizards during the week. We get up every morning early enough to have a few minutes alone before we have to wake the masses. We stagger around, drink our coffee, take our showers, and get dressed. We then call reveille, supervise everyone’s early morning hygiene, feed the troops, hold muster, synchronize schedules, arrange transportation, reiterate communications plans, and send the troops out to do battle at school. Then we go to work.
We get in our cars, drive thirty or forty-five minutes (fighting all those other idiots on the road), finally get to work only to realize that we forgot to put on deodorant. Luckily, we have planned for this emergency (because it has happened many times before) and head for the ladies room to raid the “secret stash” in the locker or under the sink. We pilfer through hair spray, tampons, make-up, mouthwash, lotion, hair brushes, perfume, clippies and hair do-eys, and finally find the deodorant. But – horror – some other stressed out Working Mom has beat us to it and surreptitiously used the last bit!! After cursing and spitting about people who can’t respect someone else’s stuff, we say “To hell with it – I’ll go to Wal-Mart at lunch.” We go to our desks (or wherever), and put on the grouchy act so that nobody gets too close.
We go through the morning routine and actually get a lot done, because the word has spread and we are being avoided. The To-Do list is getting really short. Lunchtime is rapidly approaching. We watch the clock that last half hour like a fifth-grader awaiting the last bell of the school year. At last – lunchtime!!!!! We scramble for our purses, grab our keys in a death grip, and sprint for the parking lot at world record speeds in hopes that we’ll beat the lunch rush. We pull the Dukes of Hazard peel out and hit traffic only to get caught behind somebody in a hybrid with no sense of urgency. More curses, wild gesticulations, and steering wheel head bangs. Our antics do not please the other drivers, and a four car pile-up ensues in everyone’s haste to avoid the crazy woman stuck in the turn lane. We make an escape worthy of the best getaway driver and finally hit the Wal-Mart.
We dash for the door, blow past the greeter, skip the cart, hit the health and beauty aisle, grab our favorite brand (plus a spare), and then realize that we used Kathy’s hair spray last week so we really should restock. Before we know it, we’ve untucked our blouses and have $300.00 worth of “essential supplies” in a makeshift apron. We stagger to the check-out aisle and wait.
We finally finish checking out. We grab our loot, sprint back to the car, gun the engine, and roar back into traffic. Check the time – 20 minutes left. Check the rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of the gigantic knot forming, and realize that foundation is not going to hide that. Park the car, sprint for the front door, hit the bathroom door like a freight train, launch our supplies into the secret stash, and make a beeline for the junk machine. We have 10 minutes left. We need chocolate, and we need it now. Tragedy strikes!!!! Some loser has taken the last candy bar!!! We buy a bag of microwave popcorn and a coke and go to our desks to sulk.
While we mutter to ourselves about all the injustice in the world, we check the clock. Ugh – four hours to go. We head for the bathroom, because we still don’t have any deodorant on. Take care of business and head back to our desks. Finish up what needs to be done, lethargically grab our purses and keys, heave ourselves up and trudge for our cars. Look down and realize that the steering wheel is bent. Again. Think about cutting some bangs to hide the battle scars. Check the rearview mirror. Yep, definitely need some bangs. Slowly cruise out of the parking lot and head home.
Flip open the cell phone and call the Mini-mom (a. k. a. the eldest daughter). Get the down-low on the situation at home. Mini-mom reports that everyone is being a butt-head, and that Aunt Flo is in town. The boys found some paint cans and thought it would be funny to take the lids off and hang them over the ceiling fan blades. Then someone hit the light switch. Mini-mom says it actually looks pretty good, but Dad is going to be mad because his deer head is blue. Sort of. It’s got some yellow on it, too. Also, the baby decided that he didn’t want to use the potty anymore, and so the laundry pile is bigger. Mini-mom reports that the aliens across the street have multiplied again, and there is an “It’s a Girl!” sign in the front yard. Did we get them a present? Mini-mom asks if a pack of birth control pills would be tacky. After all, they already have six kids – where are they going to put any more? Mini-mom also asks what’s for dinner, because the boys are driving her crazy. She says she fed them some mac-and-cheese at 3:30, but they’re hungry again. Anyway – she has to go. Someone’s screaming about who gets control of the remote, and she thinks that armed conflict is about to break out.
We hit McDonald’s because the concept of kitchen chemistry is just too much to bear at this point. Spend $43.78 so that everyone has a shot at getting something they’ll actually eat. Call the house from the driveway to get some help, and get attacked by boys. Mini-mom looks like she needs a drink. Too bad she’s only 12 years old. She needs chocolate.
Working Mom and Mini-mom open the emergency can of chocolate frosting, bust out some spoons and dig in. We enjoy a few minutes of silence while the boys stuff their faces and hope that they leave us some scraps. We do the math, and realize that Working Mom earned $85.00 today before taxes. Subtract 30% for Uncle Sam, subtract $343.78 for food and supplies, and we have a net loss of $248.28. Oh, well. If the government can engage in deficit spending, so can we. Right?
Military Moms
I joined the Army when I was seventeen (mostly to get away from my mom – ha!). I spent five years in the Army before I decided it wasn’t for me. So, instead of getting out, I joined the Marines. Smart, right? Five years and a divorce later, I left the Marines to go to college. After ten years in the service, you would think I’d had enough, but the National Guard had this great scholarship program. So, I found myself a Weekend Warrior. Turns out the “weekend” part of that statement isn’t so true. I had my first two kids while I was still in the Corps and my last one while I was in the Guard. I found out a few things.
1. Military life before children is vastly different from military life after children. After you have kids, you lose all your friends and have to find new ones. You still live for payday, but for a completely different reason. Likewise, you still don’t get much sleep, but making yourself tired isn’t near as fun as it used to be!
2. Before you have children, you truly believe that applying the proper training techniques, dispensing praise or punishment when warranted, and establishing a routine for everyone to follow will quickly bring about the desired results in the behavior of your subordinates. (NOT!)
3. Military training is grueling and painful. However, after twenty hours of hard labor you finally understand the meaning of pain.
4. You may be the toughest woman to ever walk the Earth, you may be able to field strip a rifle in under thirty seconds, and you may be able to shoot a bird out of the sky at five hundred yards with an M-4. These skills do not qualify you to breast-feed, change a diaper, or properly bathe a wiggling newborn. God really does watch out for the helpless, because that’s the only reason my firstborn survived her first six weeks.
5. The military should make all new recruits spend three weeks walking the floor with a teething or croupy baby. Not only does it teach you how to deal with uncontrollable stress, but you realize that you can function with virtually no sleep for as long as it takes.
6. Most military wives do not like military women. For some reason, they think that the only reason we joined was to sleep with their husbands. However, after having two babies fourteen months apart, I wasn’t even sleeping with my husband much less one of theirs!
7. Soldiers and Marines never get to really know their kids. Their kids spend all day being raised by somebody else’s mom. And when it’s time to go to the field or on deployment, your husband is probably in the field or deployed, too. That’s when your mother-in-law or your sister moves in to raise your kids, because an imposition of that magnitude requires family!
8. Returning from war to your family is a lot harder than you might think. You’re nuts, the kids are nuts, even the dog is nuts!!! Trying to run your household in an orderly, military manner invokes mutiny and you’re right back in a combat zone. Throw the rulebook out the window and learn how to play again.It’s not all bad, though.
The military taught me several lessons that work very well, especially with older children. It seems like I always had someone who had a line for everything, and a lesson for everything, too. Their wisdom has helped me quite a bit in raising my children. Feel free to use these:
1. “I can’t make you do what I tell you to, but I can make you wish you had!” Normally, this statement was preceded by an episode of willful insubordination, not paying attention, not following instructions, or overstepping boundaries. This statement was also closely followed by a period of intense physical training. I have found that ten minutes of push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks in rapid succession works wonders with children over the age of five.
2. “That was a boneheaded decision. If you can’t make good decisions, then I’ll show you what you’ll be doing for the rest of your life.” Normally followed by a series of meaningless but time consuming janitorial, landscaping, and “site beautification” activities. Scrubbing toilets, cleaning and polishing floors, pulling weeds out of rock gardens, and painting rocks seemed to consume a lot of my time when I was a young Marine. I may have forgotten what I did to prompt my indentured servitude, but I finally learned the lesson. I had to modify this approach somewhat, but my kids can dismantle a toilet, clean all the parts, and put it back together. They are also experts at picking up pinecones and sticks, sweeping the driveway, trimming the grass between the cracks with toenail clippers, and moving bricks or dirt from one side of the yard to the other. Best of all, there are a myriad of age-appropriate activities you can use in conjunction with this statement.
3. “Privacy? You have no privacy! I own the air you breathe!!!” Start using this one early. My kids fully expect me to pilfer through their rooms and property at any time. It eliminates their ability to accuse you of snooping.
4. “That sounds like a personal problem to me. Do you really want me to get involved? Because nobody will be happy if I do. I suggest you settle it yourselves.” I’ve altered this statement a little, substituting “kid problem” for “personal problem”. If you’ve already instituted the practices listed in items #1 and #2, it nips tattling in the bud.
5. “Okay, if you think you can handle it I’ll give you enough rope to hang yourself. And when you’re out there swinging, I’ll be there to cut you loose."
6. “There’s a thin line between tough and stupid, and you just crossed it. Think you might recognize it next time?” This statement never needed any follow up, since I was either hurt or embarrassed and that was punishment enough. I haven’t had to use this with my daughter, but my sons are a different matter. I’ve used this one several times after skate boarding accidents, falling out of trees, etc. Works well as a reinforcement to the lesson learned.
While we were deployed to Iraq, my husband and I worked for a pretty interesting guy. He came up with several "rules for combat". It may sound strange, but some of those rules apply to raising kids, as well. Here are the rules that I think of when things get really hairy at home:
1. “Don’t be that guy.” You know that guy. He’s the one who stands out because he’s doing something really bizarre while everyone else is behaving. I have to remind myself of this rule quite often.
2. “Don’t make fun of another unit’s idiot soldier doing stupid stuff; as soon as you do, your soldier is seen by the Brigade Commander doing stupid stuff.” Translation for moms who don’t fit in: Don’t make fun of some other kid’s behavior. As soon as you do, your kid is caught by the principal or the preacher doing something stupid or embarrassing.
3. “Everything relates to Pulp Fiction.”
a. “Normally you’d be dead as fried chicken right now.”
b. “It’s a little early in the morning for explosions and war.”
c. “If my answers frighten you, then you need to quit asking scary questions.”
4. “You can’t fall asleep when you want to, and you can’t stay awake when you need to.” (This is so true.)
5. “The guy waving at you today will be shooting at you tomorrow.” Translation for moms who don’t fit in: That “Stepford Mom” who is being so nice to your face will be gossiping about you as soon as you leave.
6. “If a soldier has done something stupid or illegal, someone has a picture of it.” Change “soldier” to “your kid”, and you have the translation.
Needless to say, military moms do things a little differently than other moms. We do things differently, think about things differently, and deal with things differently. We’re weird. We laugh in the midst of tragedy because laughing keeps us from crying. When we can’t laugh, we don’t call on our family or friends to cry. We find a place to hide and cry alone. We don’t understand most women, and we don’t want to be just like they are. However, we are exactly the same as all the other moms out there in at least one respect – we love our children just as fiercely and just as wholeheartedly as anyone else.
1. Military life before children is vastly different from military life after children. After you have kids, you lose all your friends and have to find new ones. You still live for payday, but for a completely different reason. Likewise, you still don’t get much sleep, but making yourself tired isn’t near as fun as it used to be!
2. Before you have children, you truly believe that applying the proper training techniques, dispensing praise or punishment when warranted, and establishing a routine for everyone to follow will quickly bring about the desired results in the behavior of your subordinates. (NOT!)
3. Military training is grueling and painful. However, after twenty hours of hard labor you finally understand the meaning of pain.
4. You may be the toughest woman to ever walk the Earth, you may be able to field strip a rifle in under thirty seconds, and you may be able to shoot a bird out of the sky at five hundred yards with an M-4. These skills do not qualify you to breast-feed, change a diaper, or properly bathe a wiggling newborn. God really does watch out for the helpless, because that’s the only reason my firstborn survived her first six weeks.
5. The military should make all new recruits spend three weeks walking the floor with a teething or croupy baby. Not only does it teach you how to deal with uncontrollable stress, but you realize that you can function with virtually no sleep for as long as it takes.
6. Most military wives do not like military women. For some reason, they think that the only reason we joined was to sleep with their husbands. However, after having two babies fourteen months apart, I wasn’t even sleeping with my husband much less one of theirs!
7. Soldiers and Marines never get to really know their kids. Their kids spend all day being raised by somebody else’s mom. And when it’s time to go to the field or on deployment, your husband is probably in the field or deployed, too. That’s when your mother-in-law or your sister moves in to raise your kids, because an imposition of that magnitude requires family!
8. Returning from war to your family is a lot harder than you might think. You’re nuts, the kids are nuts, even the dog is nuts!!! Trying to run your household in an orderly, military manner invokes mutiny and you’re right back in a combat zone. Throw the rulebook out the window and learn how to play again.It’s not all bad, though.
The military taught me several lessons that work very well, especially with older children. It seems like I always had someone who had a line for everything, and a lesson for everything, too. Their wisdom has helped me quite a bit in raising my children. Feel free to use these:
1. “I can’t make you do what I tell you to, but I can make you wish you had!” Normally, this statement was preceded by an episode of willful insubordination, not paying attention, not following instructions, or overstepping boundaries. This statement was also closely followed by a period of intense physical training. I have found that ten minutes of push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks in rapid succession works wonders with children over the age of five.
2. “That was a boneheaded decision. If you can’t make good decisions, then I’ll show you what you’ll be doing for the rest of your life.” Normally followed by a series of meaningless but time consuming janitorial, landscaping, and “site beautification” activities. Scrubbing toilets, cleaning and polishing floors, pulling weeds out of rock gardens, and painting rocks seemed to consume a lot of my time when I was a young Marine. I may have forgotten what I did to prompt my indentured servitude, but I finally learned the lesson. I had to modify this approach somewhat, but my kids can dismantle a toilet, clean all the parts, and put it back together. They are also experts at picking up pinecones and sticks, sweeping the driveway, trimming the grass between the cracks with toenail clippers, and moving bricks or dirt from one side of the yard to the other. Best of all, there are a myriad of age-appropriate activities you can use in conjunction with this statement.
3. “Privacy? You have no privacy! I own the air you breathe!!!” Start using this one early. My kids fully expect me to pilfer through their rooms and property at any time. It eliminates their ability to accuse you of snooping.
4. “That sounds like a personal problem to me. Do you really want me to get involved? Because nobody will be happy if I do. I suggest you settle it yourselves.” I’ve altered this statement a little, substituting “kid problem” for “personal problem”. If you’ve already instituted the practices listed in items #1 and #2, it nips tattling in the bud.
5. “Okay, if you think you can handle it I’ll give you enough rope to hang yourself. And when you’re out there swinging, I’ll be there to cut you loose."
6. “There’s a thin line between tough and stupid, and you just crossed it. Think you might recognize it next time?” This statement never needed any follow up, since I was either hurt or embarrassed and that was punishment enough. I haven’t had to use this with my daughter, but my sons are a different matter. I’ve used this one several times after skate boarding accidents, falling out of trees, etc. Works well as a reinforcement to the lesson learned.
While we were deployed to Iraq, my husband and I worked for a pretty interesting guy. He came up with several "rules for combat". It may sound strange, but some of those rules apply to raising kids, as well. Here are the rules that I think of when things get really hairy at home:
1. “Don’t be that guy.” You know that guy. He’s the one who stands out because he’s doing something really bizarre while everyone else is behaving. I have to remind myself of this rule quite often.
2. “Don’t make fun of another unit’s idiot soldier doing stupid stuff; as soon as you do, your soldier is seen by the Brigade Commander doing stupid stuff.” Translation for moms who don’t fit in: Don’t make fun of some other kid’s behavior. As soon as you do, your kid is caught by the principal or the preacher doing something stupid or embarrassing.
3. “Everything relates to Pulp Fiction.”
a. “Normally you’d be dead as fried chicken right now.”
b. “It’s a little early in the morning for explosions and war.”
c. “If my answers frighten you, then you need to quit asking scary questions.”
4. “You can’t fall asleep when you want to, and you can’t stay awake when you need to.” (This is so true.)
5. “The guy waving at you today will be shooting at you tomorrow.” Translation for moms who don’t fit in: That “Stepford Mom” who is being so nice to your face will be gossiping about you as soon as you leave.
6. “If a soldier has done something stupid or illegal, someone has a picture of it.” Change “soldier” to “your kid”, and you have the translation.
Needless to say, military moms do things a little differently than other moms. We do things differently, think about things differently, and deal with things differently. We’re weird. We laugh in the midst of tragedy because laughing keeps us from crying. When we can’t laugh, we don’t call on our family or friends to cry. We find a place to hide and cry alone. We don’t understand most women, and we don’t want to be just like they are. However, we are exactly the same as all the other moms out there in at least one respect – we love our children just as fiercely and just as wholeheartedly as anyone else.
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