Purge. Shop. Rinse. Repeat.

The irony of my morning is not lost on me.

It is completely ridiculous to donate items to Goodwill and then walk directly into Goodwill looking for more stuff, right?

RIGHT?

The donated items were things like a seed spreader, a sprayer that I used once to do the deck, and a fake tree.  And a box of clothes.

My shopping list was short:
A black hoodie for N (for her Halloween cat costume).
Snowpants for G.
Swiffer pad thingies (it says that on the box.)

Then there was the list of "browsing" items for which I didn't hold out much hope:  a wider basket for the pillows/blanket in the living room and gently used side tables that are significantly taller than 23 inches.

Goodwill (basket and side tables)==no dice
Habitat Restore=nope
Home Goods/TJ Maxx--basket found, $14.99
Once Upon a Child=snowpants, $6.50
Target=hoodie ($19.99) and Swiffer thingies

I liked looking at the home goods, but it also bothered me because I really strive to be pretty minimalist.

As per my usual, I found myself thinking all manner of thoughts that really aren't conducive to successful shopping.

Thoughts like....

"Why do I like gallery walls?  They are so busy, which is really not minimalist at all.  So am I really not a minimalist?"

"Can I be a minimalist about horizontal stuff but not vertical stuff?"

"Why does everyone seem to want rhino heads on their walls?"

"Am I weird because I do not want rhino heads on my walls?

I am on a couple of swap pages for moms on Facebook, and I am amazed at how many people eagerly jump on items that, at least for me, require lots of stewing and a very specific plan of where I am going to put an item.  I would never, ever buy a piece of furniture without having measurements and knowing where it is going to stay.  Perhaps this is because once a piece of furniture enters my house, it probably isn't ever going to leave.

Shopping with myself for company is a drag.  

The disappointment of stupid parental dreams

N doesn't want to take piano lessons anymore.

We started lessons when she was 8, mostly on a whim.  She struggled with math, and I knew all the research about music instruction possibly helping kids with math.  Plus, I never took music lessons as a kid.  I went to parochial schools, and it wasn't even an option to learn instruments; there was no orchestra or band as there was/is in the public schools.  I wanted her (and the boys) to have some private musical instruction experience.

Since I didn't know how to read music, I began lessons, too, so that I could help her and maybe help motivate her.

Last year, she began playing viola in orchestra and continues now in 6th grade, although that may end too since she is talking about foregoing orchestra in 7th/8th.

Our last piano lesson was in late May, and she didn't touch the piano until last week when I made her in order to prepare to restart lessons.

She complained that she can't remember the notes because she is getting them confused with alto clef, which she uses for viola.  She just doesn't want to do it, but she won't say she doesn't want to do it because she doesn't want me to be disappointed in her.

What I had to explain to her today is that agreeing to do something you don't want to do just so someone else isn't mad at or disappointed in you never, ever results in them being pleased.  She doesn't want to play piano anymore, which means she has a terrible attitude about practicing, which makes me angry and frustrated.  It is better to disappoint me once than to continue to frustrate/disappoint me every time she half-ass practices.

I told her, "Yes, I will be disappointed that you stop playing piano, but I'll get over it."

And I will.

I also explained to her that parents sometimes feel disappointed in their kids, and it really has nothing to do with their kids.  It is them.  The problem is the parents.

Like after college, when I interviewed at a big cigarette company.  I was 21 and fresh out of undergrad.  I was offered a job making probably 40K in a supervisor position on a factory floor.  I turned it down and took an editing job where I started at 17K a year.  I didn't want to smell like menthol cigarettes, and I didn't want to supervise anyone, especially not someone 20+ years older than me who might rightfully resent some ding-dong telling him what to do.

My dad couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I turned down "such a great opportunity."  He was a manager at another big local company, so this sounded like an amazing position.  I didn't disappoint my dad, although I felt like it at the time.  He was disappointed because he would have loved to have that opportunity if he had been in my shoes.  But he wasn't, and I had to make a decision that I could live with.

As it turned out, working at the editing company allowed me to get my master's degree (and the company paid half the cost).  The cigarette company eventually closed down its plant here, so I would have been unemployed or had to move away from my family/friends.

I told N this story today, and I told her that sometimes she needs to just be honest with me and not worry about whether I'm disappointed.

And I need to remember that even though I think I don't have secret dreams for my kids, I really do deep down.  And I need to sometimes be disappointed that my kids' dreams aren't my own.  

If I had been medicated earlier in life

Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I'd been medicated at age 20 instead of age 30.  If my nervous breakdown had come a decade sooner, and I'd gotten some much-needed therapy under my belt before I'd graduated from college the first time.

Most of the time I do this kind of wondering when I'm not entirely satisfied with my existence, and in some ways lately I've been in a low-grade bleh.

Overall, I think I've made thoughtful choices in my life, but they have also been very safe choices.  Choices that were made to ensure I wasn't pushed too far out of my comfort zone.

There were many things I didn't do out of fear in my twenties.  I didn't ever live alone or even with a friend.  I went from my parents to my husband, and that is one thing I hope my children never do.  I hope they are on their own or live with a friend before hooking up for a lifetime.

I never went into the Peace Corps, which is something I thought about for awhile.  It was unadulterated fear that kept me from doing this.  Fear of bugs and disease and how I would ever survive without my allergy medicine.  I didn't even investigate it at the time to learn more.  I simply allowed fear to shut it down.

I never traveled with friends or backpacked across Europe.
I was never very independent.

I wonder if I'd been medicated, if I'd had some therapy, if I might have made a whole slew of different choices that would change where I am now.  Not that where I am now is bad.  But sometimes where I am now feels like maybe I short-changed my life a bit.

Some of this re-thinking of my life actually centers around G and his tantrums whenever I change something around the house, like move furniture or rearrange/repaint fixtures.  He throws a screaming/crying/flailing tantrum, says he hates change, asks me if in 2 years we can change it all back to how it was before, and then proceeds to get on with his life.

I feel like this has OCD written all over it (or I'm just projecting).  The notice of detail, which most 8-year-olds wouldn't even let enter their consciousness.  The desire to not change ever, to keep things exactly as they are.  It seems a little hoardy, too, like if I agreed to it, he might want me to store all the old plumbing fixtures and upholstery that was removed.

He struggles with things sometimes, and I wonder if medication would help take him down a notch, lessen that fear, the anxiety that sometimes leads him to throw these "I hate change" tantrums.  I wonder if not medicating him will mean that one day he will make fearful choices and at 42 look at his life and wonder if his choices were the best ones for him.

There are many ways in which being like me would be ok, but allowing fearfulness to guide so many of his choices wouldn't be one of them.

Kickin it at 6

Dear M,

Tomorrow begins your run as my favorite 6-year-old.  N and G were both excellent in this role when they were 6, but I admit it is especially special with you because you are my bonus baby.  I find myself clinging to your squeaky voice and innocent cuteness because I know this.is.it.  The final curtain call.

You have been in speech therapy for a few months now and are saying words much more clearly.  It is sweet when you practice correctly enunciating words, like "lobby" this weekend every time we got into the elevator to go to the "lobby." You found ways to work words like "lobby" and "lion" into sentences just so you could practice.

You are a real character.  It takes you awhile to warm up to people, but when you do....look out.  You have already demonstrated your armpit and back-of-the-knee fart techniques to your kindergarten teacher, and she told me today at conferences that you've told her about your mad dancing skills, although you haven't shown her.  Yet.

I love this picture of you because of how you always 

wink, point your fingers and click with your tongue

as if you are calling a squirrel.

With the glasses, it just completes it.

You are so, so good at entertaining yourself even though that usually means a bath is needed.

You are everything to your big brother, G.  He adores you with a love that almost equals his desire to drive you crazy.  You are usually so patient, much more so than anyone else in the family is with him.  Whenever I ask you what you want to eat or drink, you say, "Whatever Gwam is eating/drinking/having."  And then you usually follow up with, "I want what he wants because we're bruhers." (brothers)

I once wrote in one of your baby books that I worried about what kind of mischief you two would get into as you got older, and I have seen it grow and bloom.  The two of you can crack each other up like no one and nothing else.  I usually consider it hilarity of dumbness, but I am always so thankful you have each other even if I don't get the joke.

You are a fierce hugger and lovebug and to this day you still twiddle my ears, just as you did when you were a nursling.  If you see either mine or N's belly, you drop everything and run over to hug us.  Daddy offered you his hairy belly for a hug last night, but you replied, "Dat's embarrassing."

You very regularly crack us up, like this weekend when you were playing in the pool, and we heard you say, "Stupid dammit!" while you were splashing some imaginary beast in the water.  I fear both Daddy and I laugh at your antics and say"You are so cute" too often because we are savoring these last remaining days of young childhood in our house. As evidence, just this afternoon you said, "I like putting out Halloween decorations, and I'm cute and stuff," so clearly it has all gone to your head.

When I think back to when we discovered you were coming, unexpectedly, we were so discombobulated, and yet we don't know what we would do without you in our family.  Because of you....now we are five, and we wouldn't have it any other way.

I love you ever so much, my sweet boy,

Momma

A return to a childhood memory

The family just returned from spending a few days at a state park about two hours from our home.

As a kid, I remember my parents taking me and my younger brother to this state park and inn.  Actually, what I mostly recall from this childhood trip was the cool indoor/outdoor swimming pool. A glass wall separated the sections, and you had to swim underneath it to get from the inside to the out.

My kids in the cool indoor/outdoor pool. 

They thought it was awesome, too!

My mom tells me that we went in the warmer months, but there was a freak cold front, so we spent the entire time in the one pair of jeans and one jacket we had all brought "just in case."

The other memory I have of this trip is watching my parents and brother ride in a small boat into one of the caves.  I was scared and refused to go, so I stood on the water's edge by myself.

Hmmmm, I wonder where my middle child gets his stubbornness?

I planned this short trip almost immediately after we returned home in June from our exhausting trip to Orlando, FL.  That trip wasn't much fun considering the heat, tiredness, D's back spasms and the sprinkler ordeal in which we had to move out of our condo.  It was memorable but definitely not enjoyable.

Low-tech fun:

Casting fishing lines to try to hook plastic fish.

Guests throw coins onto the historical homes' beds which are used for upkeep. 

The kids thought this was hilarious. 

Helping the kids make friendship bracelets.

Views of the Pioneer Village and trails.

This short fall weekend felt relaxing.  It helped that we had no cell phone service (which some people actually complained about on tripadvisor.com.  The whole point of going to the woods is to live deliberately, people!)  Being off-the-grid is awesome.  It also helped that the weather these two days was perfect.

We hiked a lot, and the kids didn't whine.  M said his legs were tired, but G didn't complain at all, which is a bonafide miracle.  We saw two caves.  We visited the pioneer village.  We picnicked our lunches both days.  We visited the nature learning center two times (the second time at the request of G).

The Stagecoach Trail.  

M's legs were tired, so I played pack mule for a few minutes. 

We ate breakfast and dinner together at the inn.

I felt like we connected as a family, which feels like a much better memory than running ourselves ragged all over Disney and Universal, trying to pack in as much "fun" as we could to justify spending $100 per person.  Our entry fee into the state park was $9.

I totally love it that the kids enjoyed doing such simple things.

I'd say we most certainly got 100 times that much enjoyment out of it.

The posting of the grades

I don't post my kids' grades on Facebook.
I don't respond to people who post their kids' grades on Facebook, although I think I click "like."
Sometimes.
Nah, nevermind.  I don't.
But I do like it that kids work hard and get good grades.
The parents who post are proud of their kids, and I don't want to take that away from them.
That's why I blog...to post my misgivings here and not bust all up in someone's parade.

I just think grades are a really sucky measure of anything.
I'm not sure they tell us what we think they tell us.
They might tell us more about a kid's organizational skills than anything about a kid's ability or knowledge.
I don't think they tell us about a kid's motivation.
(I say this as a person with a child who is pretty unmotivated and not really goal-oriented, at least in my opinion.  You wouldn't know this from the grades, though.  The grades would suggest there is much going on in the way of motivation and goal-setting.)

So grades can make it seem like someone who doesn't have to work very hard works hard.
Or they can make it seem like someone who busts their ass doesn't work very hard.
Or they can make someone who is really bright but woefully disorganized look dumb.
Or they can make someone who isn't really bright but just well organized look smart.
Or they can make someone who fell through the cracks look like they don't care when they really do.

My children's grades tell me very little.
I learn more about my kids from reading their writing, from going in the classroom, working with other kids and seeing how they act and what they know.
I learn from listening to my kids read to me.
I learn from seeing how they handle their homework (or not handle their homework).
I learn from what the teachers say juxtaposed with what I see and know about my kid.  The teachers see the "on" version of my kids, for which I'm thankful.  I see the "off" version, so I have to mix these versions together to get a sense of my real child.

I'm never sure what to make when I see all the grade postings.
It just confuses me, mostly.
Like sports.
I don't get the hype.  

The kid who likes to debate and aggravate is 8 (and, yes, he's pretty great)

Dear G,

Today you turn 8 years old.  

As I was looking through photographs of you as a baby and small child, it gave me such happiness to think about how you were then.  How you lurved Lightning McQueen (Keen!) with an intensity that has been rivaled only by your love of sweet treats.  How you mumbled and bumbled your words so that it was difficult for anyone but me to understand you (until you began speech therapy).  How your favorite thing in the world, besides McQueen and playing with Matchbox cars, was snuggling up with me on the couch to watch cartoons.  

As a boy, you are consistently aggravating and mind-blowing.  You are a delightful combination of tenacious and sensitive, eager to argue with me to have your way and the person who will shed a tear in a movie before anyone else in the household.  

One day driving home from occupational therapy, you said, "I don't know what I would do if anything ever happened to M.  I love my family more than anything."  You were worried about how M would navigate the bus ride home without you by his side, and out of your mouth came a sentiment probably more appropriate to a full-grown adult.  

At night, you read to us from Geronimo Stilton books (your favorite series at the moment) and follow it up with funnies from your joke book.  Daddy and I get tickled because you get so tickled reading the jokes.  We love the faces you make when you are surprised or find something unexpectedly funny.  Your eyebrows go up and a twinkle lights up your eyes as they crinkle in the corners.  Your mouth either grins widely or opens into an O, and your hand flies up to cover it, as if you have just heard something you weren't supposed to.  

You hate surprises, and insist on going with me, Nana and Mamaw to purchase your birthday gifts.  You know exactly what you want, and you get it.  There is no hemming or hawing about it.  And you are still excited upon opening the items, not because you are surprised but because you are so happy to know that you now have them.   

You are a pretty good armpit fart musician; you and M could start a band since he has mastered the behind the knee fart sound.  

You are very proud of having gotten through kindergarten and first grade without an "unsmiley" face in the agenda, and you are going for that again in second grade.  One day when a substitute teacher brought you to me at dismissal, I thought for sure you were in trouble.  When I told you this, you said to me, "I would never get in trouble at school," as if you couldn't imagine I would even think such a thing.

As much as you sometimes drive me nuts because you are so persistent and headstrong, I hope you know that I cherish your sensitivity, your unexpected kindness to others, and your belief that all people have the capacity for good.  The other day you said to me after explaining a playground discussion with your friends about the devil, "Even the devil is good way deep down in his heart."  I was proud of you for being such a young kid but sensing the complexity of even the most villainous.

  

I am so grateful to be your mother.  I have learned much more from you than I could have ever imagined.

All my love, always.

Momma