A Musing Mother 6

Setting: Adult Roles class Time: 1984 Scene: At long last, the culminating event of class, the boys draw a girl classmate's name out of a hat to be his partner in the final project. The final project was pretending to be a married couple, accepting the assignment of X amount of kids, X amount of monthly income and X amount of surprise bills. We'd go to the grocery store together, maybe a used car lot and pretend to spend pretend money. Why does this sound so exciting to an 18 year old girl? I have no idea. As T.S. approached the hat, I silently begged prayed, "Please don't let him pick my name." It's not that T.S. was gross, ugly, smelly or had crooked teeth. He was just T.S. He lacked tact, social graces, and sported a perpetual scowl. He was handsome enough and he played football which, on my short checklist, would have put him on the acceptable column but I had spent the past 7 years in school with him. I didn't like his temperament which p

You know it's going to be a long day...

Please note the child's father in the background. There is no excuse for this kind of parenting.

I started a "Complete the sentence" exercise and found myself getting carried away. I don't like to do those little exercises for the public because I want to be witty. Which, if I do say so myself, some of the answers I came up with tickled me to tears. Sorry you missed it. What really happened is my fingers took over on #27. 27. I’ve come to realize that my friends. . . dance; physically, metaphorically, lyrically, metaphysically. Dancing is a completely separate topic. Dancing is an expression of feeling. It is a vehicle for seeking intimacy. Not all dancing is physical. Dancing is a way to connect to one another and ourselves. That was my answer. I kept reading over it and thinking how it was incomplete and some might just figure I'm doing some crazy talk. Oh no, my friends, you are dancing every single day of your lives. On its most basic level, you danced this morning while preparing breakfast at the same time as your husband. Think about the steps you take

I am so brilliant that I just have to share my amazing mind with you all. I have two email accounts attached to this blog! So I've been making fun little comments all over blog world and being completely. Ignored. I thought I was so witty or intelligent or philosophical and you people said nothing. {Do you hear that sound? It's the sound of nothing}. It's not that I make comments for attention (okay, kinda) but some of my comments were screaming for a response and I heard nothing. And then I found my other email account. Now I realize that I was the one snubbing you. Judge not that ye be not judged but isn't it nice to have someone to look down upon? That's what I must believe when I get those cutesy Christmas cards from all those delusional souls in the world who paint their lives in rose colored glasses. Just a word to the above mentioned: If you really believe your life is that amazing, you have a lot to experience yet. It's not a threat. It's realit

I don't really know how it caught on but I know how it started.  It was wrapped in shiny aluminum foil and was still warm. Jill gave me cinnamon toast for Christmas. The next year, my ego stinging from being tossed aside so casually by the guy who proposed, when I said, "not now," he proposed to his next conquest before having the courtesy of dumping me. Ouch.    Jill gave me pigeons to sneak into his car and leave to do their duties (pun intended) all night.    And so it began.    One year I gave her a stack of gift cards with no more than 18 cents on each.    She gave me matching toothbrushes for my whole family.    I gave her slippers made from maxi pads.    She countered with a large box of no less than 80 unmatchable socks.    I offered a box for her food storage, complete with different sizes of cans of food without the labels.    She gave me bouquet of weeds tied up in a pretty bow and a fabric snowman stuffed with lint from her dryer.    And here lies my quandary.

     My wedding ring is worn out. It was snug when I got it 18 years ago. Through the years of being fat and pregnant, then just fat, then thin, and then pregnant again (repeat 4 times), and having my ring resized a few times, it's just worn out. This year for Christmas I'm getting my diamond re-set.      The other day I went to Jared's and was greeted by a round, young man who introduced himself as Alex and offered to take me on a tour of the store. "Just show me where your rings are," I hurried him, "I have a pre-schooler to pick up and my kids will be home from school soon." He looked a little taken aback but invited me to take a seat. Actually, he insisted I sit down before he hand me any jewelry. Apparently, I would have a headstart if I were to suddenly take off with costly jewels and precious metals.      Alex was okay although he struck me as a little salesman-ish when he called me "sweetie" and "sweetheart." People who call m

"Am I pretty?" I tentatively asked my sister. "Do I look younger than I am?" "Yes," she replied obediently. "Why do you ask?" "A student's dad hit on me today. Actually, he hit on me yesterday then came back today without his kid and officially asked me my marital status." "I forgot my ring yesterday," my sister mused, "I was "hit on" by dads and students!" "You're not helping." I was whining by now. "This guy is 65 years old." "Oh," she said, "That's bad. That's really bad." I know.

To alleviate my guilt for neglecting my domestic duties, I will be providing a public service today.  Instead of doing laundry, I have been reading.  Here are some good books for the hard to buy for Christmas: Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins:  Well written, action packed, engaging story with a strong female character who has no special powers but has survived and taken care of her sister and mother in a dystopic government.  Her actions in the government sponsored "games" to control the people set the stage for a people's uprising which will be addressed in book 2, Catching Fire.   I liked Catching Fire  better than Hunger Games  but I liked both quite a bit.  A little on the addicting side. Caution:  It's a trilogy.  Last book will be published in September. Moloka'i :  Historical fiction written about the leprosy colony on the island of (tada!) Moloka'i.  The main character is Rachel, beginning at age 5.  Through her eyes, the reader experiences life on the

You know how I sometimes talk with nostalgia about growing up in a rural farm town and being a farm girl?  I was never a farm girl.  My parents had 7 acres where my dad played farmer for nearly 30 years but it was more of a hobby of his.  Once away from home, I was kind of going for the more sophisticated look.  I looked stupid(er) when someone cracked jokes about Rocky Mountain Oysters. Why would I know what they were? My parents wanted to raise stuff so they tried out alfalfa and a series of different animals.  They really raised kids and rocks.  Both of those things grew like weeds.  And weeds.  They grew, too. When I was an early teen they decided to raise a few cows.  I thought it was pretty cool when we had SEVEN cows (cue Johnny Lingo music).  We were ranchers, now.  On the other hand, I was seeking that sophistication which was terribly difficult to attain when 1) I had to ride a bus to school and 2) I'd have to tell the bus driver to let me out.  The stupid cows were out

Pre-lit artificial Christmas tree - $100 Christmas ornaments - 18 years and four children's imagination (and their teachers) Putting up tree without cussing and letting children do all the decorating - Priceless Too wordy to be a real Visa commercial, huh?

We have new daycare workers this year.  The manager is a nice woman about my age.  She has two teenage sons.  In fact, we're secretly conspiring to make our children marry each other.  In a timely manner. Then there is 23 year old Stacy, recently married, waiting for her husband to graduate from college, and thinking about babies.  I thought we shared a collegial relationship.  I thought wrong. Last week she asked me how old I was.  I replied with the standard, "old" response. "No, really.  How old are you?" "I'll be 44 on Tuesday." "That's not old!" she laughed. "That's only a year older than my MOM!" Wow. That comment did not make me feel old at all. Having a 4 year old gives me a false sense of youth. I like it. I'd accepted that I am at least the age of many of my students' parents. They have teenagers. I also understood that,  in theory, many of my former high school classmates are legitimate grandparents.  

"I'm going to a conference in San Antonio," my husband announced four months ago. "Will you be okay for a few days?" I assured him that I could, in fact, manage without him for a few days. Before leaving, he gave the children their assignments for taking care of the house and Mom.  The first day, all of the children took their assignments seriously and soberly.  The 9 year old boy checked that the dog had food and water every morning.  He took out the garbage to be picked up and brought it in after school. He didn't tease his siblings as much. He started out as gold and stayed 80% so for the duration. The teenager cleaned up after dinner the first night, folded a few clothes, then pretty much left the rest of us alone for the next few days. The 11 year old continued with her pre-pubescent identity crisis but tried to do what she was told.  When she didn't plan on doing what she was told, at least she had the integrity to inform me. The 4 year old talked.