Poopshe Bears

I know I've been gone for what seems like forever and all the links on the page are dead. I'm so sorry and hope that you'll forgive me and understand. Life is crazy right now and I just don't have a moment to get away. I'll be back, I promise, and I'll relink all my old patterns and catch y'all up on the kids. But for now... I'm a lot like the flower bulbs in winter. Enjoy your winter and I'll see you in the spring.

Dare to be Predictable

I love my hairdresser.  I love to have my hair washed.  I swear I could take a nap while she massages my scalp.  I don’t really love to have my hair cut though.   After the dentist it has to be one of the most stressful events and the appointment I avoid the most.  

 

I wait, and I wait, and I wait;  until my hair is halfway down my back, every curl practically straightened by the very weight of itself.  I know I’m in trouble when I struggle to get my naturally curly hair to produce even one curl, buying product after product to tame the frizz my laborious efforts produce and finally, in resignation, throw it up in a clip. 

 

Inevitably, I snap and call my hairdresser in a panic… “Do you have an opening.. TODAY.. Now? Perfect.”

 

My hair is fine, my hair is thick and my hair has it’s own curl.  Which sometimes is a good thing, most times it is not.  It will not take a curling iron or curlers and the more I fuss the more it frizzes.   Scrunch and go, that is my motto. 

 

My daughter, with the gorgeous straight, fine, non-frizzing gold hair that is so in fashion for today’s styles envies my curls.  She can’t wait until the day she can curl her hair so it looks like mine, while I wish mine would behave as nicely as hers.

 

Still, I have got to be the most boring customer ever to land in Carrie’s chair.

 

I want to be daring, I truly do.  My darling sister changes her hairstyle and color with the seasons it seems and looks adorable and chic no matter what. 

 

I was brave once…it was an unmitigated disaster.  I can’t begin to explain.  I’m still not really sure what happened.  It’s all a blur.  I must be repressing the memory.  I had always wanted a body-wave, convinced that a bottle could tame my curls when I couldn’t, and the frighteningly young hairdresser was delighted to “experiment”.  I walked out of there with a perm cut somewhere above my ears and about $50 worth of products to support it.  The top of my head looked like a curly q-tip.  My husband’s jaw dropped, my toddler's jaw dropped, there was a collective gasp and then they both said, “it looks… nice”.  Yeah, right.  Could NOT grow it out fast enough.  And it has never been above my shoulders again.  Nearly 20 years and I still get a shiver up my back at the thought.

 

So, there I was Saturday, sitting in a chair waiting patiently for my turn with the much adored Carrie, a seasoned hairdresser, who is close to my age and who I am confident would never turn me into a q-tip.  I flipped through magazines admiring the different “do’s”, flirting with change, but as soon as my back side hit her chair and she asked “what are we doing today…” the answer, as always, was “just chop off an inch or two and layer me”.  And please, oh please, give me my bangs back, ‘cuz it is going to curl right at my eyes anyway regardless of the length so we might as well make it look right.

 

Boring I know. 

 

But she is a magician, truly.  As the locks fall the curls spring and I walk out of there with a bounce in my step, swearing to never neglect myself again and knowing that I will….

 

As soon as I hit the front door, I was met by Ethan, wisest of all wise oldest sons who greeted me with a hug, a smile and “your hair looks great!”… and Grace, who, not quite as experienced in these things, scrunched up her face, turned her head critically from side to side (as if viewing me at a 45-degree angle would make it look any different), and said “it looks just the same”….  Yes my love, it does… but my curls are back, as well as my smile.  And my hairclip?  Safely lost in the bottom of my purse.

 

And this morning…. 6 minutes from towel to door… scrunch and go…. I just love Carrie.  There should be a Hallmark holiday for good hairdressers.

 

45 Minutes

Can you believe it is already mid-October.  The barometer and thermometer and all those other “ometers” don’t lie.  The year is marching on in quick-step and sweeping us all along with it. 

 

I have absolutely no idea where September went, but I’m relatively certain it followed July and August, both of which I seem to have missed as I must have blinked as I ran through them.  Life is crazy busy and I have to remind myself to slow down and enjoy the fall before it’s gone and I find myself hip deep in snow, which in Ohio could be sometime next week.

 

There’s just something special, almost magical, about the feel and smell of fall.  It has a unique identity all its own.  It means schoolbuses, crunchy leaves, sweatshirts, costumes, corn mazes, apple cider, football, and baking.  I know I’ve mentioned it before, I really do love fall, but it seems to be the shortest and busiest season so I barely get to enjoy it before it’s gone again.

 

There has been so much to write and say, but life has been too busy to stop and put fingers to keyboard to capture the thoughts that run through my head during my drives through the countryside.

 

One of “our” newest adventures this fall is Kelley’s participation in a venture program through Lockheed Martin for aspiring engineers in the aerospace field.  I say “our”, not because I am in anyway participating, but I apparently have become the chauffeur for my aspiring engineer/pilot.  So, together, we set out every other week or so, to drive 30 miles away through the rolling countryside of northeast Ohio, whose gentle foothills are resplendent in autumn colors.  30 miles, which translates into 45 minutes one-way of conversation, observations and glimpses into the life and mind of a 14-year old boy.

 

·     45 minutes of peace and quiet. 

·     45 minutes to slow down and enjoy the fall. 

·     45 minutes to capture this moment in time with my son who is quickly approaching independence and adulthood. 

·     45 minutes to strengthen and nurture our relationship. 

·     45 minutes to get lost together – quite literally – and together find our way again.

·     45 minutes to teach and reinforce values, goals, morals, and ethics.

·     45 minutes to teach invaluable survival and coping skills, such as map reading.

·     45 minutes to talk about real life issues.

 

I’m loving every minute of it.

Independence

Remember your first car?  Of course you do.  I remember mine.

 

My first car was a 1983 Nissan Sentra, 2 door, 5 speed, power nothing/manual everything with absolutely no frills and I loved it.  I formally “bought” it in 1987 from my Dad when, after 2 years of my “borrowing” it, he realized that it really wasn’t his anymore and, if he was honest, never had been.  He bought it the year I turned 15 and by the next year we were inseparable -  that car and me.

 

If cars could talk… oh I would be in trouble.  Well, not really, I am 40 after all, so who’s going to fuss at this late date…. but the things I did, the places I went, the miles I travelled, the music I played, the friends I took with me.  Memories by the dozens.

 

That car carried me everywhere I wanted and needed to go, and many places I didn’t… until 1993 when a school bus full of children ran a stop sign and pulled out in front of my husband.  By then it had well over 235,000 miles, a broken passenger window and cracks in the pseudo leather seats.  But I loved it.

 

Many vehicles have come and gone since then -  some I liked some I didn’t, some were fun, some functional, some large, some small, some ugly, some cute – but it’s like your first love, you never forget that first car and it always has a special place in your heart.

My firstborn son, Ethan, is the sole owner of his very first car.  It’s not flashy, it’s not fancy, the bells and whistles are few and may not actually exist.  The windows are manual, it’s a 4-cylinder automatic, the miles are pretty high and there isn’t even a radio.  But it’s his….

 

I don’t need, or want, to know everywhere they go or everything they do…

 

I just want to know that his heart gives a leap of excitement and trepidation when he gets behind the wheel,

 

that he feels a new sense of self-confidence and independence at this first flight out of the nest,

 

pray that it will carry him safely through all of his adventures,

 

and hope that he’ll want want to take me along every so often.

"Shaggy or Messy?"

Really?  Seriously?  Is there a difference?

I looked at my son standing there in front of me. 

 

A can of Axe Shaggy and Axe Messy hair product in each hand. 

 

Waiting for the answer. 

 

"What have you been using?"

Messy.

"Do you like it?"

It’s okay.  (although I know it’s really not because he has my hair.  Heat and humidity makes those beautiful curls pouf and frizz.)

"Well, get the shaggy."

"Should I look for a smaller bottle?"

"Is there a smaller bottle?"

"No."

"Then get the one in your hand.  If you don’t like it you can buy something different next time."

 

He came to me for an answer to his personal grooming question.  His father was standing 4 feet away but he walked right past. 

Mom knows.

 

I didn’t really.  But it was enough to know he thought I did.

 

When your son is 17 you learn to hold on to the little things in life.

Fall is just around the bend.

For me this brings mixed emotions.

 

Life moves at a faster pace in the crisp coolness of fall than in the warm hazy days of summer.

 

School has started and with it order, routines and schedules.  Alarm clocks drag us from our warm beds while it is still dark and bare feet step onto chilled floors as we race for a hot shower.  Yellow school buses dominate the roads, reminding us of the necessity of slowing down and enjoying life (and leave earlier tomorrow).

 

The world takes on a golden glow as the colors slowly change from deep greens and bright flowers to the bronze of autumn’s patchwork.

 

Rows upon rows of orange pumpkins now stand beneath signs proudly announcing “Cinderella Pumpkins” in place of watermelons, corn and strawberries at the roadside markets.  Soon they will be joined by indian corn hanging from rafters and stalks of corn bound and tied to posts.

 

The air is beginning to be filled with Canadian geese in their ever-present flying “v” formations.  The local parks and ponds provide a gathering place for them to rest on their long journeys where we now walk with greater care than we did just a couple of weeks ago.

The aroma of campfires drift on the cool breezes and there is just a general feel and smell in the cool air that reminds of us of our own school days…

 

...of homework and buses, pep rallies, Halloween, piles of leaves to jump in or burn, friends and football games. 

 

The crockpot has been pulled out of storage and in it’s place is the ice cream maker.  The cabinets are once again filled with the ingredients for hot chocolate and chili.

All around are the sounds of the challenging shouts and crashing heads of males asserting their maturity, masculinity and dominance. 

 

For some species, such as rams and deer it’s their antlers… for humans, it’s football helmets.

 

 

 

Fall is a wonderful time of year.  It would be better if it stayed a little longer.

Ein Junge unter einem Flugzeug.

Are you ever too old to learn a new language?

 

I have no idea, but I am a perpetual student and the fall of leaves and dipping temperatures triggers this deep inate need to study and do homework.  (I think it’s a disease.) 

 

Over the years I’ve taken college courses, completed a Medical Translation program, worked my way through company training programs, attended seminars, struggled through Japanese class, and even studied Pharmacology.

 

Between football, dance, tumbling, snow skiing and boy scouts, 1 college student at a time is all this house can handle… so what’s a girl to do when her fingers start twitching…

 

We’ve cut everything else from raises to employee functions.  Why we have even resisted replacing burned out light bulbs in an effort to cut costs here in my little corner of the corporate world.  I guess it’s small consolation that they’ve opened the corporate training library, but to a girl on an already stretched education budget it’s a perfect way to go back to school without, well, going back to school.

So… I’m learning German. 

 

Interesting. 

 

I don’t speak any other language but English.   Which could be a truly tragic commentary on education during the 70’s and 80’s in rural America I suppose, but more likely on my own lack of adolescent diligence or determination.   

 

I did, in fact, take a year of Spanish in high school, at the end of which I earned a barely-passing grade, the ability to count to 20 and one and only one sentence, “No mi gusto lavar los platos”.  It seemed important at the time. 

Now, I’m spending my evenings “playing” Rosetta Stone, German Level 1 on my computer.

The other night I sat diligently clicking my way through Chapter 1, Lesson 1:   “Ein Junge unter einem Flugzeug.”      correct.

 

 …  when Kelley came through the room, heard me repeating my little phrases and,

 

in the wisdom of a 14-year-old who passed a year of German at school with an A+ and learned such useful things as “Hello, my name is….. ” he asked,

 

“Why would a boy be under an airplane?”

 

I don’t know.  But I can say it if I ever see it.

I. AM. SUPER. MOM!!!! Hear me roar!

10:50 AM:  First day of college.  Ethan should be safely on campus, parked and walking to his first class.   

The red super mom phone rings….

 

Me:             Hey Ethan!  How did it go?

 

Ethan:        Mom…… help me.

 

Me:              What’s wrong?

 

Ethan:         I’m lost.  I can’t find a parking spot and class starts in 10 minutes.  I’ve been driving around for an hour and every lot is full.

 

Me:           Where are you?

 

Ethan:      I don’t know.

 

(interesting point….. he didn’t take his campus map or class schedule with him… you know, the one that was printed and highlighted with parking and classrooms ….children by nature are List Shredders)

 

This is a job for (drum roll please) Super Mom! 

 

Fortunately our heroine is at work where she is sitting at a computer. 

 

She quickly opens an internet window and pulls up the campus map while our forlorn young adult discovers his location. 

 

Our heroine safely directs him to the nearest parking lot highlighted in “orange” which means that it is one of the last filled.

 

Turn left, turn right, pull in. 

 

Our young adult safely maneuvers his car into a parking space.

 

Super Mom:        Do you know where you are in relation to your class building?

 

Ethan:                  No.

 

Super Mom quickly scans the map for the buildings already highlighted with yellow marker denoting the classrooms our young student will be in and gives directions…

 

…. and run.  You have 4 blocks and 8 minutes.  Go. Go. Go.

Mission accomplished.  Parking place located.  Child is on time for class.  Mother the hero.

List Makers: List Shredders

The world is made up of two types of people.  Those who make the lists and those who ignore the lists.

 

 

I am….

 

an organizer.

an administrator.

a list maker.

          a coordinator.

 

Give me paper and a pen and I will conquer the world.

 

 

Give me another piece of paper and I will help you

 

conquer the world

organize your world

manage your time

          schedule your classes

 

 

so why don’t they do what I tell them to?

 

The sad truth is that no matter how well you organize someone else you can’t make them follow the list.

27 pairs of Fiskar scissors….

27 pairs of Fiskar scissors….

According to my calculations that’s how many I’ve purchased in the last 12 years. 

 

27 pairs purchased in July, labeled and placed lovingly in the brand new pencil boxes and packed into the bookbags for the first day of school

 

27 pairs rescued, along with 15 assorted jibbles of crayons and nubs of pencils, from the battered pencil box, it’s top more often than not dangling from it’s one remaining hinge the following June. 

 

27 pairs both blunt and sharp. 

 

27 pairs in varying pastel colors typically purchased in coordinating colors to the metric, bendable ruler and pocket pencil sharpener.

 

27 pairs, on whose very existence is placed direct responsiblity for the approaching school year and end of summer on those little blades with pastel handles.

27 pairs of Fiskar scissors….

 

So why is it there isn’t a pair of scissors anywhere in my house?  My husband and I have looked in every nook and cranny… from basement to attic, family room to bathroom… there isn’t a pair to be found. 

By the time every child is through with school I will have bought 60, but I am confident that I will never find one.... until.... Some dark stormy fall day a truant officer will come knocking on my door looking for my errant children and find my still warm body lying on the floor with dozens of pastel-colored Fiskar scissors protruding from my chest...