Friday, September 25, 2009

Tote My Weary Load. . .

Every morning, 7th Heaven rides her bike to school while I follow along on foot.

When we started this year, she made a new friend who lives between our house and the school. We meet her at the corner, and she rides with us the last two blocks.

As seven-year-olds are not adept at biking while carrying backpacks, I serve not only as an escort, but a pack-mule as well.

This morning, I was trudging along behind the girls, thinking about all the things I have to do today: go through the Declaration of Independence with Halfway Between (10 & 20), a visit to the junior college with the Edge (of 17), paperwork for Hubbalicious, lunch with 7th Heaven and the Second Graders, a laminating project for the teacher. And that should bring me up to Noon.

With two heavy backpacks on my back, I was losing the feeling in my fingers. . .is this what they mean by "toting the weary load?"

At our Momslikeme website, I'd given a pregnant mother who was feeling fat because she'd moved into a size 7 some advice:
"there is always someone for whom your shoes wouldn't be so bad to walk in. . ." I was not attempting to invalidate her feelings - they were her feelings! But I think we all have to stop every now and then and put things in perspective.

Then I started thinking about my oldest son, the firefighter: young, broke, expecting a baby and trying to get through school. He practices running into burning buildings with a hundred pounds of gear on his back! I quickly put my minor dilemma back in it's place.

We all have moments where we feel a little overwhelmed. Instead of complaining, sometimes you just have to hike up your load and keep on moving. And remember that there are people all around you who would consider your load to be pretty light!

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Making Up is Hard to Do

We'd met on the back porch for coffee, but had happened to meander back to the bedroom at the same time.

I checked my cell phone to see if anyone had called, he brushed his teeth.

"Here, " he said as he walked around the other side of the bed, "I'll help you make this."

For over two decades, I've been the designated bed-maker. I don't mind it, it's my thing I do. I'm probably the only one in my house who can't stand an unmade bed, it will call to me. . .

"Thanks!" I said, meanwhile thinking to myself, "I love this guy!"

We pulled up sheet, blanket, spread. Then we collected pillows.

"Your pillow's wrong, flip it over please," he gave me "the look," so I explained, "You have to have the seams in the middle so we don't fight."

"That's silly. . ." he responded, but flipped the pillow anyway.

"No, I'm serious. I think that's what happened to my parents: faulty pillow placement!"

"That's just an old wives' tale!" he giggled.

"Well, how do you think I got to be an old wife?!"

Have fun!

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Run, Mom, Run!

"Hey, you, over there!
I know about your kind. . .
You're like the Independent Network News on Channel Nine.
Everywhere that you go, no matter where you are at. . .I say, you talk about this and you talk about that!" - Run/DMC

"Hey, Mom. . ." it started as we pulled out of the driveway this morning. We had to deliver some equipment an hour and a half down the road and 7th Heaven had come along for the ride and the promise of a potential stop at "Awful House."

"Hey, Mom. . .I think I'm going to get hash browns. I love hash browns."

"That sounds fine, Sweetie."

"Hey, Mom. . .when you were a child like me, did you love hash browns?"

"Yep. I still like them occasion-"

"Hey, Mom. . .did they have 'The Flintstones' when you were a little girl?"

"Yes, they did. It was my favorite sh-"

"Hey, Mom. . .you know that guy, Barney. . .not like the dinosaur, but the one who hangs out with Fred. . ."

Let's see, 1 1/2 hours there, 1/2 hour to eat, 1 1/2 hours back equals about 210 minutes with a "Hey Mom" once every two minutes. . .105 "Hey Mom" s by my account.

As we approached our final exit, I interrupted her to sing that song to her. She stopped talking and looked at me with her big blue eyes. She took a deep breath.

"Hey, Mom. . .isn't that on Sissy's ipod?"

Forget DMC, I just want to Run!

Have fun!

Thursday, September 17, 2009


I'm not a crazy woman, but I play one in an online blog. . .

Some days, it does all of us well to remember the "Serenity Prayer:"

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change
The courage to change the things I can
And the Wisdom to know the difference.

A woman has repeatedly called the city code enforcement because we have a travel trailer and boat in our driveway near the garage, and two long vehicles that block the sidewalk.

When we got the first call, we backed the vehicles up, to where they are almost IN the street, still partially blocking the sidewalk but leaving 6-8 feet in front of them to cross.

The code officer said it was fine, until she called again.

And again.

And again.

Now, they are issuing us a citation because of her complaints. We're trying to find somewhere else to park our boat and trailer, but in the meantime, I made her a sign and posted it in my front yard. I took it down today, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was all a matter of perspective. She didn't like her path being blocked on a public sidewalk and I didn't like someone telling me what to do in my own driveway.

I'm not necessarily proud of my ill-mannered outburst, but it sure felt good to get it off of my hormones:

Dear Nosey Busy-body,
We are working diligently to move our vehicles from our own damn property! Despite the fact that dozens of other people in this neighborhood park blocking the sidewalks and those of us with lives simply walk around them, you’ve singled us out for excessive complaint to satisfy your need to blather rather than stepping three feet out of your self-important way. I am sure that, once we have satisfied your nonsensical fixation, you will find someone else to harass with your inane griping. Our only consolation in this matter is that, while you are violating our right to park our legally registered vehicles in our own driveway, you are stuck being a malcontent shrew. Karma is a b---h :)