I am fortunate at my job to have my own office, located within a larger office that houses the therapy staff. I am also fortunate to have a terrific job, where I have the honor of working with a group of incredibly talented people (I can gush here because don't think that most of them know I write a blog--and I really hope they already know how great I think they are anyway!). On my office door is a half wipe-off board/half cork board thing on which I post the monthly schedules for the department. Everyone checks this spot at least once a week. When I first started working at my desk, I noticed that the corkboard side was getting quite a workout holding the schedules and the wipe-off board was looking a little neglected and sad. I felt sorry for that blank, empty space that was taking up real estate next to the corkboard. So, I wrote a funny little quote in the whiteness and every week I change the message.
For those of you that know me as Holly Rich, this shouldn't come as much of a surprise, as I come by this quote obsession quite naturally. My dad has been posting random snippets on the First Baptist Church sign in my hometown for over 35 years. I remember going out to help hand him letters when I was a little girl, and watched him get creative when he ran out of letters for a quote and had to improvise (in a pinch, an extra "E" can be bent to make a "C"). He would measure the spacing of the letters so everything was centered the way that it should be. I think I probably learned as much about spelling and grammer from my church-sign making dad as I did from my kindergarten-teacher mom.
Some of the quotes were funny, some were thought-provoking and others were spiritual--some were a combination of the three. Through the years as my dad became infamous for his signs he would receive phone calls, letters, and e-mails from people sharing their favorite signs my dad posted and friends would also share notes offering their own sightings of signs they had seen on their travels.
I remember my dad coming back into the house in the winter, his cheeks red and freezing from the hour that he had spent outside in single-digit temperatures, changing the church sign (did I mention that there are TWO sides to the sign, with two separate snippets each week?). Or putting up the sign "If you think it's hot here...just wait" sign in triple-digit temps. Dad has never received any compensation for the hours (at this point, probably MONTHS) that he has spent at the sides of those signs. And I am sure he wouldn't want to. Why in the world would such a tedious task be worth it?
Perhaps he has a hidden agenda. Although, in a small town--or even in some large ones--there is little that stays hidden for long. Perhaps it's a way to voice a political view or make a big statement. Nope, my dad could simply care less about any of that. Not that he doesn't have opinions, I am sure that he does. He's just not the kind of guy that thinks his opinions are any more relevant or any more entitled than anyone else's. If he were forced to put his personal creed on that sign, I am sure one side would read "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength" and the opposite side would read "Love your neighbor as yourself." And he would have borrowed those quotes as well.
I asked my dad once why he began changing the church sign, and he said that when he started attending the church the deacons had mentioned that they needed someone to change the sign, and that no one else volunteered. And 35+ years later he is stil devoted to that mission. Some are called to teach, some to preach...others to put metal letters in grooves.
For that moment when a person reads a sign, they make the choice of how to apply or dismiss what they have read. Regardless, that moment challenges the reader to stop and think. To stop and appreciate. To stop and smile. To connect with others who might have read the sign and had the same reaction. To appreciate the message for whatever it means personally, and to realize that it might have a completely different meaning for the next reader. To appreciate the growth and acceptance that comes with realizing that different interpretations are okay. And suddenly, in that light, putting metal letters into grooves becomes just as profound as the greatest of teachings or the loftiest of sermons.
And so, it is with great pride and a smile that each week I write a new quote on the wipe-off board outside my office. To encourage, to challenge, to inspire, to motivate, to cheer, to connect. Thanks, Dad, from your biggest fan.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
'Tis the Season...
It's the middle of November, and a certain familiar tightness is finding it's way into my heart and winding it's way around my stomach. When Halloween decorations give way to Christmas commercials (because Thanksgiving is just not a marketable holiday unless you are a grocery store) I start to get a little breathless, my heart starts to beat a little faster...and my anxiety level starts to climb into the stratosphere.
It's not that I don't love the holidays. I do. I was named after the Christmas holidays (thanks, Mom!). I even chose to get married the week before Christmas in 2000. My childhood memories of the holiday season are of magical days and events that started the Wednesday before Thanksgiving as we drove to St. Joseph, MO or Quincy, IL to celebrate with my extended family and didn't end until we were banging wooden spoons against skillets and pots outside our front door at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. Food and love was and is prevalent at all Pryor/Rich celebrations, and family is the theme.
Fast forward 20 years, and now I have a family of my own. We have our own traditions to establish, our own memories to make. And just about this time every year I start to get nervous: can I possibly give my kids the magical experience of my childhood? Will they feel as special and as loved as I did (and still do)? How can I squeeze these new memories and traditions in with the old ones that are still an integral part of my family's mode of celebration? Honestly, I wonder each year how I can keep my sanity and schedule without leaving anything or anyone out, and without hurting anyone's feelings or making anyone angry. Keeping everything organized and everyone included often leaves me drained, stressed and exhausted. And definitely not in a festive holiday mood. I feel like Oz behind the curtain, making the magic but not getting to be a part of it.
So...this year, I am going to make some holiday 2011 resolutions. I am going to celebrate the madness, the disorganization, the chaos. as part of the joy. I am going to try to cut myself a little slack. I am going to remind myself that I can't be everywhere and do everything, and that I might have to make some hard choices to save my energy and sanity for my kids (and my husband!)...and that despite my best efforts I am probably going to upset someone at some point. I might have to forgo some old traditions that don't "fit" anymore to make room for those that do.
Santa's cookies might be break-and-bake this year, and I might not be able to attend every event on my calendar. But, I will be PRESENT, I will slow down and enjoy, and I might even find a moment for myself.
When 2011 gives way to 2012, I want to look back over November and December with a reminiscent smile, not an exasperated sigh. And, most of all, I want to be a part of the magic.
It's not that I don't love the holidays. I do. I was named after the Christmas holidays (thanks, Mom!). I even chose to get married the week before Christmas in 2000. My childhood memories of the holiday season are of magical days and events that started the Wednesday before Thanksgiving as we drove to St. Joseph, MO or Quincy, IL to celebrate with my extended family and didn't end until we were banging wooden spoons against skillets and pots outside our front door at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. Food and love was and is prevalent at all Pryor/Rich celebrations, and family is the theme.
Fast forward 20 years, and now I have a family of my own. We have our own traditions to establish, our own memories to make. And just about this time every year I start to get nervous: can I possibly give my kids the magical experience of my childhood? Will they feel as special and as loved as I did (and still do)? How can I squeeze these new memories and traditions in with the old ones that are still an integral part of my family's mode of celebration? Honestly, I wonder each year how I can keep my sanity and schedule without leaving anything or anyone out, and without hurting anyone's feelings or making anyone angry. Keeping everything organized and everyone included often leaves me drained, stressed and exhausted. And definitely not in a festive holiday mood. I feel like Oz behind the curtain, making the magic but not getting to be a part of it.
So...this year, I am going to make some holiday 2011 resolutions. I am going to celebrate the madness, the disorganization, the chaos. as part of the joy. I am going to try to cut myself a little slack. I am going to remind myself that I can't be everywhere and do everything, and that I might have to make some hard choices to save my energy and sanity for my kids (and my husband!)...and that despite my best efforts I am probably going to upset someone at some point. I might have to forgo some old traditions that don't "fit" anymore to make room for those that do.
Santa's cookies might be break-and-bake this year, and I might not be able to attend every event on my calendar. But, I will be PRESENT, I will slow down and enjoy, and I might even find a moment for myself.
When 2011 gives way to 2012, I want to look back over November and December with a reminiscent smile, not an exasperated sigh. And, most of all, I want to be a part of the magic.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Friendship for Grown-Ups
This weekend I had the opportunity to attend the Women of Faith conference at the Sprint Center. Two days, six thousand women and some terrific speakers and singers. I got to hear Mandisa, Sandy Patti and Amy Grant sing live in concerts throughout the weekend. Wow!
One of the speakers was Lisa Welchel, better known as "Blair" from The Facts of Life TV show. Her topic immediately got my attention: "Friendship for Grown-Ups." I was all ears. Back in high school and college, the relative short-distance between my life and those around me made keeping up with friends easy. The relative little responsibilities we carried made time spent together almost a daily occurrence. I remember talking on the phone with my friends until the early hours of the morning, only to have my dad ask what we talked about the next day...and I truly couldn't remember. What we lacked in quality of conversation we made up for in quantity!
Fast forward 15 years, and some days I feel pretty worthless as a friend. The time to return phone calls, send birthday wishes and e-mails gets pushed aside to wipe noses, cook dinner, help with homework. And girl's nights? Forget 'em! Since most get-togethers now require babysitters and must be scheduled around 15 different types of practices and games, getting together with the girls happens less regularly than Leap Year.
During her time on the stage, Lisa focused on teaching how to find friends, and suggested that the best friends are women who aren't perfect and don't try to be. Ladies who have experienced the grace that comes with failure and are happy to spread the grace to other women who are in those trenches. That was the best, most reaffirming news--if imperfection makes a good friend, then at least I have that going for me!
At this stage in my life, I constantly worry that I am falling short: as a mom, as a wife, even as a friend. It was through Lisa's affirmation that I was able to realize that the old adage "to have a friend, you must first be one" is true. I don't know any perfect friends, I don't have any perfect friends--and honestly, I don't want any perfect friends. So why in the world do I think that I need to feel guilty for not being a perfect friend?
I am blessed to have friends of all ages and stages. Friends that I have known since birth and those that I met just this weekend. If you are reading this, you are my friend, and I am very lucky that our paths crossed at just the right moment. So, forgive me if I forget to return a call, if I accidentally send you a text the day after your birthday or fail to get together with you as often as I would like. I appreciate and love you, my "Grown-Up friends." And hopefully I will see you all soon--2012 is a Leap Year, after all!
One of the speakers was Lisa Welchel, better known as "Blair" from The Facts of Life TV show. Her topic immediately got my attention: "Friendship for Grown-Ups." I was all ears. Back in high school and college, the relative short-distance between my life and those around me made keeping up with friends easy. The relative little responsibilities we carried made time spent together almost a daily occurrence. I remember talking on the phone with my friends until the early hours of the morning, only to have my dad ask what we talked about the next day...and I truly couldn't remember. What we lacked in quality of conversation we made up for in quantity!
Fast forward 15 years, and some days I feel pretty worthless as a friend. The time to return phone calls, send birthday wishes and e-mails gets pushed aside to wipe noses, cook dinner, help with homework. And girl's nights? Forget 'em! Since most get-togethers now require babysitters and must be scheduled around 15 different types of practices and games, getting together with the girls happens less regularly than Leap Year.
During her time on the stage, Lisa focused on teaching how to find friends, and suggested that the best friends are women who aren't perfect and don't try to be. Ladies who have experienced the grace that comes with failure and are happy to spread the grace to other women who are in those trenches. That was the best, most reaffirming news--if imperfection makes a good friend, then at least I have that going for me!
At this stage in my life, I constantly worry that I am falling short: as a mom, as a wife, even as a friend. It was through Lisa's affirmation that I was able to realize that the old adage "to have a friend, you must first be one" is true. I don't know any perfect friends, I don't have any perfect friends--and honestly, I don't want any perfect friends. So why in the world do I think that I need to feel guilty for not being a perfect friend?
I am blessed to have friends of all ages and stages. Friends that I have known since birth and those that I met just this weekend. If you are reading this, you are my friend, and I am very lucky that our paths crossed at just the right moment. So, forgive me if I forget to return a call, if I accidentally send you a text the day after your birthday or fail to get together with you as often as I would like. I appreciate and love you, my "Grown-Up friends." And hopefully I will see you all soon--2012 is a Leap Year, after all!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Passion for the Pre-Owned
I LOVE garage sales. I have been known to get up at 6am to be the first to arrive when the door goes up. If you are ever at my house, look around--I'll bet that half of my home decor was pre-purchased. Honestly, does a designer vase or occasional table really "wear out?"
I also love consignment stores. Ditto, Plato's Closet, Clothes Mentor, Mary Margaret's (in Lee's Summit) and Gypsy Vardo (in Lexington) are among my favorite places to shop. I will admit that the girl in Plato's closet looked at me a little funny when I entered the "teen" resale store with Maryn in her baby carrier, but after about 10 minutes of shopping and talking, I had scored some digits for a new babysitter. I don't mind--I remember how much disposable income I had as a teenager with my first job (when rent and utilities were expenses that had not yet invaded my budget), and I am more than happy to pick up teen's barely worn designer jeans at Wal-Mart prices. I have been know to wear a thrift store dress to a couple of black-tie charity events with no one the wiser. Even my cars were owned by others before me.
Why am I obsessed with pre-owned stuff? For one thing, I have a bit of a shopping problem and this keeps me closer to my budget. Jim has a hard time believing I can buy 10 pairs of jeans to his 2 pairs, but it's the truth. I don't really care about "new," but"new to me" can really brighten my day. Also, call me a romantic dreamer--but I like to think about where the item has been before it made its way into my home. Has my charity-event dress already been to prom? Has my thrift-store bracelet been on a first date? And I LOVE the challenge of repurposing something for another use.
The coffee table in my hearth room is actually a 100-year old carpenter's chest. If the kids juice boxes were pushed aside and the lid was lifted, inside are wooden boxes and tools that were used for a much less domestic purpose than the life it is living now. I am sure that it rode in a buggy or two, accompanying a woodworker from one exciting job site to another. And now it sits completely motionless in my hearth room, its travels over.
However, it is no longer confined to a single role as a carpenter's chest. It has become a rest for coffee mugs during the most joyous family events. It is currently serving as a pull-up bar as Maryn learns how to walk. It has served as a stage when Will has decided that he needs to be a little taller to act out his stories for the rest of the Godfrey clan. It is the "out of bounds" marker for our Wii nights when Pryor gets too close to the TV for my comfort. It has been extra seating when our circle of friends overflows and fills our home with love. Every scratch on that chest is a memory, every stain a priceless reminder of an event that has made this family what it is.
Much like my closest friends, every pre-owned item in my home has a history, a life outside of the one that brought it to me. A series of events brought it into my life, and has given me joy. At this point in life, we're all "pre-owned." We all have lived through circumstances and events that have left us feeling used, scratched and stained. However, like my coffee table--if we're lucky, those circumstances have led us to a place where they become priceless battle scars, lessons learned, memories that have made us who we are and have given us moments of joy. And become treasures among the discarded, the unwanted, the unloved.
Thank you, friends, for scooping me up and inviting me into your homes, even with my stains and scars. Thank you for the purpose of our friendship. Thank you, Lord, for buying all of us "pre-owned," I hope we give you joy. Perfection in our imperfections. Perfection in the chaos.
I also love consignment stores. Ditto, Plato's Closet, Clothes Mentor, Mary Margaret's (in Lee's Summit) and Gypsy Vardo (in Lexington) are among my favorite places to shop. I will admit that the girl in Plato's closet looked at me a little funny when I entered the "teen" resale store with Maryn in her baby carrier, but after about 10 minutes of shopping and talking, I had scored some digits for a new babysitter. I don't mind--I remember how much disposable income I had as a teenager with my first job (when rent and utilities were expenses that had not yet invaded my budget), and I am more than happy to pick up teen's barely worn designer jeans at Wal-Mart prices. I have been know to wear a thrift store dress to a couple of black-tie charity events with no one the wiser. Even my cars were owned by others before me.
Why am I obsessed with pre-owned stuff? For one thing, I have a bit of a shopping problem and this keeps me closer to my budget. Jim has a hard time believing I can buy 10 pairs of jeans to his 2 pairs, but it's the truth. I don't really care about "new," but"new to me" can really brighten my day. Also, call me a romantic dreamer--but I like to think about where the item has been before it made its way into my home. Has my charity-event dress already been to prom? Has my thrift-store bracelet been on a first date? And I LOVE the challenge of repurposing something for another use.
The coffee table in my hearth room is actually a 100-year old carpenter's chest. If the kids juice boxes were pushed aside and the lid was lifted, inside are wooden boxes and tools that were used for a much less domestic purpose than the life it is living now. I am sure that it rode in a buggy or two, accompanying a woodworker from one exciting job site to another. And now it sits completely motionless in my hearth room, its travels over.
However, it is no longer confined to a single role as a carpenter's chest. It has become a rest for coffee mugs during the most joyous family events. It is currently serving as a pull-up bar as Maryn learns how to walk. It has served as a stage when Will has decided that he needs to be a little taller to act out his stories for the rest of the Godfrey clan. It is the "out of bounds" marker for our Wii nights when Pryor gets too close to the TV for my comfort. It has been extra seating when our circle of friends overflows and fills our home with love. Every scratch on that chest is a memory, every stain a priceless reminder of an event that has made this family what it is.
Much like my closest friends, every pre-owned item in my home has a history, a life outside of the one that brought it to me. A series of events brought it into my life, and has given me joy. At this point in life, we're all "pre-owned." We all have lived through circumstances and events that have left us feeling used, scratched and stained. However, like my coffee table--if we're lucky, those circumstances have led us to a place where they become priceless battle scars, lessons learned, memories that have made us who we are and have given us moments of joy. And become treasures among the discarded, the unwanted, the unloved.
Thank you, friends, for scooping me up and inviting me into your homes, even with my stains and scars. Thank you for the purpose of our friendship. Thank you, Lord, for buying all of us "pre-owned," I hope we give you joy. Perfection in our imperfections. Perfection in the chaos.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
What a crock of ...dinner?!
I love my Crock-Pot so much, I have an entire day devoted to it. Crock-Pot Monday. Every Sunday night, I throw a bunch of stuff in the pot, plug it in on Monday before I go to work and every Monday evening I come home to a yummy-smelling house and a meal that didn't start out frozen in a bag.
I have yet to make something that wasn't really tasty, and usually there is enough meat to chop up the leftovers and use it for Round 2 on Tuesday or Wednesday. I am including some of my favorite recipes in this post, hope you enjoy! By the way, any time I use chicken I de-skin it before cooking it. I am really grossed out by chicken skin. Feel free to try it with the skin on if that's your thing! For all of these recipes, cook on low for 8-10 hours.
Yummy pork loin:
1 pork loin (you can also use pork chops), I have thrown it in frozen and it still cooks fine
2 cans cream of mushroom soup
1 onion, cut into rings and separated
Apricot chicken or pork:
3 pounds meat
1 bottle Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce
1 jar apricot preserves
1 onion, sliced
Mozzarella Chicken:
4 chicken breasts
Sprinkle salt and pepper
1 onion, chopped
2 green peppers, chopped
2 cups pasta sauce
Cook everything above, then when done serve over spaghetti and top with mozzarella cheese.
Citrus Pork Chops:
3 pounds pork chops
sprinkle salt and pepper
2 cans mandarin oranges, do not drain
1 can pinapple tidbits, do not drain
Serve over cooked egg noodles. You can thicken the sauce with cornstarch, if preferred.
Creamy Chicken:
4 chicken breasts
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 package French onion soup mix
Serve over rice
Tex-Mex Chicken:
6 chicken breasts
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can Ro-Tel
I serve this over Fritos and sprinkle cheddar cheese on the top.
Sloppy Joe Chicken
6 chicken thighs
1 1/2 oz Sloppy Joe mix
2 tablespoons honey
8-oz can tomato sauce
Serve over cooked rice.
These are some of my favorites, and ones that my family likes. I would love to have some new recipes, so feel free to send me your favorites!
Sitting down to a home-cooked meal makes me feel like June Cleaver...and I don't even need the apron. And clean up is a cinch, especially if you really cheat and use the slow-cooker disposable liners! Perfection in the chaos!
I have yet to make something that wasn't really tasty, and usually there is enough meat to chop up the leftovers and use it for Round 2 on Tuesday or Wednesday. I am including some of my favorite recipes in this post, hope you enjoy! By the way, any time I use chicken I de-skin it before cooking it. I am really grossed out by chicken skin. Feel free to try it with the skin on if that's your thing! For all of these recipes, cook on low for 8-10 hours.
Yummy pork loin:
1 pork loin (you can also use pork chops), I have thrown it in frozen and it still cooks fine
2 cans cream of mushroom soup
1 onion, cut into rings and separated
Apricot chicken or pork:
3 pounds meat
1 bottle Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce
1 jar apricot preserves
1 onion, sliced
Mozzarella Chicken:
4 chicken breasts
Sprinkle salt and pepper
1 onion, chopped
2 green peppers, chopped
2 cups pasta sauce
Cook everything above, then when done serve over spaghetti and top with mozzarella cheese.
Citrus Pork Chops:
3 pounds pork chops
sprinkle salt and pepper
2 cans mandarin oranges, do not drain
1 can pinapple tidbits, do not drain
Serve over cooked egg noodles. You can thicken the sauce with cornstarch, if preferred.
Creamy Chicken:
4 chicken breasts
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 package French onion soup mix
Serve over rice
Tex-Mex Chicken:
6 chicken breasts
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can Ro-Tel
I serve this over Fritos and sprinkle cheddar cheese on the top.
Sloppy Joe Chicken
6 chicken thighs
1 1/2 oz Sloppy Joe mix
2 tablespoons honey
8-oz can tomato sauce
Serve over cooked rice.
These are some of my favorites, and ones that my family likes. I would love to have some new recipes, so feel free to send me your favorites!
Sitting down to a home-cooked meal makes me feel like June Cleaver...and I don't even need the apron. And clean up is a cinch, especially if you really cheat and use the slow-cooker disposable liners! Perfection in the chaos!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sticks and Stones
Today Pryor, my almost-seven-year-old, came home and promptly told me that he would be taking his Nintendo DS on the schoolbus with him from now on. "Um, nope!" I said and turned his attention back to his homework. "But mooooo-oooom...Gabe gets to bring his on the bus and he said that I should do it too! I won't be cool unless I bring mine on the bus too!"
Ugh. This is the second "Gabe-ism" that I've heard in the past week. Last Monday, Pryor told me that he wanted a skeleton sweatshirt. That glowed in the dark. From Old Navy. After I got over the initial shock that my fashion-oblivious oldest son was making his first steps toward first-grade couture, I realized that there had to be something else going on. "Really? Who has one that you've seen?"
"Gabe. He says they're the coolest and I need to get one."
I am sure by next week Pryor will need to get a pet Iguana or bring an Ipad on the bus to stay "cool" with Gabe.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Gabe. I have never even met him. I'm sure he's a great kid. But he reminds me of all the people I have tried so hard to impress and failed, and it makes me want to protect my oldest from going through what I did, to skip ahead with the lesson learned.
I remember begging my mom to buy me a pair of high-top sneakers at the start of third grade (it WAS the 80's...). It was painfully obvious with my sports ability that even in the third grade that those high-tops weren't going anywhere near a basketball court, but I thought I was so COOL! I went over to my best friend's house the minute I got home. I was so happy, thinking that mine were like hers and wanting so much to fit in. Her much-older brother walked by with his friends and said "generic" and they all laughed. I had no idea what that word meant at the time, but I knew that it was painfully uncool. And I had to explain to my mom how the sneakers "hurt my feet" and why never came out of the box again.
There's so many of those moments: trying to fit in at the "cool" lunch table in high school and being told that no one at the table liked me, staying up late in my dorm room waiting for the guy to call and ask me to the formal only to have a sorority sister tell me that he just called HER and wasn't that so exciting, not getting the call back from the interview that I knew I had "aced."
I still do battle with my own versions of "Gabe." There are definitely days when I am painfully uncool. There are moments that despite my best intentions I look like a complete dork. Always someone, somewhere implying that if I just did this, if I just wore that, if I just acted like "her"--I would be accepted, loved, respected, admired. And most days, I have to admit, I am my own worst Gabe. The person who's most likely to make me feel uncool is...me.
Looking back, I see that getting bumped from the lunch table forced me to make friends with people I might have not met otherwise, girls who are still great friends today. If that guy had called and asked me to the formal, I might not have gone on the blind date with the man who became my husband. If I had gotten the job, I would have missed the opportunity to land the career I have always wanted.
So, I will listen to my seven-year-old's daily changing definition of coolness with
a smile. I will not roll my eyes and groan each time my son says "Gabe told me..." And I will be thankful for the moments of wrong turns that have turned out to be right ones. Moments of perfection in the chaos.
Ugh. This is the second "Gabe-ism" that I've heard in the past week. Last Monday, Pryor told me that he wanted a skeleton sweatshirt. That glowed in the dark. From Old Navy. After I got over the initial shock that my fashion-oblivious oldest son was making his first steps toward first-grade couture, I realized that there had to be something else going on. "Really? Who has one that you've seen?"
"Gabe. He says they're the coolest and I need to get one."
I am sure by next week Pryor will need to get a pet Iguana or bring an Ipad on the bus to stay "cool" with Gabe.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Gabe. I have never even met him. I'm sure he's a great kid. But he reminds me of all the people I have tried so hard to impress and failed, and it makes me want to protect my oldest from going through what I did, to skip ahead with the lesson learned.
I remember begging my mom to buy me a pair of high-top sneakers at the start of third grade (it WAS the 80's...). It was painfully obvious with my sports ability that even in the third grade that those high-tops weren't going anywhere near a basketball court, but I thought I was so COOL! I went over to my best friend's house the minute I got home. I was so happy, thinking that mine were like hers and wanting so much to fit in. Her much-older brother walked by with his friends and said "generic" and they all laughed. I had no idea what that word meant at the time, but I knew that it was painfully uncool. And I had to explain to my mom how the sneakers "hurt my feet" and why never came out of the box again.
There's so many of those moments: trying to fit in at the "cool" lunch table in high school and being told that no one at the table liked me, staying up late in my dorm room waiting for the guy to call and ask me to the formal only to have a sorority sister tell me that he just called HER and wasn't that so exciting, not getting the call back from the interview that I knew I had "aced."
I still do battle with my own versions of "Gabe." There are definitely days when I am painfully uncool. There are moments that despite my best intentions I look like a complete dork. Always someone, somewhere implying that if I just did this, if I just wore that, if I just acted like "her"--I would be accepted, loved, respected, admired. And most days, I have to admit, I am my own worst Gabe. The person who's most likely to make me feel uncool is...me.
Looking back, I see that getting bumped from the lunch table forced me to make friends with people I might have not met otherwise, girls who are still great friends today. If that guy had called and asked me to the formal, I might not have gone on the blind date with the man who became my husband. If I had gotten the job, I would have missed the opportunity to land the career I have always wanted.
So, I will listen to my seven-year-old's daily changing definition of coolness with
a smile. I will not roll my eyes and groan each time my son says "Gabe told me..." And I will be thankful for the moments of wrong turns that have turned out to be right ones. Moments of perfection in the chaos.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Amazing Race
I watched an rerun episode of The Amazing Race the other day on TV. It was much like any other episode, where teams of two people go on a scavenger hunt of sorts in foreign territory--hoping to be the first to finish that portion, or stage, of the race. The worst fate goes to the team that comes in last, and they are eliminated from the race.
Most days, I feel like my daily routine is a crazy real-life version of this show. I wake up, try to get myself ready and the kids appropriately dressed for whatever crazy weather we will have on that particular day and get everyone to daycare on time. Stage one accomplished. Then, navigate rush hour to get into the parking garage before someone takes my spot. Stage two accomplished. Leave work at just the right moment as to not look like I am sneaking out early but still have enough time to drive home, pick up Maryn and meet Pryor as he gets off the bus. Stage three complete. Then on to helping Pryor with homework as I make dinner and make sure Maryn doesn't tear something to shreds or eat something she isn't supposed to. Stage 4 down. Ask Will and Jim how their day was as I get the plates on the table. Scarf down dinner as I remind my boys for the nineteenth time that the two choices for dinner are "take it" or "leave it" and that I am not starving them if I only serve them grilled chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes, all while I try to avoid wearing whatever puree du jour I am feeding Maryn. Sports, school activities, church, and a million other "stages" must be completed, in a synchronization that would impress NASA, before I can fall into bed. Sometimes the stages are completed in "foreign" territory--the hardware store, the lawn and flower place, the paint store...and I might not even know the language if I have to go by Dick's or Best Buy.
I probably lose as many stages of this race as I win each week. Appointments are missed, practices are forgotten, homework is misplaced. And sometimes I feel like I am out of the game completely. And then I remember my favorite part of any track and field day when I was in school: no matter how well I did, even if I didn't place at all, if I just finished the race--I got a participation ribbon. Thank God for the participation ribbon. Thank God that sometimes just finishing the race is enough for the reward and I get to compete again tomorrow. Thank God there is no elimination in this race.
And I know this race is completed a million times over by every working mom in America, every day. Oh, and by the way...EVERY mom is a working mom--it doesn't matter whether she goes to work outside the home or inside it each day. And what is our reward? A million dollars? All-expenses paid vacations? Fame and fortune? Nope, our reward is that we get to do it all again tomorrow. And the craziest part of the whole "amazing race?" It's totally worth it. For the moments when I can get my kids to sing along with me in the car as I drive from one event to the next. For the smile on my husband's face when I remember to cook his favorite meal after I know he's had a rough day. For the "thanks, Mom" that is rare but unsolicited. Amazing? Definitely!
And the blessing that I get to race again tomorrow is perfection in the chaos.
Most days, I feel like my daily routine is a crazy real-life version of this show. I wake up, try to get myself ready and the kids appropriately dressed for whatever crazy weather we will have on that particular day and get everyone to daycare on time. Stage one accomplished. Then, navigate rush hour to get into the parking garage before someone takes my spot. Stage two accomplished. Leave work at just the right moment as to not look like I am sneaking out early but still have enough time to drive home, pick up Maryn and meet Pryor as he gets off the bus. Stage three complete. Then on to helping Pryor with homework as I make dinner and make sure Maryn doesn't tear something to shreds or eat something she isn't supposed to. Stage 4 down. Ask Will and Jim how their day was as I get the plates on the table. Scarf down dinner as I remind my boys for the nineteenth time that the two choices for dinner are "take it" or "leave it" and that I am not starving them if I only serve them grilled chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes, all while I try to avoid wearing whatever puree du jour I am feeding Maryn. Sports, school activities, church, and a million other "stages" must be completed, in a synchronization that would impress NASA, before I can fall into bed. Sometimes the stages are completed in "foreign" territory--the hardware store, the lawn and flower place, the paint store...and I might not even know the language if I have to go by Dick's or Best Buy.
I probably lose as many stages of this race as I win each week. Appointments are missed, practices are forgotten, homework is misplaced. And sometimes I feel like I am out of the game completely. And then I remember my favorite part of any track and field day when I was in school: no matter how well I did, even if I didn't place at all, if I just finished the race--I got a participation ribbon. Thank God for the participation ribbon. Thank God that sometimes just finishing the race is enough for the reward and I get to compete again tomorrow. Thank God there is no elimination in this race.
And I know this race is completed a million times over by every working mom in America, every day. Oh, and by the way...EVERY mom is a working mom--it doesn't matter whether she goes to work outside the home or inside it each day. And what is our reward? A million dollars? All-expenses paid vacations? Fame and fortune? Nope, our reward is that we get to do it all again tomorrow. And the craziest part of the whole "amazing race?" It's totally worth it. For the moments when I can get my kids to sing along with me in the car as I drive from one event to the next. For the smile on my husband's face when I remember to cook his favorite meal after I know he's had a rough day. For the "thanks, Mom" that is rare but unsolicited. Amazing? Definitely!
And the blessing that I get to race again tomorrow is perfection in the chaos.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Craig, the best friend I've never met...
I have to admit it, in the past month I've become addicted to craigslist. For those of you living under a rock, it's a local Ebay of sorts. You post a description of your stuff, some pictures and a price and random people show up and cart your junk away. And they PAY you for it!! Brilliant!
I've sold all of the boys clothes I was keeping for boy #3, who turned out to be girl #1. I've sold Halloween costumes that I've kept in a box since '04. I've sold more bedding this week than Pottery Barn.
There is a tremendous amount of relief that comes with letting go. Seeing my boys' clothes carried out my front door fills me with sense of remembering their little bodies in those clothes--the outfit that Pryor was wearing the first time he climbed the slide by himself, the shirt that Will was wearing when he discovered chocolate ice cream (and his sweet tooth). And then the moment is over and I'm back to helping with homework and getting kids ready for soccer practice. Life goes on. Moving out old memory makers to find room for new ones.
My mom cleaned out her basement a few years back and routinely started flooding my basement with things she found in hers: my show choir costume from my freshman year of high school, my prom dresses, my Madame Alexander dolls. While each item holds a memory dear to me, I wasn't at all interested in keeping the physical reminder (but don't worry mom, I haven't sold any of that on craigslist...yet). I have a feeling in a couple of years that items that were so precious to my mom that they were taking up prime real estate in my parents' basement for 20 years will be dress-up costumes torn to shreds by my daughter. And that's okay. Old memory makers finding uses for new ones.
Craig, I don't know who you are, and we will never meet, but I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to focus on the memory, not the object and provide me with the reminder that it's okay to let things go...
Although, at the rate I am going--my husband and kids are getting nervous that they're next!
A moment of perfection in the chaos.
I've sold all of the boys clothes I was keeping for boy #3, who turned out to be girl #1. I've sold Halloween costumes that I've kept in a box since '04. I've sold more bedding this week than Pottery Barn.
There is a tremendous amount of relief that comes with letting go. Seeing my boys' clothes carried out my front door fills me with sense of remembering their little bodies in those clothes--the outfit that Pryor was wearing the first time he climbed the slide by himself, the shirt that Will was wearing when he discovered chocolate ice cream (and his sweet tooth). And then the moment is over and I'm back to helping with homework and getting kids ready for soccer practice. Life goes on. Moving out old memory makers to find room for new ones.
My mom cleaned out her basement a few years back and routinely started flooding my basement with things she found in hers: my show choir costume from my freshman year of high school, my prom dresses, my Madame Alexander dolls. While each item holds a memory dear to me, I wasn't at all interested in keeping the physical reminder (but don't worry mom, I haven't sold any of that on craigslist...yet). I have a feeling in a couple of years that items that were so precious to my mom that they were taking up prime real estate in my parents' basement for 20 years will be dress-up costumes torn to shreds by my daughter. And that's okay. Old memory makers finding uses for new ones.
Craig, I don't know who you are, and we will never meet, but I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to focus on the memory, not the object and provide me with the reminder that it's okay to let things go...
Although, at the rate I am going--my husband and kids are getting nervous that they're next!
A moment of perfection in the chaos.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Gates of Hell
Guess how I spent my weekend? Putting up baby gates. Maryn is almost 8-months old, and she is definitely not content with anything that requires any sort of patience or sitting still (she is her mother's daughter!). And, as a third time mom, I am getting just a bit wiser. Pryor and Will hurled themselves down my stairs like Slinky's on a mission before I put up gates in our old house. Each time that happened, the boys were fine and Jim thought that he would have to admit me for hysteria. Thought I would try to avoid that and not push my luck with #3.
And I was excited! There is something inherently wonderful about following directions. Step one leads to step two, and if everything is followed correctly...wah-lah! You have the satisfaction of a job well-done, and something fantastic to show for it. My OCD-ness goes into overdrive when I am in the midst of a project and all is right with the world. I set out to Babies R Us with a "hi-ho" song in my heart.
Two days and three trips to Babies R Us later (one for the original gate, one for a "prettier" version that didn't look like it was keeping out mental patients, and one for a replacement when the pretty version was missing it's instructions and extenders) I was tired, grouchy and just plain fed up with the whole process. I spent 3 hours on Sunday staring at tension rods and extender pieces that did not match the instructions. I was on the brink of a complete breakdown when I realized that pretty gate #2 was missing a tension rod and I was going to have to go to Babies R Us for a fourth time.
After swearing like a drunken sailor and tossing a few random gate pieces down the stairs for effect (drama always makes me feel better), my loving, smart husband--who knows better than to interrupt me when I am in "project zen mode" said one of the best things I had heard all day, "You know those extra pieces that you told me to put back in the other gate before you took it back? Well...I forgot and after you left I threw them in the trash." Sanity saved by negligence!
After graciously digging the extra pieces out of the trash, my husband thoughtfully brought me a well-deserved adult beverage. And after another hour of swearing and belittling inanimate objects (good thing it was a nice day and the boys were outside or I'd have some explaining to do...) the gates were installed. And I have my sense of accomplishment. And my husband is happy he got to watch the football game and not have to go anywhere near an instruction booklet, which he would have promptly thrown away after opening the box. And my sons were spared watching their mother morph into Mommy Hyde. And my daughter doesn't have to become another human Slinky. Life is good.
And I was excited! There is something inherently wonderful about following directions. Step one leads to step two, and if everything is followed correctly...wah-lah! You have the satisfaction of a job well-done, and something fantastic to show for it. My OCD-ness goes into overdrive when I am in the midst of a project and all is right with the world. I set out to Babies R Us with a "hi-ho" song in my heart.
Two days and three trips to Babies R Us later (one for the original gate, one for a "prettier" version that didn't look like it was keeping out mental patients, and one for a replacement when the pretty version was missing it's instructions and extenders) I was tired, grouchy and just plain fed up with the whole process. I spent 3 hours on Sunday staring at tension rods and extender pieces that did not match the instructions. I was on the brink of a complete breakdown when I realized that pretty gate #2 was missing a tension rod and I was going to have to go to Babies R Us for a fourth time.
After swearing like a drunken sailor and tossing a few random gate pieces down the stairs for effect (drama always makes me feel better), my loving, smart husband--who knows better than to interrupt me when I am in "project zen mode" said one of the best things I had heard all day, "You know those extra pieces that you told me to put back in the other gate before you took it back? Well...I forgot and after you left I threw them in the trash." Sanity saved by negligence!
After graciously digging the extra pieces out of the trash, my husband thoughtfully brought me a well-deserved adult beverage. And after another hour of swearing and belittling inanimate objects (good thing it was a nice day and the boys were outside or I'd have some explaining to do...) the gates were installed. And I have my sense of accomplishment. And my husband is happy he got to watch the football game and not have to go anywhere near an instruction booklet, which he would have promptly thrown away after opening the box. And my sons were spared watching their mother morph into Mommy Hyde. And my daughter doesn't have to become another human Slinky. Life is good.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Holy Cow--I just started a blog!
I have been thinking for a while about starting a blog. As my Facebook statuses got longer and more and more people seemed to be connecting with what I was experiencing, it seemed only natural to want to give my ramblings a little more space.
So...here we are. Why "Perfection in the Chaos?" Beacause I am the classic Type-A personality. Schedules, appointments, systems are what I crave. Always on an endless quest for better, for more, for having it all--for thinking that this crazy idea is even possible. As a working mom of 3 kids, this goal of perfection is about as attainable as a good night's sleep. The chaos of my everyday seems to get in the way of anything resembling structure.
And yet--the chaos is what I live for. The chaos is my kids, my two boys and little girl who constantly remind me that life is good. The chaos is my husband, who I couldn't live without. The chaos is my constant effort to make sense out of the madness of fitting 36 hours worth of activity into a 24-hour day. The chaos is realizing that it's not what you do but how you do it that makes the difference. The chaos is God tugging on my heart and whispering in my ear that not everything wonderful, real and true fits into a schedule...
So, here we are...welcome to the chaos!
So...here we are. Why "Perfection in the Chaos?" Beacause I am the classic Type-A personality. Schedules, appointments, systems are what I crave. Always on an endless quest for better, for more, for having it all--for thinking that this crazy idea is even possible. As a working mom of 3 kids, this goal of perfection is about as attainable as a good night's sleep. The chaos of my everyday seems to get in the way of anything resembling structure.
And yet--the chaos is what I live for. The chaos is my kids, my two boys and little girl who constantly remind me that life is good. The chaos is my husband, who I couldn't live without. The chaos is my constant effort to make sense out of the madness of fitting 36 hours worth of activity into a 24-hour day. The chaos is realizing that it's not what you do but how you do it that makes the difference. The chaos is God tugging on my heart and whispering in my ear that not everything wonderful, real and true fits into a schedule...
So, here we are...welcome to the chaos!
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